Chapter

35

I had never looked closely at my hands, at least not this close. Dialing the telephone had for some reason made me conscious of them. My fingers were average length, I thought, as I waited for the other end to answer. There weren’t any calluses or scars. I wondered if they had done manual labor. Probably not. More like...I don’t know...thinking hands? I did do a lot of rolling of my fingertips when time was not going forward like I wanted...like now. I cradled the phone and lifted both hands. I turned them over several times. Sara had said they were, how did she put it, “gentle as the wings of a butterfly.” I smiled to myself. That was her way of saying “Don’t stop… don’t stop,” words I grew to appreciate each night I was with her...words that suddenly tugged at my emotions, then were shattered by...

“D.S.R. INTERNATIONAL. How may I direct your call?”

I grabbed the phone from my shoulder, tightening my grip with the anticipation of the next minute. “Ms. Sobel,” I said.

“One moment, please.”

The moment was more than a moment. More than several moments. More like a minute. And on top of the delay, I was subjected to canned music that continued reminding me of how lucky I was to have Sara in my life. Finally...

“Ms. Sobel’s office.”

“Charles Randall calling,” I said.

“Thank you, Mr. Randall. I’ll see if she’s in.”

Why did her secretary use such a response? She sat directly in front of her door. Why couldn’t she just say, “I’ll see if she can speak with you now,” or “Her door is closed. Let me see if she’s available,” or...

“Mr. Randall,” she said with the phony anticipation of disappointing me, “Lauren’s tied up right now, but asked if you could meet her in the garden cafe of MOMA at eleven?”

“Where?”

“MOMA. Oh, I’m sorry. You must be from out of town. That’s The Museum Of Modern Art on 53^rd, between 5^th and 6^th  Ave. Know where that is?”

“Yes...Yes...thank you.”

I hung up and sat there. I hadn’t thought of those letters MOMA since that day in Mathews' office when I had found them on the Waldo tie. When I found the tie in my bungalow, I had assumed the gift card saying “All My Love - L” had been from Liz...the wife in the memory. But now I was meeting Lauren Sobel at MOMA and the L took on new meaning.

I arrived early and acquainted myself with the art of art museum browsing. I had wandered through a couple of museums in LA, but the emotion I was experiencing looking at these works of art was foreign to me. The brochure of the newly remodeled museum invited the patron to experience a new MOMA, a MOMA that was second to none in the world of art museum design and engineering. Even so, the feeling of having visited the works before was unsettling. On my walk over, I had considered the possibility of finding memories, seeing there was a MOMA tie in my life. The tie, gift card and Lauren asking me to meet her here all seemed too coincidental to not have some significance. I was ready for anything when I walked into the museum...I thought.

I went to the upper floors first, thinking I had enough time to work myself down to the garden level where I was to meet her. The works of Andrew Wyeth drew my attention.  As I approached his Christina’s World, I paused and stood looking at the girl’s figure in the painting. Her longing sense of detachment struck a cord in me. The reaching impulse toward the empty house...a reach I knew only too well, sent signals of caution at me. I knew I mustn’t indulge. My resistance was minimal and I knew from the past that being tired and drained could bring on...

I moved away and wandered among the other 20^th-century American paintings and sculpture.

By the time I reached the lower floors, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. This was a magnificent surrounding to visit. I found myself in a very different state of mind.

Rousseau’s The Dream, Dali’s The Persistence of Memory and Van Gogh’s Starry Night all sent my senses reeling with desire for more. It was as if I had at last found something familiar from the past. But I hadn’t been here before, damn it. I knew nothing of this place.

I felt myself moving faster. A glance at my watch reminded me that she was due in 10 minutes, just enough time to get back to the escalators and down to the cafe. A cup of coffee would make me feel better...maybe even...

I was suddenly stopped by the overwhelming power and strength of Picasso’s The Charnel House. Occupying the majority of a wall, the black and white array of pain and sorrow spiraled though me like a tornado of nightmares I hadn’t had, nightmares that for some reason still seemed so familiar...like I had somehow experienced the images and feelings in real life. My eyes were no longer my own anymore. As if mirroring the horrors of some inner soul, Charnel’s images reached out and touched that part of me afraid, or unable to speak. The ta ta ta taing I’d experienced in the cathedral while kneeling before the altar, that drum like sound that had haunted me there was even clearer now, but still unlike any sound I knew. This was no time to be attacked by Charlie. I moved quickly away, running toward the escalator, excusing myself and almost getting arrested as a security guard suddenly stepped out in front of me.

“Where you going in such a hurry, mister. Might fall. Take it easy.”

“Yes...you’re right,” I said. “You’re right. Got a little anxious with the time,” I said as I backed away and grabbed onto the rubber railing of the escalator. I turned and faced downward to the glaring, shaking of heads of fellow riders who were obviously thankful the officer had prevented another New York nut from raising havoc.

The ta ta ta taing was gone as I reached the ground floor. I turned back up toward the top of the escalator. The security guard was still watching me. That was okay, I thought. He could stare at me all he wanted. He wasn’t going to make me feel uncomfortable. He had unknowingly become an instant friend. The demon that seemed to always appear when my inner feelings were at peace was gone, checked, sealed off by the security guard on the second floor. Wouldn’t it be something if I had been handcuffed and shackled on the second floor of MOMA? I didn’t put much faith in the thought, but it brought a smile to my face. I could use one about now. It was 11 am.

I had learned to hate ill-prepared espresso and the cup growing cold in front of me had become an intense add-on for my pet peeve. I had been seated, according to the hostess, at a favorite window table of Ms. Sobel’s, looking out onto the sculpture garden. I was in the proper mood to meet and discuss whatever business Lauren felt was necessary...in the proper mood until the coffee arrived and the hour got to be 11:25. Cold espresso and waiting had taken its toll.

I was not where I wanted to be with myself when I spotted Lauren making her way across the sculpture garden toward the table. She was dressed in a smart linen suit and carried a Bonwit Teller shopping bag. That, I thought, explained the late arrival.

She hesitated in front of a bronze statue of a woman. She paused just long enough to effect a change of expression that lingered until she reached the table.

“Sorry I’m late. Last minute calls from Europe can foul up the best of intentions.”

I rose and pulled the chair out for her. “Things happen, don’t they?”

She took notice. “My, my, they taught you manners as well.”

You didn’t have to be a scholar to catch she was still convinced I was Charlie aka Charles Randall. I chose to ignore it.

“You look none the worse for a busy morning,” I said. “Dr. Mathews said you needed to see me on some business?”

“My, manners AND right to the point. I see you’ve tried their espresso. Wonderful, isn’t it? Oh, Miss...”

The waitress stopped with her empty tray. “Yes?”

“I’d like some hot water, lemon and honey on the side, please. Charlie...or Charles?”

I wanted to correct her behavior right there, but I again ignored her provoking...at least for the moment. “I’ll have the same.”

Lauren tilted her head toward me, followed by a sarcastic grin. “You certainly don’t need to lose weight. Mexico took plenty off.”

I smiled back, unaffected by yet another vexing jab. “Actually, you’ve done well yourself” I said. “That picture you gave Mathews of you and that other man shows you’ve worked at it. Congratulations. You look... healthier now.”

She smiled again, nodding. “Hard work usually does pay off, doesn’t it? You’re a testimony to that.”

“Lauren, I would appreciate you not treating me like a...like you’re treating me. There aren’t two of me. My name is Charles Randall, and I’m here because my doctor recommended I finish up any business concerning me. Whatever you may want of Charlie Stevens, whatever you may need of Charlie Stevens, you’ll have to find HIM and deal with HIM.”

“I guess I’ve got to accept that Charlie Stevens has so many D.B.A.’s and aliases that finding him could take forever...especially if he never wants to be found.” She leaned down and lifted her briefcase to the table, “You’re right Mr. Randall...Charles. I will take the liberty to call you Charles if that’s all right. We do need to get the business done.”

The next half hour was spent laboriously listening to her outline the 2 inches worth of Mutual Funds, Certificates of Deposit, stocks, bonds and Real Estate properties Charlie Stevens had in various names and D.B.A’s around the world. All the paperwork had my name affixed as partner, with D.S.R. International as managers of the portfolio and Sobel in particular named as Account Executive. Most of it went over my head, but I didn’t want her to slip back into any personal mood, so I listened and nodded, and drank hot water and lemon.

Her voice started to break, something I didn’t want to see start over again. “All in all, Charles...you have a very wealthy, albeit, complicated business partnership with Charlie worth millions...many millions.” She passed the papers back into a manila envelope and slid it across the table. “Those are copies for your records. And the last item we need to take care of... “

Her voice was getting increasingly emotional as she lifted two documents from her case. “This is a signature sheet you need to sign in order to have access to your Swiss accounts. Charlie had me put the money there with his signature, but now that it has been transferred...you need to sign right here.”

I picked up the paper, the pen and hesitated. Charlie’s signature was in a modified print style. I’d never seen his signature before and it struck me as peculiar. “Interesting writing style,” I muttered.

“Yes. He doesn’t have much of a script ability. Once told me he’d been printing since childhood and had forgotten how to write.” She pointed, “Right here, Charles...your signature goes just below his.”

I paused just a moment, thinking that my own signature was also a modified print form. I wasn’t admitting anything to myself right then, but I didn’t want to give into a coincidence either. I took the pen and scribbled my name in script, as “doctorish” as I could on the original and copy and passed the sheets back over to her.

“Well,” she said, “Won’t be any mistaking those two signatures. Your copy...and the original I’ll send on to Zurich. Now, Charles, without having access to Charlie Stevens, the firm can’t continue to function as he expects us to...take care of important business. Most of his holdings, your holdings as partner, are in Asia and the Far East. As his partner, and until Charlie is found, we need you to give us the special power of attorney he assigns to us yearly.”

She passed the document over to me, along with her pen with, “Time does go by fast, doesn’t it.”

I knew nothing about powers of attorney, so I felt uncomfortable signing. “I’ll take these back to LA if you don’t mind. I feel it only proper to have an attorney look at them. I don’t want to ever be guilty of screwing up any of Charlie’s affairs.”

A subtle shock wave flowed through Lauren’s face. I quickly assessed the instant I made the decision to not sign, I would have a problem on my hands.

She leaned across the table and quietly, deliberately and with labored restraint, delivered her response. “Don’t fuck with the other side of Lauren Sobel, Charlie. You know when it comes to business, they don’t come any tougher. That’s why you’ve obviously kept me manipulating your money all this time. We both know now you didn’t keep me around for anything personal.” She dropped her head momentarily and then came back at me. “Blowing me off, I’ll live with, but... “

Her voice crumbled into tears making it instantly difficult for me to hold my own composure. Was I reacting to someone I knew...or someone whose frustration and fear anyone would know, anyone could feel?

Through her clenched lips she continued, “...just don’t think you can flake over the firm that has been illegally covering your ass for years. Dropping them as well would not be in your best interests. Sign the God damn power of attorney so we can continue to stay in business with this ‘partnership’ and you can stay out of jail. You do understand what I’m talking about, don’t you Mr. Whoever-you-want-to-call-yourself-next?”

I turned toward the garden. Oh, God, I thought. How illegal had Charlie been? If I signed the power of attorney, could I be rid of the whole mess forever? Could Mathews answer the questions? He must know an attorney I could trust. Of course. I’d resolve it all back in LA.

I impulsively signed the papers, keeping the copy marked duplicate. I stood up to leave.

“Thank you,” she said. She handed me the Bonwit Teller shopping bag. “These things are yours. It’s probably best in the future if we do our communicating by any means other than in person.” She gathered herself together and rose, facing me straight on. She stood there as if waiting for me to say something, but I was already into the next chapter.

She nodded and forced a smile. “Sorry for the language. You know it’s not like me to lose it. You know it better than anyone.”

She left.

I watched her again walk through the garden and stop at the bronze sculpture. I dropped my head and took a deep breath, letting it all sink in. It was over. I had signed whatever papers I needed and...it was over.

I glanced into the shopping bag. Personal items - toothbrush, cologne, underwear and socks. Thrown in among the odds and ends were greeting cards and letter envelopes with Lauren’s name on the front... Lauren’s name written in Charlie’s modified printing style.

When I looked back up, she was gone. Standing now before the bronze woman was a small girl holding an even smaller doll. Perhaps it was the incongruity or innocence that struck me, but as I gathered myself together and walked out into the garden and up to the giant woman that dwarfed the small girl, I too was curious to see for myself what had lured and stopped both a warrior among women and a girl not yet old enough to be without her security clutched tightly in her arms.

The engraving said, The Mediterranean – Aristide Maillol.

The little girl gave me a shy inspection, and then returned to her exploration of the piece and her doll. “I will be big first, ‘cause I’m the mama. Then someday you will be big like me, because you are the baby. Then we will find a daddy and live happy ever after, okay?”

She gave me another query, just as the voice from across the garden said, “Come along, Jacquelyn. Come along.”

The small child, whose imagination told her who she was and where she was going, walked away leaving me standing alone. I looked up, taking my turn, letting my imagination also be imbued with the essence of woman, mother and birth. My thoughts were again unclear as my eyes welled up with the essence of beauty that this bronzed landscape of life before me seemed all too ready to share. Would the lonely utterance that came to my lips, the utterance I had silently asked so many times, ever be answered? “Who is this person?”