Page 21 of One of Them

T he house on West Eleventh Street throbbed with music, but not the music Delia’s father typically played. Instead of the dulcet strains of Mozart, Bach, or Vivaldi, this was some kind of jazz: low, sultry, hot. How strange.

“Papa?” She set down her suitcase and followed the sound downstairs to the kitchen, where a party was in full swing, radio blaring.

Her father was at the center of the group, regaling his guests with one of his elaborate, meandering stories; he’d always been a skilled raconteur.

Catching sight of her, he called out, “Delia my dove! To what do we owe this lovely surprise?”

“I told you I was coming down for the weekend,” said Delia. “We talked about it on the telephone.” Could he be losing his memory? God, she hoped not.

“And so we did!” said Simon. “But I’ve been so busy.

It must have flown right out of my head.

” He reached out for a quick hug, and Delia inhaled vetiver, a scent he’d worn in Paris but not since.

She shook hands with several well-dressed men and women, not recognizing any of them.

Since arriving in New York, Simon had not been in the habit of hosting parties or gatherings at the house the way he and Sophie had in France.

But here he was in his dark blazer and his paisley ascot, a full glass held aloft and commanding all the attention.

“Everyone, this is my brilliant and beautiful daughter.”

Delia stood there mutely. There he was, doing it again, praising her in such an exaggerated way that it had the opposite effect—instead of bolstering her confidence, it made her feel unseen, as if she were some girl he’d invented, and not the one she really was.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’m a little tired, so I think I’ll go upstairs.”

“Don’t you want a glass of wine? Or some lamb stew? I have to say Helga’s outdone herself.” Helga, the cook and housekeeper, had set out a chafing dish, surrounded by bowls, spoons, and napkins, on the damask-covered table. A crusty baguette, sawed open and partially sliced, sat beside it.

“No, thank you.” Delia was in fact hungry, and the stew was tempting, but she didn’t want to stand around and have to make conversation with all these strangers, so she retreated to her room.

The next day the house was filled with guests again, this time for a lunch served in the dining room.

Helga had made some sort of baked egg dish and filled a basket with popovers, hot from the oven; Simon, dressed in a silk smoking jacket and black velvet slippers with golden bees embroidered on their fronts, was passing them around.

What had happened to him since she’d last been home?

He seemed to have emerged from his years-long cocoon, now as resplendent as a butterfly.

This resembled the father she recognized from Paris, from Vence—her mother’s sophisticated and gregarious husband. How did it happen?

Delia paid more careful attention to the guests gathered around the table and realized that the voluptuous woman sitting next to him—brassy blond hair that looked as if she doused it in peroxide, bright-red lipstick—had been there the night before.

Her father seemed to like her very much.

And when he kissed her fully on the mouth, smearing the red lipstick, some of which ended up on his chin, she understood: this was the reason for the change.

Her name was Harriet Curtis, and she stayed after the other guests had gone home, so Delia was able to learn that she was now Simon’s assistant at the gallery; he must have dismissed Gordon Braithwaite, who had held the position before.

So her father had a new woman in his life.

Delia turned that over in her mind. Well, Sophie was gone; he was free.

It didn’t take long for Delia to track how Harriet was different from her mother.

She was nice looking, though her style was a bit obvious, even vulgar, which was wholly unlike Sophie.

She was not an artist, and by her own admission had no talent in that area.

She was also completely acquiescent to Simon; she agreed with him about everything, whereas Sophie had constantly challenged him about matters large and small.

Today Simon was holding forth about Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings, which Sophie had thought laughable.

She’d called Pollock a fraud. But today Sophie was absent from the conversation, and when Simon declared that Pollock’s Lavender Mist “heralds a new chapter in the history of art,” Harriet’s head bobbed furiously in agreement.

Then Simon began talking about a new show he was planning; it seemed Harriet was going to play a key role in putting it together. “It’s going to cover a lot of ground—women artists from the last twenty years—and we’ve already started talking to some of them.”

We? Now it was we ? In the past her father had sought Delia’s help in organizing his openings. She could also see the way he looked at Harriet. It was as if the light had been switched back on.

“It’s going to be an exceptional show,” he was saying. “We’ve got works by Mary Cassatt, Lee Krasner, and some lesser-known names. Harriet’s been superb in tracking them down. I was even thinking we could include that double portrait of your mother’s, the one you brought from Paris.”

“You mean it would be for sale?”

“Well, yes. That’s the point of a show, isn’t it? I run a gallery, not a museum.”

“No,” said Delia. “Absolutely not. I’ll never sell it. How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“Oh, so now selling her work is suddenly verboten?”

“That sculpture is not for sale” was all Delia said, but annoyance crackled inside her.

Her father had gotten his energy back, yet he’d said nothing about resuming the search for Sophie’s missing work.

Well, he might have pushed it aside, but Delia had not.

She began to think about returning to Paris, maybe even over the summer.

The more she thought about it, the more urgent it seemed.

She could visit Marie-Pierre and find out more details.

For the next two days the house was noisy, perpetually filled with strangers and loud music.

Delia found half-finished glasses of wine and plates of food on the bookshelves or on the stairs, overflowing ashtrays, hand towels wadded into balls; poor Helga was having a hard time keeping up.

She had even come upon a couple passionately kissing in her bedroom; they broke away from each other and scurried out without looking at her.

Delia watched them go, but instead of remaining in her room, she went downstairs and through the kitchen to the yard.

Everything was frozen or dead, but at least it was quiet out here.

Then she heard a rustling nearby and glanced over at the yard next door.

A tall figure bundled in a dark coat and knit cap was busy doing something—it was George Frost, the gardener with the little dog.

So he’d come back from the war—no gold star on the window, thank God.

“Hello!” she called.

He straightened up and looked around.

“Over here.” Delia went over to the wooden fence—rather decrepit, it should really be replaced—so that she wouldn’t have to shout.

“Delia Goldhush,” he said, recognizing her. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“I’m pretty well,” she said. “How about you?”

“I’m keeping busy.” He too approached the fence.

That was when she saw that the empty sleeve of his dark coat was pinned to his shoulder. He must have lost his arm in the war. He used the other one to poke at a pile—it looked like leaves and such—with a pitchfork. “I’ve started composting.” He must have seen her confused expression.

“Composting?” She had only a vague idea of what that was.

“I put in leaves and other garden material—twigs, stems, dead flowers, and also food scraps—into a pile and cover them. Nature does the rest.” When he saw that she didn’t understand, he added, “Everything in the pile decomposes, and eventually turns to rich, black soil.” If he saw her distaste, he showed no sign of it.

“Not that much happens in the winter, but I like to check on it anyway.”

“Food scraps and leaves,” she repeated, but the only thing she could really focus on was his arm. How had it happened? Had he adjusted to its loss?

“I can give you some if you like.”

“Some what?”

“Compost. By the spring I’ll have plenty.” He smiled. “You can’t believe what it does for the garden. People call it black gold.”

Delia understood he was trying to be nice. Neighborly. But wouldn’t that mixture be crawling with worms and such? She knew that was a good thing, but the thought was nonetheless revolting. Noisy and smoky as the house was, she said a hurried thank-you and went back inside.

When Sunday night came, Delia was more than ready to leave.

Vassar would be a relief, an oasis. Fortunately, Harriet was not there when she said goodbye to her father.

He was seated in his study on the parlor floor, a room dense with books, paintings, wall hangings, and an elaborately carved wooden screen from Morocco.

He looked up from the magazine he’d been leafing through.

“I wanted you to know that I have been trying to find the rest of your mother’s sculpture,” he said.

“Why, so you can sell everything?”

“No, of course not.” They glared at each other for a moment before he said, “Delia, your mother wanted to sell her work. It made her feel seen in the world as an artist. Valued. Important. You remember how happy she was when she made a sale, don’t you?”

Delia did remember, but she didn’t want to give him this.

“In any case, I couldn’t track down any of the sculpture.”

“You’ve never gone back to Paris, Papa. You could have gone back when the war ended.”

“I don’t think I can.” He suddenly looked deflated as he said this; his shoulders slumped, and he leaned back in the chair as if he needed its support.

“I can,” Delia said. “And I want to.”