The Cloisters(4)

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

I wanted to argue with her, to look at her and tell her that she could. She could get on a plane, and I would be there, waiting for her at the end, but I knew it wasn’t worth it. She would never come visit me in New York, and I couldn’t stay. If I did, I knew how easy it would be to get caught in the cobwebs, just as she had done.

“I’m still not sure why you want to go in the first place. A big city like that. You’ll be much better looked after here. Where people know you. Know us.”

It was a conversation I knew well, but I didn’t want to spend my last night in the house this way—the way we had spent so many nights after my father died.

“It’s going to be fine, Mom,” I said, not saying aloud the thing I said to myself. It has to be.

She picked up a book that lay on the corner of the bed and thumbed through its pages. My bedroom had just enough space for one bookcase and a dresser, the bed wedged against the wall. “I never realized you had so many of these,” she said.

The books took up more space than my clothes. They always had.

“Hazard of the trade,” I said, relieved she had changed the subject.

“Okay,” she said, putting the book down. “I guess you have to finish.”

And I did, squeezing my books into the boxes that would be mailed and zipping my duffel closed. I reached under my bed, feeling around for the cardboard box where I kept my tips. I felt the weight of the money in my lap.

Tomorrow, I would be in New York.





CHAPTER TWO


I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you at the Met this summer,” Michelle de Forte said.

We were sitting in her office, a name tag with my department and Ann Stilwell still affixed to my shirt.

“As you know, you were assigned to work with Karl Gerber.” She spoke in a flat, clipped way that had no discernible origin, yet could only have been cultivated in the best schools. “He is preparing for an upcoming exhibition on Giotto, but he had an opportunity in Bergamo and had to leave unexpectedly.”

I tried to imagine a job in which one could be summoned to Bergamo on a moment’s notice, and then again, to imagine the kind of employer who would allow me to go. On both counts I came up blank.

“It may take him several weeks to finish the work that needs to be done. All that is to say, I’m very sorry, but we no longer have a place for you.”

Michelle de Forte, director of Human Resources at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, had taken me aside as soon as I arrived for orientation that morning, leading me away from the room full of carafes of hot coffee and sugared pastries, and into her office, where I sat in a plastic Eames chair. My backpack, still on my lap. She looked at me across the desk, her eyes lifted above the blue Lucite glasses that had slipped low on her nose. Her finger, narrow and birdlike, tapped out a constant metronome.

If she expected me to say something, I didn’t know what it was. I was, it seemed, a careless oversight in their summer planning. An administrative inconvenience.

“You can see that we are in an unfortunate position, Ann.”

I went to swallow, but my throat was dry. It was all I could do to blink and try not to think of my sublet, of the unopened boxes of books, of the other associates who would be allowed to stay.

“At this point, all our other departmental positions are filled. We don’t need doubling up in Ancient, and frankly, you aren’t qualified to work in our busier fields.”

She wasn’t unkind, just blunt. Matter-of-fact. Adding up her needs against my, now sadly, inadequate presence. The glass walls of her office revealed a trickle of arriving staff members, some with one pant leg rolled up, bike helmets still on, others with battered leather satchels and bright red lips—almost all carrying cups of coffee. I had spent the morning reviewing the few items my closet contained before deciding on something I thought was sensible and professional: a cotton button-up and a gray skirt with tennis shoes. My name tag could have read FLYOVER COUNTRY.

In my head, I calculated the loss of the Met stipend against my tips. I estimated I had enough money to stay in New York through the middle of July, and there was always a chance I could find other work, any work, really. There was no need to share the news with my mother. Now that I had arrived, it would take more than a dismissal from Michelle de Forte to make me leave. The words I understand were forming on my lips, my hands readying to push myself out of the chair, when a knock came from the window behind me.

A man cupped his hands against the glass and peered in at us. His eyes met mine before he pushed his way through the door, stooping to ensure his head didn’t hit the top of the frame.

“Patrick, if you don’t mind waiting. I just need to take care of this.”

I was the this.

Undeterred, Patrick folded himself into the chair next to me. I stole a glance at his profile: a tan face, attractive creases around the eyes and mouth, a beard sprinkled with gray. He was older, but not old, late forties, early fifties. Good-looking, but not obviously so. He extended a hand in my direction, which I shook. It was dry and calloused, pleasant.

“Patrick Roland,” he said, before even looking in Michelle’s direction, “curator at The Cloisters.”

“Ann Stilwell, Renaissance department summer associate.”

“Ah. Very good.” Patrick wore a thin, wry smile. “What kind of Renaissance?”