An Anonymous Girl(48)

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 refocus on the art. Next to me, the couple is having an animated discussion in French as they point to one of the images.

Farther down, toward the beginning of the exhibit, the tall man in the black bomber jacket stares at a photograph.

I wait until he moves on to the next picture, then I approach him.

“Excuse me,” I say. “This is a dumb question, but I can’t figure out what it is about these photos that makes them so special.”

He turns and smiles. He is younger than I’d thought at first. Better looking, too, with his juxtaposition of classically handsome features and edgy clothes.

He pauses. “It seems to me the artist chose to use black-and-white because he wants the viewer to focus on the beautiful form. The lack of color really enables you to notice every detail. And see how he has carefully chosen the light here to enhance the handlebars and speedometer.”

I turn to look at the image from his perspective.

The motorcycles all appeared alike to me at first, a blur of metal and chrome, but now I realize they are quite distinct.

“I get what you mean,” I say. I still can’t figure out what this exhibit has to do with morality and ethics, though.

I move to the next photograph. This motorcycle isn’t in motion. It is shining and new and stands atop a mountain. Then, the man in the bomber jacket walks over to it, too.

“See the person reflected in the side mirror?” he asks. I hadn’t, but I nod anyway as I peer closer at the image.

The buzzer on my phone sounds, startling me. I give the man an apologetic smile in case the noise has broken his concentration, then I reach into my pocket to silence it.

I’d set the alarm on my way to the museum, wanting to make sure I followed Dr. Shields’s directions to leave at eleven-thirty sharp. I need to go.

“Thanks,” I tell the man, then I take the stairs down to the main level. Rather than waste more time getting change, I tuck the twenty into the donation box and hurry out the door.

As I exit the door, I see that Marilyn, the cabdriver, and the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses are all gone.

Cars are driving over the spot where she had lain; people are milling around the sidewalk, talking on their cell phones and eating hot dogs from a nearby vendor.

It’s like the accident never happened.





CHAPTER


THIRTY


Thursday, December 13

To you, this is simply a thirty-minute assignment.

You have no idea that it may spark the unraveling of my entire life.

Since this plan was set into motion, measures were required to counterbalance my resulting physical reactions: sleeplessness, lack of appetite, a plummeting core temperature. It is essential that these base distractions be offset to avoid wreaking havoc with the clarity of the thought process.