She was right, of course. “What am I supposed to do? I have to try. I can beg him for mercy. I’ll promise to pay him back with interest in two weeks. It’s a holiday.”
“Like that goyish pawnbroker gives a shit. It’s a random day inSeptember for him, Ely. And he has a freaking job. He can’t justgiveyou your grandma’s pearls back and trust your word.”
Right again. Particularly since it wasn’t like my word was worth much. “Fuck,” I muttered, and beside me Chaya just sighed.
I considered it, of course. I entertained the idea of just…stealing the $400 out of Chaya’s dad’s wallet. He always kept it in his coat pocket, hung up on the rack next to the front door. It would have been easy. Chaya took money from there all the time.
But I also knew what he’d do to Chaya once he realized the cash was gone, and I couldn’t justify being responsible for those bruises. Not even for my grandmother’s pearl necklace.
My brain drew the stupidest ethical lines sometimes. Because if I were such a good fucking person, I wouldn’t have stolen the pearls to start with. Even when Chaya stole the money from her dad herself, it was still my fault, ultimately.
After all, I was the one who’d dragged Chaya down into this hell in the first place.
15
As promised, Wyatt finds me in one of the common areas Monday right after lunch, sliding into the seat across from mine and handing me a coffee.
I raise my brows. “For me?”
“They’re free in the faculty lounge. Hope you like doughnut shop blend.”
It tastes burnt, like most of those coffees brewed in the little pods, but it’s the first caffeine I’ve had all day, so I gulp it down all the same. “I feel special.”
“You should. I only steal coffee for people I like.”
“I thought you said it wasfreecoffee.”
“There’s a little sign on the dispenser that says,For faculty and staff use only.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” I finish off the cup. Probably the best worst coffee I’ve had in my life. “Slumming it with the students today?”
Wyatt makes a face, one that looks almost pained. “You aren’t my student.”
“Technically,” I say.
“Technically.”
Wyatt shifts in his chair, tugging out his satchel from where it was stuck behind him. “I brought something for you,” he says, and passes me a book.
I glance down at the cover, which is still glossy, even if the spine shows the familiar cracks of being well loved.Hannah Wilke: A Retrospective. “I love Hannah Wilke,” I murmur, flipping past the cover and front matter to get to my favorite set of photographs, stills from Wilke’sIntercourse With…film piece, in which the viewer listens to recordings meant for Wilke from her answering machine before Wilke reveals her nude self covered in the names of the message leavers and slowly, methodically strips the names from her skin.
Her work was so focused on the self, almost a commentary on societal attitudes about female vanity. Narcissistic, the way people say selfie culture is, but a sort of feminist reclamation of the sin: a fierce and unrelenting presentation of herself, her presence in the world, her own ambition. She continued to document her body even as it deteriorated before her death from lymphoma in the early nineties.
“If you want to study mixed media, there’s no better place to start,” Wyatt says. “Wilke was a genius. Not just with photography and film, but watercolor, sculpture…. She pushes boundaries, but I figured you would like that.”
He’s right. Hannah Wilke’s the kind of artist that makes me feel like I don’t have any excuses. I mean, she made sculptures out ofchewing gum,for fuck’s sake, and said it was a metaphor for how we as a culture treat women. Meanwhile, I get pissy if I don’t have the right lens cleaner for my camera.
I let the pages riffle against my thumb, back to the title page, then pause. The book is signed. The book is freakingsigned.
“Where did you get this?” I gasp.
Wyatt laughs. “Um…my apartment?”
“No, I mean…you met her?”
He scrubs a hand back through his hair. The ultimate effect is like a sudden punch to the throat: He looks just how he did back at Revel. Messy around the edges, like a good man who will ruin you. I swallow hard and look back down at the book, at Hannah Wilke’s signature in black ink.
“How old do you think I am?” he says. “I was a toddler when Wilke died, so no, I haven’t met her.”Oh.Right. Obviously. “It was a gift.”
