The Masterpiece

CHAPTER FIVE

November 1974

Virginia ran as fast as her high heels could take her, away from the three men huddled together in the seventh-floor hallway of Grand Central. They yelled after her, calling her terrible names. She took the corner fast, slamming her knee into the opposite wall. A door a few yards away opened slowly, and she slid to a stop. One of them must have taken a shortcut, knowing she’d never make it to the elevator in time. It was over.

But instead of a thug, the lawyer from this morning emerged. Mr. Huckle. He was wiping down his hands with a paper towel, on his way out of the men’s room. He looked as shocked to see her as she did him.

He looked past her to her pursuers, and in a split second, his entire visage changed. He stood up, tall. Huge, in fact. She hadn’t noticed how enormous he was back in his office, surrounded by all the papers and books. He filled the narrow hallway like a boulder in a crevice.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed. Virginia ducked behind him, not sure if she should stay put or make a run for the elevator.

“We’re cool, man. Just trying to help out a lost lady.” The three men began backing up almost immediately. Now that she had a chance to study them, she could see they were teenagers with acne over pallid skin, raging with testosterone-fueled bluster. She imagined Mr. Huckle barreling toward them, a bowling ball aimed at three skinny pins.

“They were going to attack me,” whispered Virginia.

Mr. Huckle glanced around at her. “Stay put. Don’t move.”

One of the men swore. “We’re going, we’re going. Don’t get all bent outta shape.”

“You’re going to be bent out of shape by the time I’m done with you. Get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”

After they’d turned the corner, out of view, Mr. Huckle put a protective arm around Virginia. It felt heavy but good. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. “You appeared just in time.”

“We better get out of here. Follow me.” He led her down the hall, around another corner—by now she was completely turned around—until they reached the door to the legal department. “What are you doing wandering around up here? Everything’s empty, closed up in this section.”

“I took the wrong elevator trying to get back to my coat. I left it in the closet.”

The shock of what she’d just been through hit home now that she was in the fluorescent lights of the offices, somewhere safe. Her mind replayed the scene in her head, the dank smell of the hallway, the shininess of their black leather jackets.

Her head felt foggy. What was she supposed to do now? Get out of here. Virginia slid her coat off the hanger.

“What were you doing here all day?” asked Mr. Huckle. “I didn’t see you.”

“Kathleen sent me down to the information booth.”

“Did she?” He frowned.

“Yes. Since we didn’t work out. I’m sorry about that, by the way, Mr. Huckle.” She turned to leave.

“Call me Dennis. You shouldn’t go out there alone. In fact, we should go to the police and report these guys. I don’t like the idea of them wandering around up here with the other office workers. Let’s go down and we’ll make a report, see if we can actually get them to do their jobs in this hellhole.”

She looked at her watch. She was supposed to meet her friend Betsy in an hour. But if she didn’t do anything, her would-be attackers might waltz past the information booth one day and spot her. She was safe with Dennis. Nothing was going to happen to her as long as he was nearby, so she might as well keep him nearby for as long as possible.

They took the elevator down to the mezzanine level and walked through a set of doors with the words TO VANDERBILT AVENUE / THE CAMPBELL APARTMENT etched in the marble above them. He cut a sharp left, and she followed him up a narrow set of stairs. The placard on the door read METRO-NORTH POLICE.

Dennis greeted a man in a blue uniform who sat beneath a row of television monitors showing grainy black-and-white footage of train platforms. Cheap wood paneling divided the entryway from another, larger area behind him. In the smaller space, uneven shelves held files and binders, messier than in the information booth. Virginia stifled an impulse to straighten them out, clean up the messy piles. She hated to see disarray, which was why she avoided going into her daughter’s bedroom as much as possible, where bell-bottoms and peasant tops were strewn about like the cast of Hair had just cavorted by.

A sliding window looked out into a holding pen. Inside, a couple of bums had arranged metal folding chairs as beds and were asleep or, more likely, passed out. One man groaned, and the police officer slammed the window shut.

“Dennis, what’s going on?” asked the cop.

“We had a problem up on seven. Couple of thugs tried to attack one of our employees.” He motioned to Virginia.

The officer barely reacted. Just another day in the city. “Sorry to hear it. Let me call the sergeant, see if we can’t have some guys go up and do a sweep. Hold on a sec.” He picked up the phone, spoke in a thick Brooklyn accent to someone on the receiving end. “They’re on it. In the meantime, let me get you some paperwork to fill out; we’ll see if we can catch these guys.” He looked around and swore. “Be right back.”

When they were alone, Dennis looked down at her, a reassuring smile on his face.

She pretended her neck itched, covering her right breast with her arm. Her reflexive, protective gesture. Chester had hated when she did that. He’d tell her to sit up straight, stop worrying so much, that she looked fine.

They’d lived what she thought was a wonderful life together until he went to a party in the Village one Friday night on a whim, dragged downtown by two winsome girls from the secretarial pool in his office. What he saw there, he said, opened his eyes to his own true nature. He didn’t want to be pinned down anymore; he wanted his freedom instead. The timing of his ridiculous announcement, just a few years after her recovery, had left Virginia dizzy and breathless. He’d insisted it had nothing to do with her disfigurement, but she’d known better. He’d taken her to the Oyster Bar for dinner one night—probably on his way to some key party up in Connecticut—and told her it was over. She’d shielded herself with her arm, sat back in her chair and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, wondering if it would amplify her screams. But she hadn’t screamed. Just looked at him, agreed, insisted that they tell Ruby together.

Chester hadn’t settled down with one woman, and for that she’d been grateful. She hadn’t been replaced by a younger, prettier version. She’d heard through the grapevine that he’d cycled through dozens of girls and was living the high life.

“Have some water.” Dennis reached over to the water cooler propped up in the corner, filled a paper cone, and handed it to her. “You okay?”

“I think I’m a little freaked-out, to be honest.” She took a sip, stifling a giggle. “My daughter always tells me I have the wrong reaction to things. Like laughing at a funeral, crying at a funny movie. My ex-husband would tell me that I tend to babble on when I’m nervous. Talk, talk, talk. And sometimes hum. Boy, that drove him crazy. Because I can’t keep a tune. Or is it hold a tune?”

She was making a fool of herself.

“Try me. Hum something, and let’s see if I can recognize it.”

Lips pursed, she launched into the chorus of “Seasons in the Sun,” which had been circling around her brain ever since it came out.

Dennis listened, blinking with concentration. “‘Time in a Bottle’?”

She shook her head. “No! Oh dear. It’s that one about—” She stopped herself mid-sentence. “I’m sorry I’m taking up so much of your time; you must want to get home to your family.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m divorced, so there’s no rush to get back to my place in Yonkers.”

“Yonkers?” She’d imagined him, like all the lawyers she knew, living on the Upper East Side or off in the distant suburbs.

“Where my family’s from originally. I live near my ma, take care of her. Probably why I’m getting divorced, if you want to know the truth.”

As he spoke, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing thick forearms. She’d always been a sucker for a rolled-up sleeve on a man. Something about the thatch of short hairs against a crisp white shirt made her knees wobble. “How did you become a lawyer?”

“Studied, got into City College and then Fordham Law.”

“My ex-husband is a lawyer. Columbia.” Even though they’d been divorced for a year, she still sometimes dropped that into conversation, out of habit. As if they were still a unit and his accomplishments were synonymous with her own. Dennis didn’t seem all that impressed, which made her like him more. “How long have you been working for Penn Central?”

“Since I got out of law school. Started as an associate. With this lawsuit still pending against the Landmarks Commission, it’s been crazy, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Why’s there a lawsuit?”

“The Landmarks Commission says that Penn Central has to keep the terminal exactly like it is. Which is absurd. The place is a money pit. If all goes according to plan and we win this case, I’m going to be promoted to head of the department.”

One of the guys in the holding cell began to moan. She wondered if the cop was ever going to come back, but in a way, she didn’t mind. “What’s the big plan?”

“Once we shoot down the notion that the terminal is protected by landmark status, we’re going to put up a new skyscraper on this very spot. Fifty-five stories. It’s going to be massive. The city will give us a huge tax write-off for improving the district, and we’ll be making serious money from the rent. Much better than this old mausoleum.” He gestured around him.

“They’d tear it down, like Penn Station?” A little less than ten years ago, she’d been as surprised as many others in the city to find that Penn Station, a glass jewel of a train hub, was to be demolished. The few voices raised in protest had made no difference.

“The new building will rip through part of it, the side facing Forty-Second Street, and rest on top, like a hen sitting on its eggs.” To demonstrate, Dennis held out one hand in a fist and settled the other lightly on top of it. His fingernails were trimmed and clean.

She studied the odd shape formed by Dennis’s hands, unable to picture what he described. A couple of years ago, Betsy had insisted Virginia join her in signing up for the ladies’ committee to Preserve Old New York, or PONY, as it was known. They met in a member’s overdecorated living room once a month and listened to a guest speaker, nodding with concern while getting buzzed on generous pours of rosé. The day of the Grand Central lecture, the historian described how Cornelius Vanderbilt constructed the original station, called Grand Central Depot, in 1871, and that the one that stood today was completed in 1913. He showed them photos of the pristine waiting room right after it was built and the Whispering Gallery, where the unique design of the vaulted ceiling carried even the smallest sound to the opposite corner. The historian, surveying the room of tipsy wives, had proclaimed that women, in particular, should recall that whispers carry and can have tremendous power, even if their voices were weaker than a man’s. Virginia wasn’t sure if he was being encouraging or chauvinistic.

Still, Grand Central had such a rich history. “You’re putting a modernist skyscraper on top of a beaux arts building. Won’t that look strange?”

“It’s the future. The city’s got to move forward. At the moment, there’s a ton of empty space in here that’s completely unusable. That’s lost revenue for Penn Central.”

Like the art school.

She thought of Terrence and his clerks. “What about the employees who work for the railroad?”

“Anything to do with the trains gets buried underground. The terminal goes down ten stories, so there’s a lot of room to play with. Next time you come up to my office, I’ll show you a model of the new building. Incredible. Hey, if you play your cards right, I’ll get you a cushy job.”

“As long as I don’t have to do stenography.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry I was hard on you this morning.”

“Don’t be sorry. I had no idea what I was doing. But I like this idea of a cushy job. I could answer phones, say. I’d be a great receptionist.” She pretended to pick up a phone. “Mr. Huckle’s office, how may I help you?”

“I like that.” He stared at her a moment too long.

He was flirting with her. The realization came with a rush of confusion. She hadn’t flirted since 1953.

How different he seemed now than when they’d first met, seven hours ago. But how could she ever consider being with another man? How would she talk about it? I had an operation. What you see is not what you get. He’d laugh, thinking she was joking, and then he’d try to look concerned. All while trying to conceal his horror.

The cop came back, and they filled out the paperwork, describing the incident and the men they’d encountered. As she repeated the details, it became less a frightening experience and more a story, something that had happened and was over. She could handle almost being mugged; it had happened to almost everyone she knew at one time or another. It was amazing she’d avoided it for so long, being a lifelong New Yorker.

Handling Dennis’s flirtation, though, was truly scary. They signed the documents, and the cop said he’d make sure his guys patrolled the hallways regularly from now on.

Dennis walked her to the taxi stand on Vanderbilt Avenue. She couldn’t afford a cab, but she was running late to meet Betsy and today of all days she deserved a little treat, a comfort that she took for granted all those years she was married.

He opened the car door for her. “Thank you, Dennis.” She avoided his eyes, tucked herself into the back seat.

As the door shut, he called out, “Hey, maybe I’ll stop by and see you in the information booth tomorrow.”

The cab pulled away before she could answer.

When Betsy ordered the third round of martinis, Virginia knew it tripled her own odds of revealing the truth about her day, but she hadn’t eaten since the street vendor’s hot dog that afternoon and the thought of three more olives in her belly was incentive enough.

“Oh my God, Vee, I’ve been blathering on.” Betsy jangled the wooden beads that hung around her neck. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.” She had that strained look on her face that meant she was trying to focus even though she was already buzzing from the gin. A few drops sloshed onto the already sticky bar as she brought the glass to her lips.

They’d met years ago when their husbands worked at the same firm. Both lived on the Upper East Side and had run into each other at corporate and school events over the past two decades. What they had in common was also what kept them from truly being friends: humble beginnings. Virginia’s home was a Hell’s Kitchen tenement that she’d shared with her parents and younger brother, Betsy’s a two-bedroom in Stuyvesant Town. They’d discussed it once and never again, a shameful secret. Betsy knew the drill as well as Virginia did. You kept certain things quiet, for appearance’s sake. Instead, they had attended barbecues in Greenwich and private dinners in four-star restaurants, and Betsy even began talking like the other ladies, as if her jaw had been wired shut. Virginia’s own accent had been tempered as an underclassman at Barnard College. After meeting Chester at a Columbia mixer, she’d toned it down even further.

As the fog from her post-divorce haze had cleared, she’d understood that what Betsy really wanted was the dirt: a detailed list of what had happened to send Virginia’s life careening downward, in order to avoid the same fate. When Betsy called last week to arrange a girls’ night out, Virginia had eagerly agreed, knowing she’d be coming straight off her first day on the job. She’d imagined their meeting as the exclamation point on her new life as a successful workingwoman.

Sticking with the script, she pasted a bright smile on her face. “It’s been a whirlwind. I started working at Penn Central this week, right in Grand Central Terminal. Can you imagine?”

Betsy frowned as she dabbed at the bar with a cocktail napkin. “You’re working now?” Her lipstick matched her ruffled top, the color of orange sherbet, which she’d pulled down to expose her shoulders even though it was November.

“Ruby’s quite independent, and I enjoy having a sense of purpose in life.”

“I haven’t been to Grand Central in ages, because we take the car up to North Salem on weekends, but I hear it’s ghastly these days.”

“The building’s seen better days, but the office is quite grand. You take an elevator right up, so you don’t see any of the street people. Perfectly safe.”

So far, so good. Especially learning that Betsy and Cliff rarely used the train. Less chance of being discovered.

“Cliff’s seriously considering that we move out of the city. I don’t blame him.” Betsy rummaged through her bag, placing her wallet, a tube of lipstick, and a small book on the bar before locating her compact. “The other day, I noticed graffiti on 820 Fifth Avenue. That grand building, marred by spray paint! Horrible people running around.” She checked her appearance, clicked the compact shut, and swept everything but the book back into her purse.

The bar had filled up since they’d arrived. Single men with exposed chest hair chatting up women with exposed cleavage. The room teetered a little, and Virginia placed both hands on the bar to steady herself. She glanced down quickly at her own chest, to make sure that her bra hadn’t slid up again. With only one breast, there was nothing to hold the other side in place. The woman at the specialty shop who’d sold her the bra had promised it would look completely natural, but Virginia wasn’t so sure.

Betsy stared with concern. The only friend Virginia had told about her operation was Samantha. If Samantha were here, Virginia would have a different story to tell. But Sam had moved to California just as Virginia’s life was imploding. Sure, they tried to speak on the phone once a week, but long-distance phone calls were expensive. Their letters had trailed off, which was to be expected, really. A holiday card at Christmas was probably the best Virginia could hope for, at this point.

Virginia picked up the book Betsy had left on the bar, diverting her attention. “What’s this?”

“It’s the spring auction catalog for Sotheby Parke Bernet. Take a look; there’s a ton of great art in there.”

Virginia leafed through, pretending to consider the possibilities. “Really great.” She handed it back to her. “Are you going anywhere for the holidays?” Always a safe question.

Betsy made a face. “I’d rather go to Europe, but Cliff is insisting we go somewhere warm for Christmas. He just got us a suite at the Habitation Leclerc, in Haiti.” Betsy’s voice rose in both volume and pitch, either to make herself heard above the crowd or to impress those seated nearby. “It’s where Bianca Jagger goes, apparently. And you? I hope you get some time off.”

“Ruby and I were just talking about hitting the slopes. Maybe Tahoe this year.” As if they could afford the airfare, never mind the cost of a hotel. What a joke.

“Oh dear.” Betsy put a hand up to her lips. “I think we may have taken your skis. How awful. I can give them back if you need them.”

“What?” For a moment, Virginia thought she’d misheard. The ski equipment was stored up in their country house, in northern Westchester. Officially Chester’s country house, these days. Back when Ruby was young, they’d go up every weekend to let her explore the garden, take family hikes in the woods out back. She fondly remembered sitting under the porch, holding Ruby in her lap, and listening to the raindrops tap on the leaves.

Betsy leaned in. “Chester had a big estate sale a couple of months ago. Didn’t he tell you he’s selling the house?”

“Oh right, I forgot.” Virginia steeled herself. He hadn’t told her. Not that he was required to, anymore.

“Everything was laid out in the driveway. Pretty much everybody from the street stopped by; it almost became a kind of party.”

Virginia stiffened at the thought of the detritus of their marriage strewn across the driveway for the neighbors to pick through. The skis, the water guns, the Slip ’N Slide that Ruby had played with summer after summer. The basketball, which she’d dribbled a few times and then ignored. Their bikes, the three of them riding along, waving at neighbors like the happy family they were supposed to be, Ruby’s with metallic purple tassels streaming from the handles.

Betsy laid a hand on Virginia’s leg. “We snatched up Ruby’s skis for Libby. I probably should have asked you first.”

Strangers had come in and fingered through their stuff, offered cash. Loaded it up in their station wagons and driven off.

A familiar wave of shame and loss rippled through Virginia. Her made-up story, about how great her job was, how happy she was, was a farce. She could no longer tidy everything up, put on a brave face. If she didn’t leave now, she’d expose the truth. That, in fact, she was a failed temp, relegated to the most basic job in a grungy, dangerous place. A failing mother, struggling to make ends meet. A failed wife, a failed woman.

Right now, all she wanted was to take a long shower and wash the grime of Grand Central out of her pores. God knew what lurked in that information booth, the clerks all breathing the same stale air, customers marking up the counters and glass with their dirty fingers.

At one point that day, around noon, a single shaft of sunlight had seeped in from one of the high, half-moon windows, the only one that hadn’t been painted over, streaming in like a beam from heaven. Virginia had stared at it, transfixed, until she realized that she was really looking at all the cigarette smoke and dust particles that hovered in the air: a sparkling ray of filth, an illuminated pollution.