The Masterpiece

CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

January 1975

The clerks buzzed with news at the information booth Monday morning.

“Did you hear?” Winston asked Virginia. “Penn Central won their court case. I heard them talking about it in the Station Master’s Office. The judge declared that Grand Central isn’t a landmark, so they can tear it down or do whatever they want.”

Coming so soon after the success of Ruby’s exhibition, the news was especially crushing. Virginia wondered about Dennis’s reaction. He must be pleased. His colleagues were probably popping the champagne right about now.

But Virginia’s fellow employees looked worried. Totto dug his hands into his pockets, ignoring the man gesturing outside his window, and Doris looked like she was about to cry.

“What will happen to all of us?” asked Winston.

Terrence shook his head. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity to lay us off and replace us with younger folk. We’ll have to find new jobs.”

The unemployment rate was nearly 11 percent. Inflation was close to twelve. None of the information booth clerks were good for anything other than answering transportation-related questions, and they should be looking forward to retirement, not the unemployment line.

“I’ll go find out what’s going on in the Station Master’s Office,” said Terrence. “Virginia, cover my window.”

Two months ago, the request would have struck fear into her heart. But by now, she knew the answers to the most-asked questions, and the few she didn’t, she nudged Totto next to her and asked him. He threw her a glassy stare every time, but she didn’t care.

Ruby appeared at the window. “Mom. Can you get away?”

“Give me five minutes.”

As soon as Terrence returned, shaking his head and looking even more depressed than when he’d left, Virginia took a break and met Ruby on the West Balcony. “How did it go?”

“Samson Coutan doesn’t exist. There’s no one there by that name. The Lorettes have been lying the whole time.”

Stunned, Virginia leaned over the railing, staring down at the swirls of people below. “I was so stupid.”

Ruby touched her shoulder. “You had no idea they were crooks. You couldn’t have known. You’re not stupid. I just saw you answer eighty questions about this place in five minutes; you were amazing.”

“You were watching me?” Embarrassed, she straightened up and brushed off her sleeves.

“Yes. You were great. Especially with the people who were rude.”

“I guess you get used to it.” But her daughter’s compliments didn’t make her feel any better. “I got a degree in art history, and now I answer questions about departure times.”

“And your daughter’s a barmaid. As Dad keeps on reminding me.”

While the recent blast of honesty with her daughter had been refreshing, Virginia was liable to bring her daughter right down with her if she wasn’t careful. That was the last thing she wanted. “Listen. Don’t let Dad pick on you. You’re working, and there are very few jobs to be had in the city right now. Ignore him. But at the same time, remember that he has a good heart, he loves you, even if he’s sometimes caught up in that fancy world of his. We’re not like that, and that’s fine.”

Ruby nodded. “What do we do now? We can’t give up. Let’s go back down there and confront the Lorettes again. Or go to the police and tell them that they lied to us and stole it.”

Virginia hated to let Ruby down. Or lose this new connection with her daughter. She considered calling Janice at the Art Students League and ratting out the Lorettes, but if Janice telephoned them, they’d tell her that Virginia had taken it from the art school, had lied about finding it at her aunt’s house. Which made her look as shifty as the Lorettes.

“I highly doubt the Lorettes would answer the door or talk to us on the phone, now that they know we know they lied. As for going to the police, we have no proof that we owned it in the first place.”

“I have an idea.” Ruby brightened. “Why don’t you talk to Dad? He’s a lawyer.”

“You want me to ask your dad for legal advice?”

“Why not? That painting is yours, right? The Lorettes took it from you.”

“I have no proof of that.”

“Still. Meet up with him. Ask him for help.”

Virginia studied Ruby, whose eyes were full of hope.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry. That’s all over with.”

Confiding in Chester would only make things worse. He’d laugh at her, dismiss it as a wild-goose chase. She hoped Ruby understood the meaning behind her words, that their intact, happy family was over with as well.

“You can’t even ask him for advice?”

“No.”

Ruby slumped over. “That’s too bad.”

“I’m glad you were here to help.”

“Not that I did any good.”

She pushed a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You did. Thank you.”

Virginia stopped by the apartment to collect the mail before going back to the Carlyle. Another threatening note, no surprise at that. She carried her mace in the side pocket of her purse now, just in case. Also in her mailbox was an official-looking letter from some law firm.

She read it and gasped out loud, drawing a scowl from the doorman. Her upstairs neighbor had retained a lawyer who was threatening to sue Virginia for damages to their apartment. She had never met the upstairs neighbors, just heard them clomp back and forth across her ceiling every so often. But these people, the clompers, claimed that all their clothes, draperies, rugs, and furnishings had been damaged by smoke and had to be professionally cleaned. The bill was in the thousands.

She’d never be able to come up with that much money. Heck, she didn’t even have enough to hire an attorney to question their claims.

The only answer was the one that her daughter most wished for.

There was only one person left to ask for help.

“You’re tan.”

Chester took off his coat, laid it carefully on the back of his chair, and sat down opposite Virginia in the Oyster Bar. “I was in Mexico.”

How strange to be strangers. Virginia stared at him while he went through the motions of folding his napkin on the table, crooking up one finger to the waiter to ask for coffee, all the while avoiding eye contact. He’d lost weight, looked healthier than he had in ages.

Before, she’d known what he was going to say before he even said it. She often finished his sentences, eager to show how close they were. How in tune she was. On the same wavelength, they called it these days. But now he was impenetrable.

They both ordered the oyster stew. She reminded herself why she was there and spent the next ten minutes inquiring about his work, their mutual acquaintances, ever so gently softening him up. For those ten minutes, it was as if nothing had happened between them. They made fun of Betsy and her husband, worried together over a recently widowed colleague of Chester’s. When he brought up Ruby’s stint as a barmaid, she made light of it and changed the subject fast.

He never once asked Virginia about her life. Just like old times.

The oyster stews came. Nerves made her unable to eat more than a few bites, but she stirred the lumps around while chewing on the oyster crackers, which had made up most of her early pregnancy diet. Then, Chester had been a true partner. She’d wisecrack about her morning sickness, using the language of a trucker because he loved it when she played up her working-class background. In private, of course, never around his family or their friends.

Her pregnancy and his attention had made her feel important, strong. Able to bear anything.

With her operation, it’d been the opposite effect. She’d joke, hoping to get a smile out of him, and he’d cringe. A baby was one thing. A breast, quite another.

When the conversation lulled, Virginia scrambled for something else to talk about. She wasn’t ready to ask for his help, not yet.

“Did you hear about the Grand Central ruling?” The words sounded odd coming out of her mouth, like she was trying too hard to impress.

“I did.”

“The people I work with are worried that they’ll lose their jobs when they build the new skyscraper.” In fact, Doris spent the lulls in the day reading the help wanted ads out loud, until Winston told her to quit it.

“They may lose their jobs, but in the end, it’s all about progress. This city’s a pit, and we need to remake it into something better. You can’t live in the past.”

His opposition didn’t surprise her. “I read that the city will probably appeal the ruling.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He leaned back in his chair. “It costs money to appeal, and the city is barely squeaking by as it is. If the city appeals and loses, then Penn Central could countersue for damages. Mayor Beame would be an idiot if he exposed the city to that kind of financial risk.”

She glanced around. “The judge called it a ‘long-neglected faded beauty.’”

“‘Faded beauty’ is putting it mildly. It’s a dump.”

Virginia didn’t answer. She was a faded beauty herself. The thought stung.

Back when she was sick, her doctors had told her that if they found cancer and didn’t remove her entire breast, her prognosis would be poor, her disease terminal. Just like the building above her, from the Guastavino tiles of the Oyster Bar to the triumphal arch windows of the main concourse.

She’d survived, but the terminal would not.

“What did you want to meet about?” Chester had finished his stew and was eyeing hers. She pushed the bowl over to him.

She pulled out the letter from her neighbor’s attorney and handed it over to him. “I’m being sued by my neighbor. They say they have two thousand dollars’ worth of damage from the fire.”

“If they had to get everything professionally cleaned, it adds up. Furniture, clothes, repainting the walls.”

Not the answer she was hoping for. “I can barely afford to fix my place, with the high deductible on my insurance policy. I was hoping I could get a loan from you.”

Chester shook his head. “I wish I could help. But I can’t. I’m sorry. We’re all strapped these days.”

“Not too strapped to go to Mexico.”

“It was a business trip, not a personal one. On top of that, the law firm is in financial trouble. We’re hoping we can ride out the slump.” A momentary flicker of humiliation crossed Chester’s face. He wasn’t lying.

She was embarrassed to ask him for money, and he was embarrassed to have to admit he didn’t have it. “I understand. Thank you for considering it.” There was only one other option. “There’s this painting that I found, and I think it’s worth a lot. I wanted to get your advice on that as well.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s an early version of a painting that’s up for auction in April, by this artist named Levon Zakarian, who died tragically. They don’t really know if he’s the true artist, because he signed it as ‘Clyde’ and died before revealing himself, but everyone assumes it’s his.” She explained about the Chicago show and the train crash. “This early version I found has a sketch on the back side that’s by a woman illustrator. I think Clyde is this woman, not Levon Zakarian. If that’s so, it would blow the minds of the art world people.”

Chester perked up. “Have you had it examined?”

“That’s the thing; I seem to have hit a speed bump. You see, I gave it to an older couple who ran an art school back then, and they were going to get it examined or analyzed or some such thing, but they took off with it and won’t return it.”

“What do you mean they won’t return it?”

“Just that. They won’t give it back. Even worse, the expert they said they sent it to doesn’t exist. They’ve been lying the whole time.”

“Do you have some kind of bill of sale for your sketch or whatever it is?”

“No. I found it, you see. Up in the old art school on the top floor of Grand Central.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and motioned to the waitress for the check. “If you don’t have proof that it’s yours, I don’t see what you can do.”

“I was hoping you could help me somehow.” She didn’t have much time. Chester’s mind was elsewhere, mulling over his next appointment, figuring out how long it would take to get there, probably relieved to have lunch over with. “I read in the paper a few months ago about the lawyer in your firm who recovered art taken in World War II by the Nazis. Maybe he could help prove that Clara Darden was the artist.”

“It’s much more complicated than that, Virginia. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“At least you could send a mean letter; you know how good you are at those, and then they’d realize I was serious and return it.”

He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.

She continued. “It could be worth a lot of money. One curator told me that it might be worth over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

He looked up at that. “Huh.”

“Ruby and I have been working together on this, and we both thought maybe a mean letter from you would help.” Her last chance, bringing up their daughter.

“First of all, stop calling it a ‘mean letter.’” In the past, he’d laughed whenever she mangled legal language on purpose. Not anymore, apparently. “And it doesn’t change my answer because you brought up Ruby.”

“The painting means something to me. It’s important.”

“Lesson number one in negotiating: Don’t get emotional.”

“How can I not get emotional? I’m going to be in serious legal trouble with these neighbors.”

Chester rubbed his eye with the meat of his palm, his habit whenever he grew annoyed. “You should’ve read the fine print in your insurance policy; then none of this would be such a surprise.” He spoke to her as if she were a recalcitrant client, not the mother of his child.

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked, trying to stop them. “I agree, it’s been a sharp learning curve for me, after the divorce. I didn’t handle the finances when we were married, and so I made some mistakes early on.”

“We’re no longer together, Virginia. You have to accept that and move on. I can’t take care of you anymore.”

He was right, of course. For the first time all lunch, Chester looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes moved down her neck. Normally she’d cover herself, but this time she didn’t.

He nodded to her chest, his face unreadable. “You’ve got a problem there.”

She glanced down. Her mastectomy bra had ridden up, making her look lopsided, disfigured.

She jumped up, grabbed her purse, and headed to the women’s bathroom. Once there, she locked herself in a stall and let the tears come, bawling without making a sound.

When she could cry no more, she unbuttoned her shirt and adjusted the bra, cursing her bad luck, her ex-husband, and the world.

When Virginia finally emerged from the bathroom, the energy in the restaurant had shifted, the same way the air thickens imperceptibly before a thunderstorm. Gone were the last of the commuters and tourists; all the tables sat empty, yet fifty or so men in suits and a few women milled about in groups, murmuring in low voices.

At least Chester was gone. Her humiliation complete, she wound her way through the crowd, keeping her arm pressed tightly against her chest, like a coat of armor.

An excited buzz went through the crowd. Curious, Virginia lingered behind them, wondering what was going to happen next. Five or six tables had been pushed close together in a long row. On the middle table, a bouquet of microphones had been set up, the wires dangling down and along the floor like steel serpents.

Virginia was in no hurry to return to the information booth. What did it matter if she did a good job or not, when it was all going to be over soon anyway? And the longer she took, the more time her red, swollen eyes would have to return to normal.

“Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!”

The crowd called out as a group of seven walked through the front entrance and took up seats behind the long table. She recognized Mayor Beame right away, his thick dark eyebrows a sharp contrast to his snow-white hair. The reporters waited as the rest of the mayor’s entourage settled in their seats.

She couldn’t get a good view, but his words cut clearly through the crowd as he introduced the Committee to Save Grand Central: architect Philip Johnson, author Louis Auchincloss, and other names she didn’t recognize. Until he got to the last one. “Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.”

Virginia pushed her way forward, taking advantage of her small size to work her way up to the front row. The mayor introduced the group and praised the Municipal Art Society, which he said had spearheaded the effort to save Grand Central. Virginia spotted Adelaide, the woman from Ruby’s exhibit, standing off to one side. The mayor continued. “We’re fighting to save not only the terminal but the very existence of our landmark law. If we don’t stand up now, nothing can be saved.”

The reporters scribbled down his words.

They reshuffled places so that Jackie sat in front of the microphone. She wore a tan, fitted dress that draped her lithe body beautifully. A long gold chain hung from her neck, and matching earrings glittered against the black sheen of her hair.

The crowd leaned in as she began to speak, her voice breathy. “We’ve all heard that it’s too late, that it has to happen, that it’s inevitable. But I don’t think that’s true. Because I think if there is great effort, even if it’s at the eleventh hour, you can succeed, and I know that’s what we’ll do.”

Virginia couldn’t wait to tell Ruby. She had no doubt her daughter’s photographs had played a part in convincing the Municipal Art Society to put up a fight.

“Isn’t it inevitable for the terminal to come down if it can’t support itself economically?” shouted a reporter.

Congressman Koch, a tall, balding man with a sardonic smile, cut in. “Central Park doesn’t support itself. God forbid we should ever think of it in that way.”

“Europe has its cathedrals, and we have Grand Central Station,” added Philip Johnson.

Terminal, Virginia corrected him in her head. Terrence would be very upset. Still, the sentiment was lovely.

Just outside the doorway, she spotted Dennis standing close to another man. They both wore dark suits and carried briefcases—a fellow lawyer, probably—out spying on the opposition.

As the press conference wrapped up, the mayor hightailed it out and the reporters surged after him, sweeping Virginia along. She found an eddy of calm in the passageway just outside the Oyster Bar and waited there, fishing in her pocketbook for a tissue, biding time until the crowds thinned.

“Ignore it, Jack, they’re posturing. The story will die down in a week.”

Dennis was right behind her. She twirled around, a fake smile plastered on her face, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Through the crush of the press corps, she spied Dennis and his buddy huddled forty feet away in the opposite corner, speaking quietly.

Of course. They were in the Whispering Gallery, where sound was telegraphed up and over the surface of the vault.

She turned her head to locate the sweet spot, where she could hear the voices clearly while still keeping an eye on the two men.

“We sure don’t need this aggravation, though,” continued Dennis. “You sure we’re all set?”

“The judge will listen to numbers, not rabble rousers. The numbers are in our favor.” The man took a yellow file from the side pocket of his briefcase. “Here’s the original balance sheet for Penn Central. The revised one, which will include the railway operating costs, should be ready in a few days.”

“Let’s hope that does the trick.”

“We prove economic hardship, the judge will understand what a millstone this place is around Penn Central’s neck. Trust me, by adding in those expenses, Grand Central looks like a sinking ship.” He put one hand up to shield his mouth from any observers, which only served to increase the clarity. “Creative accounting at its best. By my revised calculations, Penn Central lost two million just this year.”

Dennis tucked the yellow folder into his briefcase. “Good work. Landmark, my ass.”

They disappeared up the ramp, clapping each other on the back. Virginia waited a few minutes before following.

In the middle of the concourse, her information booth shone like an opal in a coal mine. Imagine if they fixed up the entire place, rubbed clean every marble surface like she had done? It would be magnificent. Like when it was first built, before hordes of people had spat on the stairways and scratched up the waiting room benches. Back when it was still a gleaming work of art.

She imagined a giant wrecking ball flying through the half-moon windows on the south facade. The shattered glass falling to the ground. The next blow would take out the thick stone slabs that had been painstakingly stacked on top of one another just after the turn of the century. The clock at the very top, where a statue of Mercury presided over Park Avenue South—would that be saved? Probably not. Nor the melon-shaped chandeliers. All smashed to pieces. The next building would stand upon the powdered remnants, as Dennis had cavalierly declared, the way the ancients built a new city on the landfill of the old. In a few hundred years, archeologists might come upon the golden acorn on the top of the information booth. They’d place it in a museum and mourn the past.

She’d lost the opportunity to give Clara Darden the recognition she deserved. But the terminal was still standing.

And maybe, unlike with the Clyde painting, Virginia could do something to save it.