for me to leave now?
If I wait any longer, I’ll have violated Dr. Shields’s explicit instructions. I feel perspiration prickle my back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the man who is shivering slightly now without his coat. “I have an assignment for work. I really need to go.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got this,” he says kindly, and the knot in my chest loosens a bit.
“You sure?”
He nods.
I look down at Marilyn. She’s wearing pink frosted lipstick that looks like the same CoverGirl brand my mom has worn for years, even though I used to give her expensive Bobbi Brown shades when I worked at that counter.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask the man. I take out one of my BeautyBuzz business cards and scribble my cell number on it. I hand it to him. “Will you just let me know when you hear how she is?”
“Sure,” he says.
I really do want to make sure Marilyn is okay. Plus, now when I tell Dr. Shields about the accident, she won’t judge me for callously leaving the scene of the accident.
It’s six minutes after eleven by the time I rush through the doorway of the museum.
I take a final look back and see that the guy still holding my card isn’t looking toward the approaching ambulance. He’s watching me.
I give the woman at the ticket counter ten dollars, and she points me in the direction of the Dylan Alexander exhibit: up the narrow staircase to the second level, then left down the hallway.
As I hurry up the steps, I look at my phone to see if Dr. Shields has texted, like she did at the bar. A message has come in, but not from her:
Just checking in again. Coffee? Katrina, my old friend from the theater, wrote.
I shove my phone back into my pocket.
The Dylan Alexander exhibit is at the end of the hall, and I’m nearly gasping by the time I reach it.
I googled the artist right after Dr. Shields gave me the assignment, so the subject of his work doesn’t come as a surprise.
It’s a series of black-and-white photographs of motorcycles, unframed, on giant pieces of stretched canvas.
I look around for any clues to orient me.
Several people are lingering before the images—a docent leading a trio of tourists, a French-speaking couple holding hands, and a guy in a black bomber jacket. None of them seems to notice me.
By now the ambulance should be here, I think. Marilyn is probably being lifted up on a stretcher. She must be scared. I hope her daughter gets there fast.
I peer at the pictures, remembering again how I’d given an uninspired response when Dr. Shields had shown me the glass falcon. I now wonder if my assignment has to do with these images. I need something more profound to say about this exhibit in case she asks.
I know a little about motorcycles, but I know even less about art.
I stare at a photo of a Harley-Davidson, tilted so far to the side that the rider is almost parallel to the ground. It’s a powerful shot, life-size like the others, and practically bursting out of its frame. I am struggling to find the hidden meaning that artwork is supposed to contain, which, in turn, could give me a hint about Dr. Shields’s hidden meaning in sending me here. All I see is a big, hulking machine and a rider who seemed like he was risking his life unnecessarily.
If the real-life morality test isn’t in these photos, where could it be?
I can hardly concentrate on the photographs as I begin to wonder if the test already happened. The Met has a suggested fee of twenty-five dollars, but you don’t have to give anything. When I’d first arrived at the museum, there was a ticket counter with a sign that read THE AMOUNT YOU PAY IS UP TO YOU. PLEASE BE AS GENEROUS AS YOU CAN.
I was in a rush, and I was only going to be there for thirty minutes, I’d thought as I’d opened my wallet. I had a twenty and a ten. So I’d pulled out the ten, folding it in half before sliding it under the glass to the ticket agent.
Dr. Shields was probably planning on reimbursing me for the entrance fee. Maybe she’d assume I’d paid the full amount. I’d have to tell her the truth. I hope she didn’t think I was cheap.
I decide that when I go back down I’ll get change and donate another fifteen dollars.
I try to