Chapter 14
One day, as Dean was working in his studio, Dolly burst through the door holding a newspaper clipping in her hand. Dean turned from the lump of clay he was molding. "What's up?" he asked her. "You really look excited about something!"
"I certainly am excited," she replied. "It seems that you're not quite the unknown and starving artist you led me to believe you were. I was just down at the art school, and I found this notice in the bulletin." She handed the clipping to Dean. It was an announcement of a one-man show by Dean Ryder at the Pumpkin Eater Gallery in San Francisco. The opening was set for the very next evening. Dean stared at the piece of paper, thoroughly surprised. Dolly continued in a voice whose tone was mixed with anger and hurt. "What am I doing supporting you?" she demanded. "You probably have all the money and equipment you need in San Francisco. What's the idea, coming to San Miguel like this and living off me? Is it your idea of a joke? I'd like an explanation, if you don't mind!"
Dean went over and put his arms around her. "Look, Dolly," he said, "I'll be straight with you. I was in some bad trouble in San Francisco, and I had to leave everything behind and run down here. And," he added, "this show is just a start for me. Until now, I really never have had any money to speak of. So I wasn't fooling you I really needed your help."
Dolly drew back and looked him in the eye. "You swear that's true?" she demanded.
"I swear," said Dean, "it's true."
Her face softened to a smile. "Well, in that case," she told him, "I must say I'm proud of you. Don't you want to be there at the opening? I could help with plane fare, if you want."
"Sure I want to go," replied Dean, "but I'm kind of afraid to go back there. Oh, what the hell -I can't miss my own opening! But I'll have to leave right away."
"You can make it," Dolly assured him. "Pack your things quickly and I'll have Manuel drive you to Mexico City today. You can take a flight out tonight." A shadow passed over her face. "Do you think you'll come back here?" she asked him.
"I can't say, Dolly," he answered, "but I'll try. You know, you didn't even ask what kind of trouble I was in. I thought you'd like to know."
Dolly smiled sadly back at him as she went through the door. "No," she said, "I'm not going to ask. That's your business. Now hurry up and pack. I'll tell Manuel to bring the car around."
Dean had been away from San Francisco almost two months, and he was glad to see the city again. Driving up to his old place in a rented car, he found it occupied by new tenants a bearded painter with a plain-looking wife and two small children. He had hoped the loft would still be empty, so that he could rest and clean up there before the opening. Instead, he checked into a nearby motel. He took a long shower and fell into the clean, firm bed after leaving instructions with the desk to wake him at suppertime. Despite his exhaustion from the long journey, he could not sleep. He marveled at his foolishness for even coming to San Francisco, and wondered if he should appear at the gallery or simply catch the next flight back to Mexico. But, he thought, in all the weeks of his absence, he had seen nothing in the newspapers about Eva's death or about a search for himself. It occurred to him that he might not have killed her after all, and that his appearance might not place him in jeopardy. He rose, dressed himself in some of the new clothes that Dolly had bought for him, and went out to eat at a restaurant.
After killing a few hours in a bar on Market Street, he drove to Sutter Street and parked a block from the gallery. It had begun to rain, and the streetlights and the lamps of automobiles cast colorful reflections on the slick, dark street. As he neared the Pumpkin Eater Gallery, he was astonished to see a long line of well-dressed people waiting on the sidewalk in the downpour. He pushed his way through the crowd to the door, where he was stopped by a uniformed guard. "Hold on there a minute, mister," the man commanded, "this show is by invitation only tonight. If you have one, go to the end of the line and wait your turn like everyone else,"
Dean smiled confidently. "What would you say," he asked the guard, "if I told you that I was Dean Ryder, and this is my show?"
The guard peered at him, frowning. In the custom-made suit which Dolly had bought him in Mexico, he hardly looked like a pop artist. "In that case," retorted the guard, "I'd tell you I was Governor Reagan. Now get the hell to the end of the line!"
Just then, John Thomas appeared at the door. He wore a thoroughly astonished expression.
"Dean!" he cried, "Where on earth have you been? Come on in here and see your show!" The guard stood back with an embarrassed look on his meaty face.
Inside, Thomas took him by the sleeve. "Listen, Dean," he exclaimed, "this show is going to be successful beyond my wildest hopes! A couple of days ago, Harvey Eldridge, the art critic from the paper, came in for a preview. The next day, his column praised you up and down. Called you the most important pop artist since Andy Warhol. We sent out the usual number of invitations, allowing that quite a few people wouldn't respond to them. But because of that column, patrons are lined up out there in the rain for half a block! What I'd like to know is where you've been for the past two months. I had to get this whole show together without your help, and it took me weeks longer than I expected, to straighten everything out."
Dean hesitated for a moment. He certainly could not blame Thomas for his displeasure, but he did not want to reveal the details of the incident with Eva and his subsequent flight to Mexico. "Well, John," he said, "I've just been traveling around. Things just got too hectic, and I had to get away for awhile. I'm really sorry about not getting in touch with you, but I really couldn't think straight. Anyway, things worked themselves out, didn't they?"
The gallery owner's expression softened. "Yes, they certainly did, Dean, even if I had to help them along. Let's just forget about it for now. There are a lot of people here who've been dying to meet you, and I think we ought to give them a chance. Okay?"
Dean smiled and straightened his tie. "Okay," he replied.
That evening, Dean received so much attention that it made him uncomfortable. He still did not know what had really become of Eva, and being in the limelight worried him. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the fuss that was being made over him, overjoyed at the prospect of being an acclaimed sculptor who could name his price for the wealthy patrons from Pacific Heights and Saint Francis Wood. He was quickly maneuvered into a corner, near the drinks. Flashbulbs popped, and he found himself subjected to a barrage of questions from reporters who had been assigned to cover the opening. After downing several cocktails, he surprised them by producing witty, and sometimes enigmatic, replies. A reporter asked him, "What kind of training have you had, Mr. Ryder?"
Dean looked earnestly at the man. "Well, I had a dishwashing job once, and I spent the first day at work learning how to use the machine they had there. You have to watch that little pressure gauge real close, so that the steam doesn't blow the kitchen to bits. Then there was the job at the gas station, where I learned how to wipe windshields. There's a real trick to mixing the water and detergent just right in that little bottle, so you can get the glass clean without costing the management too much money." Here he winked, as if he were taking the reporter into his confidence. "Oh yeah I almost forgot I did a lot of clay modeling in kindergarten, but the teacher said it was dirty and sent me to the principal's office."
The reporter, who had been jotting down his every word in shorthand, looked somewhat confused and tried again. "What new projects do you have in mind?" he asked. Dean set an empty glass on the table and grinned. "Well," he drawled thoughtfully, "I want to do a replica of my black hand, fifty feet high, and set it up on Alcatraz Island with the finger pointing straight at the financial district."
The reporter seemed offended by Dean's levity. "Are you, uh, putting me on?" he asked.
Dean gave him a most sincere look. "No, man," he told him, "I'm not putting you on. That's really something I'd like to do. Of course, I don't know how the mayor and the guys at the stock exchange feel about it yet."
The reporter thanked him, and backed away clutching his notebook and looking more confused than ever. Dean knew that the press expected celebrity artists to deliver unconventional interviews now and then. If you talked honestly with them, as you might talk with an old friend, they tended to take you too much for granted. They seemed to perceive genius only through eccentricity. He was elated at the manner in which he had baffled the reporter. Just then, a soft hand clasped his.
It was Marty. In her low-cut, high-hemmed minidress, she looked more attractive than ever. She smelled faintly of expensive perfume. Just looking at her started a pulse beating in his groin as he remembered the day he had spent with her on Mount Tamalpais. "Dean," she said, "I've missed you." She said it simply and without dramatics.
He bent and kissed her mouth. "I've missed you, too, Marty," he told her, "and I'm sorry I didn't drop you a line, but it was impossible. Are you angry?"
She slid her hand around his waist and squeezed. "No, not angry," she replied, "just glad you're here."
They were interrupted by a middle-aged matron clad in a full-length mink coat. "Mr. Ryder, I presume?" she inquired with exaggerated dignity.
Dean responded with an indulgent smile. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, in the drawl he had affected in his conversation with the reporter, "that's me all right."
The woman turned to her husband, a balding, heavyset man who had come to stand beside her. "Did you hear that, Harry?" she said. "He has such a nice, folksy manner of speech. I'll bet he grew up in some quaint place like Georgia or Tennessee." She turned back to Dean. "Where do you hail from, Mr. Ryder?"
He still wore his earnest smile. "Ohio, ma'am," he told her. "I grew up on a farm outside of Hamilton."
The woman beamed. "I just knew it," she exclaimed. "Tell me, Mr. Ryder, how much are you asking for that piece you call 'Freedom,' the one that looks like a gaily colored motorbike?"
Dean's smile broadened to an amused grin. "That's the frame of a wrecked Harley-Davidson, ma'am, and I believe it's going for three hundred dollars, but you'll have to see Mr. Thomas about that. He's managing the business end of things here." The woman thanked him profusely, and walked away jabbering at her husband about how reasonably priced she thought the item was.
Marty laughed. "You're really having fun, aren't you?"
"I sure am," said Dean. "I never thought my show would make such a big splash!"
"Well, it seems to have done just that," replied Marty, "and I'm really glad for you. Listen, how would you like to come to a small party later at John's house? Some groovy people are supposed to show up, like famous poets and painters. What do you say?"
Dean picked up another drink from the table. "Sure," he told her.
The evening wore on, and Dean jousted giddily with more reporters and saw more than half the works on display sold to eager patrons at handsome prices. Finally, when the reporters had left, and the crowd was thinning out, he decided to leave. "I'm going to split," he told Thomas. "I feel like driving around by myself for awhile."
"All right, Dean," said the gallery owner. "Will we see you later at my house?"
"Seems so," replied Dean, pulling on his coat. "I gave Marty my solemn promise." With that, he strode past the sleepy guard at the door and into the rainy night.
He began to walk briskly up the sidewalk to his car, when a woman her figure enveloped by a large raincoat stepped out of the darkness of a doorway and stood directly in his path. "Hello, Dean," said the woman. "I think we have some things to discuss." She looked up as she spoke to him, and her face was revealed in the glow of a street lamp. It was Eva!