Mary Clark: A Cry In The Night

Jenny studied his picture on the cover of the brochure. And he’s also marvelous-looking, she thought.

At eleven-thirty, Mr. Hartley came over to her. His anxious fretful look had almost disappeared. “Everything’s all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. Anticipating his next question she said, “I reconfirmed the caterer. The Times, The New Yorker, Newsweek, Time and Art News critics are definitely coming. We can expect at least eight at the reception, and allowing for gate-crashers about one hundred. We’ll close to the public at three o’clock. That will give the caterer plenty of time to set up.”

“You’re a good girl, Jenny.” Now that everything was in order, Mr. Hartley was relaxed and benign. Wait till she told him that she couldn’t stay till the end of the reception! “Lee just got in,” Jenny continued, referring to her part-time assistant, “so we’re in good shape.” She grinned at him. “Now please stop worrying.”

“I’ll try. Tell Lee I’ll be back before one to have lunch with Mr. Krueger. You go out and get yourself something to eat now, Jenny.”

She watched him march briskly out the door. For the moment there was a lull in the number of new arrivals. She wanted to study the painting in the window. Without bothering to put on a coat, she slipped outside. To get perspective on the work she backed up a few feet from the glass. Passersby on the street, glancing at her and the picture, obligingly walked around her.

The young woman in the painting was sitting in a swing on a porch, facing the setting sun. The light was oblique, shades of red and purple and mauve. The slender figure was wrapped in a dark green cape. Tiny tendrils of blue-black hair blew around her face, which was already half-shadowed. I see what Mr. Hartley means, Jenny thought. The high forehead, thick brows, wide eyes, slim, straight nose and generous mouth were very like her own features. The wooden porch was painted white with a slender corner column. The brick wall of the house behind it was barely suggested in the background. A small boy, silhouetted by the sun, was running across a field toward the woman. Crusted snow suggested the penetrating cold of the oncoming night. The figure in the swing was motionless, her gaze riveted on the sunset.

Despite the eagerly approaching child, the solidity of the house, the sweeping sense of space, it seemed to Jenny that there was something peculiarly isolated about the figure. Why? Perhaps because the expression in the woman’s eyes was so sad. Or was it just that the entire painting suggested biting cold? Why would anyone sit outside in that cold? Why not watch the sunset from a window inside the house?

Jenny shivered. Her turtleneck sweater had been a Christmas gift from her ex-husband Kevin. He had arrived at the apartment unexpectedly on Christmas Eve with the sweater for her and dolls for the girls. Not one word about the fact that he never sent support payments and in fact owed her over two hundred dollars in “loans.” The sweater was cheap, its claim to warmth feeble. But at least it was new and the turquoise color was a good background for Nana’s gold chain and locket. Of course one asset of the art world was that people dressed to please themselves and her too-long wool skirt and too-wide boots were not necessarily an admission of poverty. Still she’d better get inside. The last thing she needed was to catch the flu that was making the rounds in New York.

She stared again at the painting, admiring the skill with which the artist directed the gaze of the viewer from the figure on the porch to the child to the sunset. “Beautiful,” she murmured, “absolutely beautiful.” Unconsciously she backed up as she spoke, skidded on the slick pavement and felt herself bump into someone. Strong hands gripped her elbows and steadied her.

“Do you always stand outside in this weather without a coat and talk to yourself?” The tone of voice combined annoyance and amusement.

Jenny spun around. Confused, she stammered, “I’m so sorry. Please excuse me. Did I hurt you?” She pulled back and as she did realized that the face she was looking at was the one depicted on the brochure she’d been passing out all morning. Good God, she thought, of all people I have to go slamming into Erich Krueger!

She watched as his face paled; his eyes widened, his lips tightened. He’s angry, she thought, dismayed. I practically knocked him down. Contritely she held out her hand. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Krueger. Please forgive me. I was so lost in admiring the painting of your mother. It’s… It’s indescribable. Oh, do come in. I’m Jenny MacPartland. I work in the gallery.”

For a long moment his gaze remained on her face as he studied it feature by feature. Not knowing what to do, she stood silently. Gradually his expression softened.

“Jenny.” He smiled and repeated, “Jenny.” Then he added, “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you told me… Well, never mind.”

The smile brightened his appearance immeasurably. They were practically eye to eye and her boots had three-inch heels so she judged him to be about five nine. His classically handsome face was dominated by deep-set blue eyes. Thick, well-shaped brows kept his forehead from seeming too broad. Bronze-gold hair, sprinkled with touches of silver, curled around his head, reminding her of the image on an old Roman coin. He had the same slender nostrils and sensitive mouth as the woman in the painting. He was wearing a camel’s hair cashmere coat, a silk scarf at his throat. What had she expected? she wondered. The minute she’d heard the word farm, she had had a mental image of the artist coming into the gallery in a denim jacket and muddy boots. The thought made her smile and snapped her back to reality. This was ludicrous. She was standing here shivering. “Mr. Krueger…”

He interrupted her. “Jenny, you’re cold. I’m so terribly sorry.” His hand was under her arm. He was propelling her toward the gallery door, opening it for her.

He immediately began to study the placement of his paintings, remarking how fortunate it was that the last three had arrived. “Fortunate for the shipper,” he added, smiling.

Jenny followed him around as he made a meticulous inspection, stopping twice to straighten canvases that were hanging a hairbreadth off-center. When he was finished, he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Why did you put Spring Plowing next to Harvest?” he asked.

“It’s the same field, isn’t it?” Jenny asked. “I felt a continuity between plowing the ground and then seeing the harvest. I just wish there was a summer scene as well.”

“There is,” he told her. “I didn’t choose to send it.”

Jenny glanced at the clock over the door. It was nearly noon. “Mr. Krueger, if you don’t mind, I’m going to settle you in Mr. Hartley’s private office. Mr. Hartley’s made a luncheon reservation for you and him at the Russian Tea Room for one o’clock. He’ll be along soon and I’m going to go out now for a quick sandwich.”

Erich Krueger helped her on with her coat. “Mr. Hartley is going to have to eat alone today,” he said. “I’m very hungry and I intend to go to lunch with you. Unless, of course, you’re meeting someone?”

“No, I’m going to get something fast at the drugstore.”

“We’ll try the Tea Room. I imagine they’ll find room for us.”

She went under protest, knowing Mr. Hartley would be furious, knowing that her hold on her job was becoming increasingly more precarious. She was late much too often. She’d had to stay home two days last week because Tina had croup. But she realized she wasn’t being given a choice.

In the restaurant he brushed aside the fact they had no reservation and succeeded in being placed at the corner table he wanted. Jenny turned down the suggestion of wine. “I’d be drowsy in fifteen minutes. I was a bit short on sleep last night. Perrier for me, please.”