I see a noseless Caesar, then a shadow fills the adjacent doorway. Frank has grown big. His feet look almost dainty in their shiny leather pumps. A fat man in a glossy suit coat. The three-hundred-pound mark looks like a distant memory.
The jowls of his face spill out over the edge of his stiff white collar, and their color matches his blood-red tie. His dark curly hair is swept back and sleek from a gel that disguises much of the white. His eyes seem to have receded into his head like licorice jelly beans sunken in dough. His mouth is the same, still small and fat, and he still holds his chin high. He blinks at me before stepping forward and extending a hand with gleaming manicured nails.
I’m suddenly light-headed. A thin sheen of sweat rises to the surface of my skin. I can see my hands sinking into his fleshy neck and me wringing the life out of him. I feel confused, maybe even afraid. My mind drifts for a second, but my hatred is an anchor.
“Mr. Cole,” he says in a gruff tone that has taken on a hint of Brooklyn. “I’ve been waitin’ for the chance to say thanks for helpin’ out the kid.”
The air fills with a hint of cigar smoke, peppermint, Cool Water cologne, and the inky smell of fresh money. I hesitate before taking his hand, and when I do, my eyes are frozen on his, looking for some sign of recognition.
“My pleasure,” I say, gripping his hand and trying to focus the rapid pounding of my heart into the tendons of my forearm. My words come out like an ice machine dumping its cubes. I could cave in his skull with the bronze figurine of a centaur resting on the closest column. “He’s a fine young man.”
My mouth is dry and my throat tight, but Frank’s pale blue eyes relax.
“You got that right,” he says with a slight nod. “Best thing I’ve got going. Plays quarterback for Syracuse. Did he tell you? I guess you know about the game. Buying the Jets, right? My casinos make a mint off the NFL.”
“It’s an investment,” I say, “but I know every team likes to draft hometown players when they get the chance.”
“Good,” Frank says with a chuckle, then he slaps Allen hard on the back and grabs him by the upper arm to give him a little shake. “But you’ll have to negotiate with me if you want this guy.”
“You’re an agent?” I ask.
“I am,” he says.
Allen’s face is flushed and he looks at the floor where the toe of his shoe follows a bloodline in the stone.
“Cool under pressure,” Frank says, mussing his hair like he’s ten. “Just like his old man… All right, gotta go. We’ll have to get together.”
Allen watches his father leave, then he turns to me and shrugs.
“I’m sorry he’s so busy,” he says.
“No,” I say, “don’t apologize. A guy like your dad has important things going on. Believe me.”
Allen studies my face and I stare flatly back at him.
“I know you’re in a hurry too,” he says after a blink. “Come on. I’ll let you go, but I promised I’d introduce you to my mom.”
Allen leads me through a great room with deep-cushioned couches and chairs and a marble fireplace I could almost stand up in. The walls are hung with oil paintings-copies, but good ones-and heavy velvet drapes. Over the mantel is a full-length portrait of Lexis standing on a cliff overlooking whitecapped water.
Her figure is straight and streamlined, draped in a deep blue dress that matches her eyes. Her dark hair is being blown back. The sky is roiling with sunbeams and charcoal clouds. Her lips are pressed together, unsmiling, and she stares off.
Allen sees me looking and says, “That’s her. My dad surprised her with that painting. It’s a John Currin. She hates it.”
“Very pretty,” I say.
“She’s quiet,” he says, “but she’s great.”
We leave the big room and walk down a long wide hallway.
“She doesn’t usually let anyone in her studio,” he says. “But when I told her about you and asked if it was okay, she said yes.”
He stops in front of a heavy wood-paneled door, gently raps his knuckles, and then swings it open.
41
LIKE THE REST OF THE APARTMENT, the ceilings in the studio are twenty feet high. The walls are crowded with framed canvases, reminding me of the Vatican Museum. It must be everything she’s ever painted. I see one work that I recognize from my past life. It’s finished.
Tall arching windows face Park Avenue on the opposite side of the room. At the far end, Lexis stands just out of the sunlight at an easel. Her back is to us, hair up with the wisps of gray. She’s dressed in tan capri slacks, flat shoes, and a man’s dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
Next to her easel a small table is cluttered with tubes of paint and a wineglass, nearly empty and smudged. She stares at the blank canvas in front of her. In one hand is a brush without any paint. Her other hand hangs limp at her side, and when Allen calls softly to her, she makes no indication that she’s heard him.
We cross the room and she is startled by his touch. Allen introduces us. She smiles, but when she takes my hand, the color leaves her cheeks. Her fingers are bony and chilled. Her eyes work their way around my face before she looks into mine.
She drops my hand and says, “Allen says you’re new to the city.”
“I found a place on Fifth Avenue, not too far from the Met,” I say, handing her a card with my home phone number on it. “I’d like to have you and Frank over for dinner sometime. Why don’t you let me know when you’re free?”
“Of course,” she says, clutching the card in her hand and bending it.
She squints her eyes at me and angles her head. Her mouth opens as if she’s going to say something. I look away to study her empty canvas.
“Well,” I say, holding out my wrist to look at my watch. “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Steffano.”
“Just Lexis,” she says in a small voice.
“Lexis. Okay.”
I touch the skin on my face and feel the smooth texture where surgery has built it up and pulled it taut. Allen sees me out. On the street, he thanks me.
“She appreciates what you did,” he says. “I told you she’s just quiet.”
“Allen,” I say with a dismissive wave, “we’re friends, right? She’s very nice.”
“She is,” he says with a broad smile that reminds me more of the Lexis I knew than the one I just saw. “See you tonight.”
I turn and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s as if my legs are asleep and I can barely feel the concrete beneath my feet. She is still beautiful. Older. Sad. But the color of her eyes is the same. Those high cheekbones. And as much as I hate her for what she’s become, the urge to just hold her felt so heavy in my chest that I thought I was going to fall over.
I shake my head and breathe deep. There is a Starbucks around the corner and I go inside and sit down. It takes a few minutes before I get back to myself. But I think of my father and Lester and also of Helena and everything is soon clear again.
I march up Park Avenue through the bustle to the NFL offices. It takes hours of signing papers, but Woody Johnson seems relieved to be free from his football team. Even as a non-sports fan I know that the pressure on the owner of a sports franchise in New York is unique.
The home I bought is one of the original Fifth Avenue uptown mansions, built in the late 1800s by the robber barons of the time, like Frick, Morgan, and Vanderbilt. After an interview about the team with Ira Berkow from the New York Times, I have dinner by myself in the second-floor dining room. Three stone-faced servants hurry in and out. Helena is already at the Garden.