1
Now
THE CALL THAT ENDS UP CHANGING EVERYTHING—NOT ONLY MY present and future but the past, too—comes late on a Friday afternoon. At the sound of the ringtone, I shoot a glance at my phone screen, but once I see it’s from a number I don’t recognize, with a 914 area code, I just let the phone ring. I never pick up if I don’t know who’s on the other end, and sometimes even if I do. It’s probably spam, anyway, some automated voice warning me I need to renew my vehicle warranty, though I haven’t owned a car in over a decade.
I return my attention to the pile of items on the worktable in my tiny East Village studio, but I’m interrupted again moments later when a sound alerts me that the caller’s left a voice mail.
My breath catches. What if it’s Deacon, the jerk I last saw a few weeks ago? During the brief period I’d known him, he’d phoned a couple of times just to chat, and since I’ve deleted his name and number from my contacts, it would show on my screen only as digits. But the number doesn’t seem familiar, and based on how our last date ended, there’s no way it could be him.
I tap the voice-mail icon and play the recording, feeling nervous anyway.
“Ms. Moore, my name is Bradley Kane,” a male voice says, deep, firm, and serious. “I’m an attorney in Scarsdale, New York, and it’s important that I speak to you about a private matter. Can you please give me a call at your earliest convenience?”
The second I hear him say “attorney,” my stomach twists. There’s something about that word that always triggers a rush of dread in me, like when I notice one of those K-9 unit German shepherds at an airport and wonder if I swallowed a half dozen cocaine-packed condoms earlier in the day without remembering it.
I tell myself to relax, that although a call from a lawyer seems ominous, I can’t be in any kind of legal trouble. I’ve never broken the law to my knowledge, except smoking weed in college before it was legal. The only debt I’m carrying is on my credit card, which, if anything, the bank seems delighted with, and I don’t have a sidewalk someone could have slipped and cracked their skull on. I’ve also never even been to Scarsdale, a suburb north of the city, or heard of anyone named Bradley Kane.
But then my heart suddenly skitters. Could this have something to do with my recent work? For the last three years—four if I count the twelve or so months it took me to finally summon enough psychic energy simply to gather supplies—I’ve been making collages with all sorts of odds and ends and “found objects,” like snippets from magazines and catalogs, scraps of fabric, Polaroid photos, torn-off pieces of maps and packages, images I paint myself, and sometimes even 3-D stuff, too. Though I’ve never had the specific goal of offending anyone, it’s happened. A year ago, I used a book jacket as part of a piece that was exhibited in a downtown Manhattan street fair. The self-help author somehow got wind of it, wrangled my cell number from the organizers, and lit into me over the phone.
Okay, his book cover had been glued between a Polaroid of a disembodied doll’s head and a gauze bandage, but I’d convinced myself that if the author ever happened to see the piece, he’d be amused by the irony. Well, he wasn’t. He threatened to sue me for disparaging his book and possibly impacting sales. There was no way his sales would have been affected by my artwork, and I was pretty sure I was protected under the “fair usage” defense, which allows artists to use copyrighted material in their work, but I couldn’t afford to consult with a lawyer for peace of mind. So just to be on the safe side, I removed the jacket and filled in the gap with something else.
Though the revised piece ending up selling later for four hundred and seventy-five dollars, it didn’t seem nearly as good as the first incarnation.
I don’t have any collages on display at the moment, but several are featured on the website I just redesigned for myself. Is it possible I’ve inadvertently ticked someone off again, and this time they have good reason to sue?
My heart does a second skip as another possibility enters my mind. A few hours ago, I received a message from Josh Meyer, the art dealer who’s giving me my first real show at his gallery on the Lower East Side, asking me to call him back when I had a moment. I’ve put off doing it, figuring he wants to nudge me about the piece I promised him after he decided the exhibit would look best with a tenth collage. The opening, after all, is a week from Tuesday. But maybe Josh was reaching out because he’d gotten a call about me from the same lawyer.
I pull a long breath and try the gallery instead of the law firm; Josh happens to answer the line himself.
“Hey, Skyler,” he says. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“Of course. Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine, I just wanted an update on your last piece.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Right, right, thanks for checking. I’m actually staring at it right now.”
“Excellent. Can I have one of my guys pick it up tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I exclaim, feeling anxious all over again. I’ve been working hard on the piece, but I’ve also had to make time each day for the graphic design work I do to pay the bills, and at the very least I need the weekend to finish it.
“I thought you said it would be ready Saturday.”
“Sorry, I must have misunderstood. Uh, would Tuesday morning work? I can deliver it myself.”
“I know I didn’t give you much time, but that’s going to be cutting it close,” he says. I envision him grimacing on the other end of the line and running a hand through his thick brown hair. “What if we say Monday afternoon? The gallery’s closed for business then, but some of us will be here.”
My gaze flicks back to the collage in progress. I like the individual elements I’m playing with—none of which I’ve settled on yet—but so far they’re not coming together as a whole. If I have any hope of finishing the collage this weekend, it will mean begging for an extension on the graphic design job that I promised a client would be delivered Monday.
“Okay, I’ll drop it off at the end of the day.” I just have to pray I’ll be done.
“Great, and while I’ve got you, I wanted to mention that we’re getting a ton of RSVPs for the party. My guess is that we’ll end up with close to a hundred people.”
Please no, I think, as panic foams through my entire body. When Josh tracked me down six months ago saying he’d been following me on Instagram and wanted to discuss exhibiting my collages, he mentioned that there would, “of course,” be a small opening night reception. Though I loathed the idea of a party, I told myself I would have to grin and bear it. I figured there’d be thirty people tops, and most of them would be present to see the work of the photographer being featured at the same time. I never once anticipated the guest list going into triple digits.
“Um, oh. Wow. But just checking, I’m not expected to say anything, right?”
“Not if you really don’t want to. After enough people have arrived, I’ll do a welcome and talk a little about your work and Harry’s, too.”
That won’t be a problem for Josh. He grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the son of a legendary gallerist, and he’s a smooth, polished fortysomething-year-old guy, probably totally at ease in front of a crowd.
“You’ll want to say something when I’m done,” he adds, “but it can be short and sweet. Though maybe as we get closer, you’ll change your mind and want to say more.”
“Sure, I’ll let you know.”
But I won’t change my mind. I suffer from a form of anxiety that, for more than a decade, has left me a wreck in most social settings. Though I’m hardly what you’d call dazzling in situations with only a couple of people, I do okay; it’s when I’m in a group of five or more that everything goes to hell. My heart races uncontrollably, my head throbs with a weird fizziness, and I generally end up blushing, sweating, and stammering. The few times I’ve met with Josh, it’s only been the two of us with the gallery assistant hovering in the background, so he hasn’t a clue.
“Thanks, Josh,” I say. “Um, was there anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it. And I can’t wait to see the piece.”
I tell him goodbye and sign off. Though I’m freaked out about the new deadline for the collage and the potential size of the party, at least he hadn’t been calling to report a legal issue.
I glance at the time on my phone. It’s close to four, meaning the law office will surely be closing soon. If I don’t want this weird voice mail to eat away at me for the entire weekend, I need to return the call now. Steeling myself, I tap the number. A secretary or receptionist answers with the name of the firm—something, something, Harrison, and something—and after I tell her my name, she says she’ll transfer me to Bradley Kane right away. While the hold music plays, I glance out the studio window and across Second Avenue. The October sky has already darkened like a mottled bruise, and I’m suddenly ambushed by an intense sense of unease.
“Ms. Moore, thank you for returning the call,” Kane says when he picks up. “I have some information of importance to you, but for security purposes, I need you to verify your identity first.”
I exhale, feeling my tension release as I realize I have nothing to worry about—it’s a scam. Like those people who claim to be calling from someplace like Social Security and are trying to trick you into revealing personal data they can use to hack into one of your accounts.
“I bet you need my iCloud password, don’t you?” I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice.
“Pardon me?”
“How do you people even look in the mirror?”
“Ms. Moore, please, all I need is for you to do is confirm your address.”
“Oh, so now you want to break into my apartment?” I say facetiously.
“I can understand your hesitancy, and please forgive me for calling before I mailed you an official letter.”
I start to lower the phone to end the call when he tells me, “Please, it’s essential that you hear this, Ms. Moore.”
I hesitate. Because if I am in some kind of hot water, I need to know what it is.
“Thank you,” he says when it must seem apparent to him that I’m still on the line. “Ms. Moore, a client of mine passed away recently, and the purpose of my call is to inform you that you’ve been left an inheritance by him.”
Before I can stop myself, I experience an involuntary swell of giddiness. An inheritance. Maybe there really is a God, and things for me are about to take a turn for the better. It’s possible I’ve been named in the modest will of some long-lost relative of my father’s. My dad died of a sudden heart attack when I was only five, two years after my mother, Margo, left him, and though it’s been forever since I was in touch with any of his relatives—a wayward brother and several cousins—one of them might have bequeathed me a little something.
“What was your client’s name?” I ask, and then hold my breath.
“Christopher Whaley.”
The name draws a total blank in my mind, meaning there’s clearly been a mistake. I feel a gush of disappointment as reality smacks me back down to size. Whatever inheritance Christopher Whaley left will certainly not be going to me.
2
Now
I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR CLIENT,” I SAY TO KANE, “BUT I DIDN’T know him. There must be a mix-up of some kind.”
Even as I utter these words, though, I’m ransacking my mind to see if the name Whaley is burrowed deep in there. Could he be a distant relative on my mother’s side? I know she has cousins with the last name Wheeler, but no Whaleys, I’m quite sure.
“You’re certain of that?” Kane asks.
“Yes. You’ve confused me with another person.”
“Ms. Moore, I assure you I haven’t. Do—”
Okay, this is some sort of con. “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I’m really not interested in playing it.”
“Allow me to make a suggestion,” he urges. “Hang up the phone, take a minute to google me and my law firm—Abood, Kane, Harrison, and Wong—and then call me back at the number listed on the website.”
I have this overdue collage staring me in the face, and every second I spend on the phone with Kane is a second that I’m not devoting to it, but . . . what if I am the right person? Blowing him off feels a bit like failing to respond to one of those chain letters I got emailed as a teenager, the kind asking for something like a prayer or a dollar. A tiny part of me always worried that if I didn’t respond, I might live to regret it.
I don’t do as he tells me, not at first. As soon as I disconnect, I google “Christopher Whaley, Scarsdale” instead, and an obit surfaces immediately. With a quick skim I discover that Whaley passed away of pancreatic cancer a week ago.
There’s no photo included, but based on the details in the obit—age forty-nine, Scarsdale resident, business executive, married, two children—I’m now even more certain that this man and I never crossed paths, though it’s hard not to be a little saddened at what this must mean for his wife and kids.
From there I google the three names of the law firm that I’ve managed to recall and immediately find a link to its website. It appears to be a legitimate, boutique-sized outfit in Westchester County, New York, with trusts and estate planning as a specialty. There are photos of the major players, including Kane, who looks to be in his late forties, too. He’s one of those older preppy types, with light brown hair, dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a pricey-looking tie.
I call him back at the main number. He and his firm might be legit, but this has to be a screwup.
“Thank you, Ms. Moore,” he says. “Now if you don’t mind indulging me on one additional matter. As I mentioned previously, for security purposes I need to verify your identity. Can you please provide me with your address?”
Even if there is something fishy about this whole business, Bradley Kane is probably not going to show up at my walk-up, also in Manhattan’s East Village, and make off with my three-year-old laptop, my thirty-inch flat-screen TV, and the sad little pair of fake diamond studs I keep in a Ziploc bag. I rattle it off for him.
He thanks me again and then tells me he’s sure there’s no mistake, that Mr. Whaley intended for me to be the beneficiary.
“Beneficiary of what?” I ask. “Do you mean actual dollars and cents?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to share the exact details quite yet.”
I sigh in frustration. “Can you at least explain why you think I’m the right person? What was the reason he gave for leaving me anything?”
“Mr. Whaley didn’t share the reason for the inheritance, but he did provide your address and background information about you. You were born and raised in West Hartford, Connecticut, graduated from Tufts, worked at the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art in Hartford before attending one year of an MFA program at Boston University, and you’ve been living in New York for over a decade, currently working as a graphic designer and artist, correct?”
“Right,” I say, my guard still up. It feels creepy that he has all that info at his fingertips, but I guess he could have gotten most of it from LinkedIn.
“Obviously there’s no mistake. I’m hoping then that you’re free to come to my office in Scarsdale on Monday at eleven, at which point I’ll share the details with you.”
“Is that the reading of the will?”
“No, this is somewhat different. Are you able to come then?”
“This is starting to sound very complicated.”
“Please, Ms. Moore. I know it’s an inconvenience, but it’s essential that we speak in person.”
I think for a second. The collage will have to be done by then, anyway, and I can deliver it to Josh once I return to the city in the afternoon.
“Will it just be the two of us?” I ask. I’m certainly not going to subject myself to a room full of people.
“Just one other person will be joining us. I simply ask that you bring your license or passport so I can verify your identity.”
“Okay, I guess I can be there.”
He wraps up the call by offering directions to the building from the Scarsdale train station, but I don’t bother to write them down, figuring I can always rely on GPS. Besides, despite what I told him, I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to show up. I need to think it through some more.
Not right this second, though, because I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Before tossing my phone aside, I shoot an email to the creative director who assigned me the graphic design job due Monday, begging for an extension. After pouring myself a glass of water from a jug I keep, I return to my studio worktable and stare long and hard at what I’ve done so far. The nine other collages for the show aren’t specifically part of a series but they could be, since each one has to do with an aspect of being female, and each also involves a startling, perhaps even disconcerting juxtaposition of images. The new one has to have the same degree of impact, but so far that isn’t happening.
My eyes wander to the window. Lights have begun to blink on here and there in the buildings across Second Avenue, and from where I’m sitting, I can see three enchanting-looking wooden water towers dotting the rooftops.
Maybe I need to play with three of something. Three is the smallest number that can create a pattern, and even simple patterns of three, if done right, can be intriguing and charged with meaning. I grab a pencil and begin doodling in my notebook. When that gets me nowhere, I page through a small stack of the old photography books I’ve bought for dirt cheap at the Strand Bookstore and tear out a few pages that speak to me.
When I finally close the last book and push it aside, I notice how quiet the building is—no footsteps or chatter coming from the corridor outside. Checking my phone, I see that it’s after seven, later than I realized and past the time when most people on my floor—other artists and various freelancers—seem to split for the day. Though I don’t interact with the other tenants working in my part of the building—unless you count the occasional hello with a Mexican artist named Alejandro who rents space two doors down from me—I feel safer when they’re around. The building doesn’t have a security guard, or even CCTV.
I stuff a few things into my messenger bag, kill the lights and lock up, then step into the wide, poorly lit hall. There’s not a soul in sight, and the only noise is from the honking horns and revving car engines eight floors below. After what seems like an endless wait, I take the elevator to the lobby.
I live just a few blocks away, on Seventh Street between First Avenue and Avenue A, and I cover the distance quickly, making a brief stop on the way at a deli for a few cans of Diet Coke and some tea. Once I’ve reached my redbrick walk-up, I let myself in and climb the stairs to the fourth floor. As soon as I open the door to my apartment, Tuna, the calico rescue cat I was gifted three months ago by my half sister Nicky—who clearly thought I was desperate for companionship—scurries toward me and rubs her silky body back and forth against my calves a couple of times. I stoop down to stroke the top of her head, but a few seconds later she darts away and reassumes her perch on the back of the couch. Tuna often treats me like a roommate she was forced to recruit from Craigslist after her landlord doubled the rent.
After unloading my stuff, I dump a can of wet food into Tuna’s bowl, do my best to resuscitate a head of lettuce under a stream of cold water, and then make a salad with the lettuce, two hard-boiled eggs, a few cherry tomatoes, and some asparagus spears left over from last night’s dinner. Once I’ve splashed olive oil and vinegar on it, I carry it and a Diet Coke to the small wooden table at the end of my living room, grabbing my laptop on the way.
Once I’ve taken a few quick bites, I pull up the obit again, and this time I read it more closely. Christopher J. Whaley grew up in Scarsdale, it says, and attended Bowdoin College and the University of Michigan Law School. He was employed for the past fifteen years as a senior executive, not a lawyer, for the Delancey Pharmaceutical Company in Westchester County and in his spare time liked to sail and mountain climb. His survivors include his wife, Jane; a son, Mark, and daughter, Bee, both twenty—obviously fraternal twins—as well as a mother in Scarsdale and a brother residing in Buenos Aires.
The obit contains a link to the funeral home, and when I follow it, I find the same obit, though this one has a photo. The man in the shot appears to be in his late forties, so it must be recent. He’s attractive, with a strong nose, full mouth, and high cheekbones—and almost totally bald. I wait for a jolt of recognition, but none comes. It doesn’t help that his eyes are partially obscured by the black frames of his glasses, yet I’m pretty darn sure I’ve never seen him before.
I grab a pencil from the mug on my desk and jot down key words from the obit on a scrap of paper, hoping if I stare at them long enough, one will trigger a memory. The one person I know who went to Bowdoin is a girl from my high school in West Hartford whom I haven’t seen in years, and though I’ve met a few people who attended Michigan, they were undergrads, not law students. I have never set foot in Scarsdale or heard of the company Whaley worked for.
And even if I had a wide social circle, which I certainly don’t, I doubt it would’ve overlapped with his. Not only is he the type of guy I generally only cross paths with when I’m passing through the business-class section of an airplane on my way to economy, but he was eleven years older than me.
Next, I google “Scarsdale.” I’d been vaguely aware that it’s fancy, but I quickly learn that it’s apparently the richest town on the East Coast and second richest in the US—with an average household income of $450,000. Jeez.
A thought begins to gel. According to his lawyer, Christopher Whaley knew I was an artist. What if he’d been an art lover, even a collector, who decided to become a benefactor when he learned he was dying of cancer, leaving me and other artists financial gifts to help foster our work? It might mean as much as ten thousand dollars—maybe more. I mean, doesn’t stuff like that actually happen sometimes?
And it could really help me. I might finally be able to turn down some soul-crushing graphic design gigs and spend more time on my collages. It could also be a cushion to guarantee I’ve got the rent each month for my art studio, a space that might be tiny and shabby but has helped me kick-start my art career after an eight-year hiatus.
A small windfall could also allow me to spruce up my apartment. I moved in a decade ago, before the East Village was as trendy as it is today, and though my rent, thankfully, has stayed reasonable by Manhattan standards, it doesn’t allow me to even browse on a home decor site like One Kings Lane. I’ve tried my best to make the place charming, using eclectic fabrics and displaying quirky flea market finds, like the painted wooden mushroom on top of my bookshelf and African stone bracelets hung along one wall. But everything’s been bought on the cheap, and it shows. What would it be like to set a drink on a side table made of wood instead of particleboard, paint the walls something other than the sad, ...
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