called Charlie, and he hadn’t jumped off the balcony, and he hadn’t gone out and had suicidal sex in some video booth, and he hadn’t cried. He’d done his job. He’d kept Roscoe alive. If he could get through another week like this, then another—if he could stand here at the end of the month and congratulate himself again on getting through in one piece, then he could keep doing it forever.
* * *
—
That Monday, Roman came bounding into the office early. Roman had four weeks left on his internship. Yale had told him he’d be happy to keep him on for the spring quarter, but Roman had shaken his head and said something vague about other plans. Yale couldn’t blame him. He said, “I found some Ranko Novak stuff!” and he dug from his backpack a thick library book with the kind of rough canvas cover Yale couldn’t stand to touch. “He’s a footnote. A literal footnote.” Roman came around Yale’s desk—the closest he’d gotten since Wisconsin—and opened the book to where he’d stuck a circulation slip. The footnote took up half the page, and Yale had to lean close to see the part Roman had marked with pencil. “It’s basically everything she said about the prize,” Roman said before Yale could read for himself. “I mean, it’s not very complimentary. Like, he really shouldn’t have won. Wouldn’t that be the worst, knowing no one thought you deserved it?” Yale saw the dates, the names of the winners, the information about three slots being open that year, the fact that the award was delayed. Despujols and Poughéon eventually traveled to Rome after the war, the book stated, while Novak’s injuries and eventual death (1920) prevented his ever accepting the prize.
“Show Bill,” Yale said. “Wait, don’t tell him it’s a footnote, though. Can you Xerox just that part, so it looks like it’s the main text?” He cared more and more about Ranko’s inclusion. It felt like a matter of principle now—that poor Ranko, locked-in-the-castle-with-no-reward Ranko, should finally get his showing alongside his betters.
Bill was now talking about the show going up next fall. Such a cruelly long time to wait. Yale wished they could rush things just so Nora could die knowing it had happened, but according to Bill, fall of ’87 was already a rush. It would be his last show—he’d made that clear—and he’d be out of there in time to spend the winter in Madrid.
Roman stayed close to Yale for longer than he needed. Yale found himself indulging in the fantasy that later this spring, when the internship was over, he might call Roman and invite him for a drink. He wouldn’t actually do it, but he was allowed to think about it.
The phone rang, and Roman jumped and backed away, headed toward his desk and then, remembering the book, walked out the door with it toward Bill’s office.
The voice on the other end was impossibly loud. “Mister Yale Tishman!” A man’s voice; it sounded like an accusation. If Terrence were still alive, Yale might have imagined it was him, doing some impersonation, a prank. “Chuck Donovan here. Trustee, Wildcat class of 1952. I’m calling from the office of Miss Pearce, on her phone. Miss Pearce tells me you’ve been responsible for dealing with the Nora Lerner estate.”
Yale stood, looked around. Poor Cecily—the guy had actually commandeered her phone. He imagined her sitting there, eyes closed, fingertips at her temples.
“That’s correct,” he said. “I’ve been coordinating a—”
“Because there seems to be a miscommunication. Those paintings actually belong to a friend of mine.”
Yale picked up the phone base, tried to stretch the cord into the hall. He could only get about a foot out the door. Bill’s office stood ajar. He said, “Could you hold—” but Donovan was still talking.
“Now, Miss Pearce and I had a very specific understanding, and what I want to know, I want to know two things. First, who is responsible for this miscommunication, and second, how are we going to make things right?”
Yale took off his left shoe and hurled it down the hall at Bill’s door. Roman emerged, followed by Bill. They looked at the shoe, the floor, and Yale beckoned them frantically. He said, for their benefit, “Mr. Donovan, are you in Ms. Pearce’s office right now? You’re on campus?”
Bill hit his forehead with his palm.
Yale said, “I’d like to invite you over to the gallery, and we’re going to get our general counsel here too.”