“You had affairs?” An unexpected admission. Clara as Totto was so tightly wound, Virginia couldn’t imagine it.
A glint of pride shone in Clara’s eyes. “Does that shock you?”
“Nothing shocks me anymore.” Virginia envied Clara’s life, suddenly. No longer trying to please everyone else, only herself. “But then you came back.”
“When I saw the painting in the catalog, it was like seeing my own reflection. It made me realize I deserved more. This was my last shot.”
She had a point. She did deserve more. “I’m sorry the Lorettes have stolen that opportunity from you and that I had a hand in it. But I’m still glad I found the watercolor. The watercolor, the sketch—they were magical when my life was not. They helped me get by.” She stared up at the skylights, where a weak sun filtered through a thin coating of dirt. “I wanted to be like that woman, The Siren. The woman in the painting, mysterious and powerful.” She paused. “How can I make it up to you?”
“You can take off your dress.”
“What?” Virginia wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
“Take it off. I want to paint you.”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“You asked a question. I’m answering it. Take everything off, place the stool on top of the model’s stand, and sit on it.”
“You want me to be naked?”
“Stop being a ninny. Do you know how many people took off their clothes and posed in this studio over the years? Hundreds. Now do it.”
They locked eyes. Clara stood warrior tall, the palette like a shield in one hand, the brush a spear. After everything that had happened, it was the least Virginia could do. She untied her wrap dress and let it drop on the floor as Clara began organizing the supplies. After taking a deep breath, Virginia took off her bra, the air cold on her skin but not on the thick scar tissue, where she had no feeling, only numbness.
“Sit down.”
“I’m really not sure about this.” She covered her chest with both arms.
“You want me to paint? Well, I’ve found my subject. If you want to make it up to me, sit yourself in that chair and uncross your arms.”
Virginia placed the stool on the model stand, checking to make sure its legs weren’t near the edge.
“Stop stalling.”
Clara had put down the palette and was sharpening one of the pencils, her nose scrunched up like a bunny. The thought made Virginia smile.
“Stay like that.” Clara’s commands grew less severe as she became engrossed in the work. When she looked up, she didn’t look into Virginia’s eyes, but everywhere else. Her thighs, her feet, her hairline. But not in the way that Chester or Dennis had. Nothing ravenous. More an intellectual examination of her muscles and skin, hair and bones.
To her surprise, Virginia fell into a quiet meditation. Free of all clothing, she was like a child again. Pure and open. The minutes ticked by, but she didn’t care. The only sounds were the pencil scraping the canvas and the quiet whir of the terminal, as if it were breathing in tandem with her own lungs. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts roam.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Three men in suits stood in the doorway. Virginia dashed to her clothes, clutching them to her, the stool sliding off the model stand with a loud bang. She ran behind one of the easels and tried desperately to get back into her bra and dress, her hands shaking with shame.
“We’re making art,” Clara thundered. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re doing an inspection for Marcel Breuer. For the new building.”
“Inspect away. We won’t stop you.”
The taller man stepped forward. “Who are you?”
“We work for Grand Central. We’re on break.”
“This area is off-limits. I won’t tell the stationmaster that you were here, but you better get out.”
By then, Virginia had pulled everything on but her underwear, which she stuffed into her handbag.
“All right. We’re going.” Clara waved to her, and Virginia scooted over, keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her.
“Wait a minute. How did you get in? If you have a key, hand it over, now.” The man held out his palm.
Clara did so without saying a word and began shoving the supplies into the storage case. Virginia’s hands trembled; her face burned at the thought that these men had seen her disfigurement. Clara put a protective arm around her shoulders, and together they walked out. The sound of the men chuckling to one another echoed down the school’s hallway.
“Bastards.” Clara slammed the door on their way out and headed to the left, away from the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Virginia yanked her dress closed at the bosom and stared after her, shell-shocked. Her worst nightmare had come true, and Clara couldn’t care less.
“Follow me. It’s quicker this way.” Clara opened a door at the very end of the hallway and went down a stairway, the pad tucked under one arm and the painting kit in the other.
Virginia stopped, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her humiliation complete. “They saw me.”
Clara turned to her with a sad half laugh. “Do you really care, though? What does it mean to you that they saw you?”
Virginia considered the question. “They know I’m not a whole woman.”
“And?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Look at me. No one knows what I am. But I don’t care, because I love the way I move in the world. I love my perspective on the world. I’ve earned it, and anyone else can go to hell. I wouldn’t have wanted to paint you if I didn’t think you were a fascinating subject: a woman of a certain age, with the wounds to prove it. That’s what interests me. Desperate to cover those wounds but still carrying them capably. A woman who is just learning her own strength.
“Besides, it’s a great big world out there. Living in the West, surrounded by ancient mountains and a huge sky, shows you how inconsequential you really are, in the grand scheme of things. I find that reassuring.” She pointed to the right. “Look.”
They were standing at the edge of a frosted-glass catwalk sandwiched between the double-paned east windows. Virginia stepped onto it. Below her, the entire concourse spread out. People darted in all directions, one man running, another strolling, a woman herding three small children. All were miniature figures of themselves; the clock above the information booth glowed like a lighthouse beacon.
Virginia’s tears had dried. “It’s magnificent.”
“If you wanted to see magnificent, you should have seen it in the 1920s. Like a European cathedral.”
“That’s what they said at the press conference.”
A dull roar thundered through the passageway.
“What was that? The subway?” asked Virginia.
“No. It came from Forty-Second Street. Let’s see.” Clara walked away, leaving Virginia to hurry after her retreating back. They turned another corner, back up the stairs, and into a tiny room where a ladder rose up through the ceiling. “Leave all your things here. We’re going up.”
“Leave them?”
“Yes. This way. Levon and I used to sneak up here on breaks, to get away from the students.”
After ducking under a low beam, Virginia followed Clara up a narrow metal ladder, then another, until she finally stepped out onto a tiny platform. Looming above them was the reverse side of the massive Tiffany clock that adorned the very top of the terminal’s south face. Clara clicked a latch at the base of the clock, and the oval containing the roman numeral VI opened inward. Another roar. They poked their heads out.