Tom Dolby - The Trust

Letty Chilton stood in front of the group and began speaking.

“You’re probably all wondering why you’re here,” Mrs. Chilton said. “We wanted to bring you here tonight so that you could all see the beauty of the temple up close. I know many of you have grown up with Dendur practically in your backyard, but you may not have had the chance really to look at it. We’ll have the opportunity to do that later. For now, we’re going to discuss a very important event that is coming up.”

Nick yawned, and Claire glared at him as her mother continued speaking.

“I have some exciting news that I think will send you all over the moon! On February 13, Valentine’s Day eve, the museum is throwing a benefit party, a revival of the Dendur Ball, an event that last occurred in the early 1990s. The Met will be celebrating the renovations on the new Egyptian wing-work that, as you know, was funded by the Bradford Trust Association. Anonymously, of course. The museum has asked us to take a leadership role in the planning of this event. And I know it will be a lot of fun!” Letty Chilton punched the air with her wrinkled fist as if at a pep rally, and a few members of the group twittered at the intense awkwardness of the presentation.

Lauren shifted in her seat. How could the Society be so cavalier about hosting another event after so much had gone awry? She focused on Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad, which gave her the courage to stay.

Mrs. Chilton continued. “We’re excited to announce that all of you will be serving on the Junior Committee. My daughter, Claire, will be chairing the committee and handling its meetings. Your job will primarily be to get the younger generation involved in the museum. You can sell tickets to your classmates, to your friends. We have a special price for the under-twenty-ones. Remember, patronage of the arts starts at a young age. This is our cultural heritage, this museum and others in the city. It’s our job to make sure that it is preserved.”

Not another committee. It all seemed like a ruse to steer people’s attention away from the awful things that had happened in November and December. Lauren cast a sideways glance at Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad. They all looked bored.

Later, over refreshments-sugary punch and stale butter cookies-she talked to Phoebe. “What do you think about all this?” she asked.

“I guess going along with this is part of our keeping in line?” Phoebe said.

“Something like that.”

Claire came up to Lauren. “How are you, Lauren? It’s nice to see you here.”

Lauren nodded.

“I was so sorry to hear about the little incident at Giroux this week. It must have been a mistake, right? I mean, when I was talking about it to Sebastian, I told him I know you, and there is no way you would ever steal a pair of earrings!”

She gave Claire a frigid look, but it didn’t stop Lauren from reddening. “Sure, whatever, Claire. Thanks for having my back.”

Phoebe pulled Lauren away, rescuing her. “Let’s go talk to Nick.”

Lauren gritted her teeth. “Claire just makes me so angry, sometimes I feel like I could kill her.”

“I know, we all do,” Phoebe said. “She’s a loser; you can’t let it get to you.”

They walked up to Nick, who was drinking a glass of punch.

“You really sure you want to be drinking that?” Phoebe said.

“If I die of cyanide poisoning, I guess we’ll know what happened,” Nick said.

Lauren and Phoebe gave him blank looks.

“Sorry, bad joke,” he said.

At that moment, Patch joined the group. “Nick, there’s something I need to show you.”

“Now?” Nick put down his glass on a side table.

Patch nodded. “Right now.”

Before grabbing Nick, Patch had been roaming around the portion of the Egyptian wing that had been kept open while the last part of the renovations were being completed. In the main room, there were large placards along the wall that explained the history of the temple and how it came into existence. The story centered on the area of northern Nubia, along the Nile, where the Temple of Dendur was built. The temple, removed from its original site in Egypt in 1963 and opened at the Met in 1978, was considered a smaller temple, though it was still thought to be one of the prime examples of Egyptian architecture in the world. The temple had been erected in the year 15 B.C.E. to honor Isis, Osiris, and two brothers, Pedesi and Pihor, who had drowned in the Nile during Roman times.

But this wasn’t what Patch wanted to show Nick.

“You’ve got to see this,” Patch muttered to his friend. “Just don’t be too obvious about it.”

Nick followed as Patch led him to a skirted table that was displayed with a scrapbook, invitations, photographs, and clippings from Dendur Balls in years past, specifically the last one, which took place in 1992. Claire’s mother had said the display was there to provide some background and get everyone excited about the party.

“It’s just a bunch of New York socialite stuff,” Nick said.

“Right, well, look at this,” Patch said, pointing to a picture of a woman.

There was a spread from the New York Times’s social pages, a grouping of pictures by Bill Cunningham, the well-known photographer. At the center was a picture of a woman, identified as Esme Madison Evans. She was wearing a simple column dress and was staring straight at the camera, her eyes wide, a strange combination of an otherworldly spirit and a deer caught in the headlights. Her photo was next to those of prominent socialites of the time, names Patch recognized as important social leaders, the types of women who chaired committees and would find their names, along with those of their husbands, carved above the doorways of the Met’s galleries.

“It’s my mom,” Patch said. “From before I was born.”

“Wow,” Nick said. “She looks beautiful. I mean, I always knew your mom was beautiful, but I-well, to be honest, I don’t remember that much of her, since she, you know-”

“I know,” Patch said. “Neither do I.” What he did recall was mostly from after her breakdown: when they had to shave her head to keep her from pulling her hair out, and the baggy hospital-issue clothing that she was forced to wear. His mother had probably spent the last ten years wearing nothing more glamorous than a stained nightgown.

“Look,” Nick said, pointing to another spread from a magazine. “Here’s a picture of my parents.”

It was a picture of Georgiana and Parker Bell. Patch marveled at how young and innocent Nick’s parents appeared in the photograph.

As he looked at the picture, Patch felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Mrs. Chilton standing behind him.

“Patchfield,” she said warmly, as he nodded. “I’m wondering if you can help us out with something. I’ve heard that you’re quite wonderful on the-I don’t know what the kids are calling it these days. Disc jockey? On playing music?”

“Sure, I can spin,” Patch said.

“Would you be willing to provide the music for the Dendur Ball? It is so important that every dollar we make goes to the museum, and you wouldn’t believe what some of these so-called professionals charge! It would be such a treat if you would donate your services. You just tell our deputy chair exactly what you need in terms of equipment, and we’ll provide it for you.”

Patch nodded. “Um, sure, that would be great. I can do that.”

“And we need a name for the invitation. I mean, we can’t just write ‘DJ Patchfield Evans,’ can we? What would your parents think?”

“My parents are, um, they’re not around.”

Mrs. Chilton ignored this. “What would your name be? Something fun, right?”