Chapter 23

We landed in Santa Fe in a snowstorm. Because Santa Fe was smaller than the other cities where I'd shown my work, I'd arranged for a rental car — a big mistake. Before we arrived at the Inn at Loretto, where we'd booked our hotel accommodations, the falling snow had turned into a blizzard. I'd lived in three bodies for over 150 years, and I'd never driven in the snow, let alone a blizzard that shut out the sun and limited my vision to the hood ornament, if the sedan Hertz had given me had had a hood ornament, that is.

"This is impossible," I muttered.

"Pull off the road," Grace said nervously from the back seat.

"I'm not sure I'm on a road," I replied.

"There are lights on our right," Mary said. "There," Mary said pointing. "Pull in there."

With a shrug I turned the wheel to the right and promptly struck... something.

"You hit the curb, I think," Mary said.

I put the car in reverse and promptly went... nowhere. When the tires couldn't connect with a surface that would allow them to roll, they screamed in protest. "We're stuck," I said.

Agnes chortled. "Buckaroo, it would be my guess that you've never driven in the snow."

"You're a superlative guesser. Have you driven in snow?"

"I'm from Chicago. What do you think?"

"Can you get us to the hotel?"

"No, we're stuck."

"The lights, Mary. Do they represent a place where we can wait out the storm?" Grace asked.

"I don't know."

"I'll check," Bill said.

Cold air rushed into the warm vehicle when he opened the door. The door slammed shut, and he disappeared into a flurry of white. I worried that another car would come along and crash into us.

"This doesn't bode well for our opening tonight, Agnes," I said. "No one will venture out in this to see our art."

"Humph, foiled by the vagaries of weather," she grumped.

"Maybe the storm will be short-lived," Mary said. My Mary, the optimist.

Bill opened the rear-passenger door. "It's a coffee shop, and it's open," he said and helped Grace out of the center seat into the blizzard. I turned off the engine, and all of us trudged through the falling and drifting snow toward the beacon of light.

Mary's hope came to pass. We were drinking hot drinks when the storm lifted as if carried aloft by a mythical God of Weather. The surface winds still whipped the snow into a swirling froth, but the clouds stopped adding inches of the white stuff to the ground. We could see the rental car from our booth in the coffee shop. It looked like a banana split submerged in whipped cream.

I called Hertz and told them where they could find their vehicle.

"The charges will continue to accrue," the clerk said pedantically.

"I don't think so," I said.

I called our hotel and told them our plight. They said they'd send a van for us, but it would be a while. I thanked them but said that I'd make my own arrangements. I hung up and asked the waitress if she had the number for a tow truck. She did, I called the number, and told the man who answered my call what I wanted.

"You've got it, bud," he said.

Fifteen minutes later, we clamored back into the rental car, and a humongous truck towed us through the drifting snow toward the Inn at Loretto. Light glowed through the snow covering the glass in the rental car.

"It's like we're in an igloo on wheels under the Aurora Borealis," I quipped.

My cheery comment attracted only a derisive snort. The source: Agnes.

After we'd removed the luggage from the rental car at the hotel, I told the tow truck driver to take the vehicle to Hertz at the airport. "Note the time you deliver the car," I said as I paid him in cash.

"You've got it, bud," he said.

We checked into our rooms, and I called the concierge. "I need a limo and a driver for tonight and tomorrow morning. There are five us," I said.

"Of course, sir," he said stiffly. I think I would have preferred, "You've got it, bud."

The air was bitter cold but calm. No moon. But for starlight, it was a dark sky. The limo stopped in front of the gallery. Luminaries lit the walkway and the gallery's roofline. Ruth Sage had turned a disaster into a festive occasion. As we walked toward the entry doors, I heard the groan of tree limbs complaining about the weight of the snow they carried. Snow puffed the tops of all horizontal surfaces, and with the luminaries, the scene looked like a Christmas card.

"Beautiful," I breathed, my breath huffing like smoke from a steam engine.

"But colder than a witch's tit," Agnes said. She was hanging onto my arm. It was our show. We'd decided to make an entrance together. Behind us, Mary and Grace held Bill's arms.

"Never knowing a witch, I can't attest to the temperature of a witch's tit or any other part of a witch's body. Regardless, that tidbit of folklore makes no sense," I said.

Agnes cackled. "Supposedly witches have no maternal instincts, making their teats cold for a suckling child. It's a metaphor."

"Your mind is unique, friend. Guard it well."

"I have. I shall."

We made our grand entrance, bringing a blast of cold air inside with us, and sending art lovers near the door deeper into the gallery to avoid the draft.

Ruth Sage rushed to greet us. "You made it!" she said. "I worried the storm would keep you away. They closed the airport and diverted all flights."

"Neither rain nor sleet nor snow... etcetera. Gimmee a hug, Ruth," I said and held out my arms. She moved into them without hesitating and hugged me tight.

"How'd you do in the pre-show?" I asked while my arms still wrapped her waist.

"Better than I expected. What with the nasty weather, only half my buyers made it. The other half might or might not drift in before the night ends. There are sold stickers on six of your paintings and two of Agnes's sculptures."

"Get me a cup of hot green tea, and Agnes a glass of red wine, and we'll work the crowd."

"You've got it," she said with a grin.

What? No bud?

Over the next few hours, Ruth's buyers drifted in, and before the night ended, sold stickers dotted all of Agnes's and my work. Katrina arrived with a bigwig from the pharmaceutical company in tow. He praised both my paintings and Agnes's sculptures, and to my chagrin, he approximately doubled the orders for our small pieces. He wanted twenty paintings and fourteen sculptures. If allowed, Katrina could indeed bury an artist with private commissions. The problem with private commissions wasn't the near term. The near term was more profitable than it would be otherwise. The problem lay in the increasing-price system that came from traditional openings.

Which was the reason I was so pleased when I met Joseph Pound. He introduced himself without mentioning his business and asked me to talk about my work. From my earlier attempts to put sold stickers on my paintings, my hyperbole had been honed to perfection. At the time, two paintings still needed buyers, so I was loquacious.

Pound, I guessed, was sixty years old, maybe a little older. He was gay. That was obvious. His ears and cheeks poked out like Howdy Doody's, and he had a toothy grin reminiscent of the puppet's happy smile, but his nose and cheeks weren't freckled.

"For an artist, you are a talker," he said.

I didn't sense that he was putting me down with his comment.

"That's good, if the artist knows what he's talking about. You do," he said. "I'm from the Big Apple, but my roots are in the heartland of this great country, so once every couple of years I go on a scouting trip in search of promising new talent. I've shown the work of some of the greats, abstract expressionists like Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Helen Frankenthaler, who explored the essential questions of human existence. I also showed Andy Wharhol and Jasper Johns with their pop art in the sixties and seventies. I turned down Maplethorpe in the eighties, and I've been looking for another valid new movement in American art since. You're microcosm/cosmos approach to art might be it. It certainly has more validity than some of the craziness some folks try to call art nowadays."

He sighed. "I grew up in the age of drive-in movies and eateries, when remaining in the closet was to be admired, not scorned. I may be an anachronism. Maybe I want to recreate the past. I don't know, but I'd like to run with your microcosm/cosmos art. It fits our time, and it is art."

He handed me a business card. "Check me out and give me a call. I believe I'd like to show your work and the work of your colleague, Ms. Porter."

"I'll check you out, Mr. Pound, but if what you told me is accurate, I'd be pleased to show my work in your gallery. Would a winter show next year work for you?"

He nodded. "I saw you speaking with Katrina Leonard. Is she the reason you're booked for a year?"

"Partly. I have an opening scheduled in Phoenix in three months, and Katrina arranged some private commissions that removes the possibility of another opening until this time next year."

Ruth stepped up to us. "Hello, Joseph," she said. "I didn't see you arrive."

He smiled like Howdy Doody and said, "I'm sneaky."

Ruth linked her arm through mine. "What is your opinion of this young man's work?"

"It's promising. If he can link the microcosm to the cosmos, he might start a new movement in American art, something that's sorely needed in our business, Ruth." He looked at me and said, "Excuse me for speaking to Ruth as if you weren't here, but..." He turned back to Ruth. "... Mr. Carson is tied up with Katrina. If he commits to a show with me, will he honor the commitment?"

"Yes, I believe he will," Ruth said.

"Mr. Pound, I need openings in galleries like yours to insure that my work remains a good investment for my buyers." I smiled. "I'm young, but I don't need the extra money that comes from private commissions versus traditional openings, so I can and will take the long view. Please excuse me for speaking to Ruth as if you weren't here." I turned to Ruth. "Mr. Pound says he's shown the work of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Helen Frankenthaler, Andy Wharhol, and Jasper Johns. Is this true?"

"Yes," Ruth said.

I turned to Pound. "I'll show my work with you." I took his elbow. "Excuse us, Ruth," I said as I guided Joseph Pound away to a quiet corner of the gallery. "Let's talk turkey."

He chortled. "All right. A December show next year. Twelve large paintings and ten of the smaller paintings. What about Ms. Porter?"

"I'll speak for her."

"Very well. I'll want seven large sculptures like she showed in Frazier's gallery earlier this year, and six pieces like she's shown here."

Joseph Pound had done his homework. The meeting wasn't as impromptu as I'd first assumed.

"What's the split?" I asked.

"Fifty/fifty. I'm sure you're doing better with Ruth, but I won't take less. I don't need to. On the other hand, I take care of crating, shipping and frames."

"What about photography?"

"That cost is mine, too."

"Let's talk about pricing?"

"We'll deal with that later, but the pricing will exceed any price achieved for similar work up to the time of the show. Your work has increased about twenty percent per show. If your work remains in high demand, a similar jump is not out of the question."

"Very good. We have a deal." I gave him a business card. "Fax the contracts to me at the number listed on the card."

"Are you Ms. Porter's agent?"

"No, I'm her friend. Would you like her to verify the commitment I made on her behalf?"

"No. I just wondered if you were getting an agent's cut from her work?"

"No, no agent's cut, just the pleasure of her company."

Looking like I'd lit her up with her welding torch, Agnes said, "You did what?"

"You heard me. Did I screw up?"

"No! Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It's been a dream of mine for years to show in New York City. What gallery?"

I showed her Pound's business card.

"Joseph's Gallery! You're kidding."

"Is that good or bad."

"Good, the best!"

I grimaced. "He wouldn't bend on the split. It's fifty/fifty. If that's not good enough, I'll reopen negotiations. He will pay for crating, shipping, and photography, though."

"Hoo boy!" she said softly.

"I committed you to seven pieces like you showed for Frazier, and six like you you're showing here tonight, but I couldn't tie down the pricing. He did say he'd consider a twenty percent bump if our demand continues to hold. The show will be in December next year."

"Christmas in New York," she breathed, her eyes shining with happiness.

I made it a point to sit with my sister for part of the flight back to Phoenix. I'd seen no evidence of a quickening romance between Grace and Bill, and I was curious. I'd no sooner taken the aisle seat next to her than she patted my hand and said, "You're worried about me again, huh?"

I chuckled. "No, worry wouldn't describe my feelings."

"What would?"

"Curious."

"Ah, Bill, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Little brother, there's no spark between us, and not just on my part."

"The day we met him..."

"That doesn't count. That was surface attraction. I did the right thing by moving slowly with Bill. I like him. I admire him for the professional he is, for his talent, but... well, he's no James, Brent." She sighed. "Or you."

Instead of patting my hand, she gave it an affectionate squeeze. "The two of you raised the bar, and I can't have either or you, you because you are my brother, James because of what he does, but I'm happy about the height of that bar, and I'm in no rush. One of these days, I'll meet a man who will step up to that bar and sail right over it."

"Thanks, that satisfies my curiosity, except for one thing. Why did Bill accept our invitation to the opening if he isn't interested in you?"

She laughed. "Because of you, you ninny."

"Huh?"

"Oh, he harbors no romantic inclinations for you, if that's what you were thinking. Bill's not gay, but he admires you more than any man he's ever met. Those were his words to me. Brent, he'd like to be your friend."

I slowly let the air out of my lungs. "I didn't know."

"That's because you've been looking at him as a potential lover for me instead of a potential friend for you. Also, Bill isn't very adept at making friends. He lives with his mother not because he's a momma's boy but because she's his best friend."

I remembered the conversation I'd had with my mother about the nature of friendship. "What do you want or expect from a friend?" she'd asked me, and then told me to make a list that defined what I wanted from a friend and another list that described what I was willing to give in return.

"Friendship is a two-way street. To get you've got to give," I muttered, half under my breath.

"What?" Grace said.

I spoke normally. "To get you've got to give. That was something Mom said about friendship."

"You certainly learned that lesson well. You gave so much to Mary that she fell in love with you. Agnes thinks you walk on water, and James makes a point of spending time with you when he's around," she said. "Would you like Bill for a friend?"

I didn't answer immediately. "He's an environmentalist. How rabid is he? With 150 years of memories, an extremist of any kind turns me off."

Grace chuckled. "I don't know rabid he is. Ask him."

I pursed my lips. "He's sitting alone. Trade seats with him, and I'll do just that."

I stood up and let Grace into the aisle, and then took her window seat. Seconds later, Bill sat next to me.

"Grace said you wanted to talk to me," he said.

"Yeah. What environmental organizations do you belong to?"

He sat back in his chair as if I'd struck him. "Huh?"

"Do you belong to any environmentally conscious organizations, you know, like Greenpeace or PETA?"

"No, what a strange question. Why did you ask it?"

"Then you wouldn't classify yourself as a tree hugger?"

' "No. Is this about my belief in conserving water if you live in a desert?"

"Yes and no. I've got no problem with that belief as long as you don't want to put explosives in swimming pools and public fountains and blow them to smithereens. I do have a problem with rabid environmentalists. It seems to me that they'd be happier if Homo-sapiens as a species became extinct."

He huffed a laugh. "And you thought because I believe in water conservation in the desert than I might be... ah, a tree hugger or a rabid conservationist?"

"I didn't know, so I asked. Don't get your shorts in a twist, Bill. What about Lake Powell? Do you think it should be drained?"

"I don't know enough about the ramifications of draining the lake or leaving it as it is to have an opinion one way or the other. You're making my head hurt, Brent."

"Sorry about that. Are you an early or late riser?"

"Moderate, probably. Why?"

"Would you be interested in joining the group for sunrise tai chi?"

"No, the commute from my house would be prohibitive. Besides, I know nothing about tai chi."

I nodded. "What's your favorite leisure activity?"

"Reading."

"What about physical activity?"

"I run and belong to a gym."

I groaned. I was getting nowhere fast.

"About Lake Powell," he said. "In retrospect, I do have an opinion. I enjoyed the boating weekend. I wouldn't want to see the lake drained."