Chapter 31
Several weeks before the gallery show opens, Paul sits in The New News Hour’s small but sleekly furnished greenroom, staring around at the black-and-white photographs of New York landmarks that line the walls.
His hands are trembling, his stomach unsettled.
He admires the tray of fresh pastries and the plate piled high with fruits he can never afford, but he can’t force himself to eat.
He desperately wants more coffee, too—and a cigarette, of course—but he’s afraid of getting too wired.
He tells himself he’ll be fine; he’s done interviews before.
But he’s never done an interview like this one: on national television, telling viewers that Judith Stanley, the tragically murdered, now-famous photographer, was a lunatic who essentially ended her own life.
Even with Jahan’s blessing and that influential we lifting him up, he can’t nullify the sense that he’s doing something drastic and outlandish—something dangerous, even.
A surge of pain in his chest confirms it; Paul wonders if he’s having a heart attack.
At least he’ll die wearing a beautifully tailored suit (courtesy of Jahan’s staff).
The makeup artist knocks on his door, comes in to apply foundation and pat down his shine.
Chatting with her helps calm him, and then, once she’s packed up her supplies and left, he stares at what’s to come: the walk to the soundstage, the mindless introductory banter with the host, and the weight of those bright, hot lights as he makes his unsavory announcement.
He thinks of Tom sitting lonely in his living room over a TV dinner of Salisbury steak and potatoes au gratin, hearing the host announce his name.
Paul Sorenson to discuss the new retrospective of Judith Stanley’s work at Doven Gallery…
He thinks of Charlie, too, scoffing at the sight of him onscreen.
Again Paul’s chest throbs with pain. He presses his fingers deep into the spot, hoping he can at least delay the heart attack for twenty or so minutes.
There’s another knock at the door, then a slim, smiling young woman in a perfectly fitted maroon suit steps inside. “You ready, Paul?” she asks. He drops his hand from his chest and smiles back. Trembling Heart Attack Paul is unfit for national television, so he does his best to banish him.
“You bet,” he says, rising to his feet. He follows her down a narrow, turning hall that leads to a bustling studio.
Don Gregor, beloved former football star and The New News Hour’s host, is suddenly before him, shaking his hand, ushering him onto the stage to take a seat in the show’s faux living room.
Before Paul has a moment to take a sip of water or adjust to the glare in which he sits, exposed, he hears the cameraman counting down to one.
Paul sits, tense and unmoving, as Don introduces the segment.
He recounts the official Judith Stanley story, ending with the known details of her “tragic death.” Then he turns to Paul and asks about his “discovery” of Judith and the journey to publishing her photographs.
Paul finds, despite his nerves, that the more he speaks, the more relaxed he becomes, and the easier it is to be the man the audience wants to see.
They aren’t here in the studio with him, but he can sense their gratifying attention, their warm approval—of his looks, his flair for storytelling, his bright conversational manner.
“Paul, how does it feel knowing this gifted artist can’t produce any more work because a still-unknown assailant killed her?” Don asks.
“Well, it’s—it’s terribly sad and disturbing,” Paul begins.
The words catch and start to carry him; he only has to follow their flow.
“It’s an incalculable loss to those of us who knew her.
Especially to her family, of course. It’s also a loss to the art world, and to the many, many people out there who’ve become fans of her pictures. ”
Don nods solemnly. “And what about this man, her attacker. Is there any new information on him? About who he could be? I understand you were questioned, too, as the last person to see her alive.”
Paul doesn’t appreciate the jab, but it’s given him the perfect segue.
“I was questioned, yes. But never treated seriously as a suspect, Don. And what I’ve learned since—through research and conversations with…
extremely knowledgeable people, is that there may not be any assailant.
At least, not in the way you might expect. Judith may not have been murdered.”
“What the heck?” Don asks, looking genuinely stunned. “What exactly do you mean, Paul?”
“Well, this is hard for me to say. Very hard,” Paul says, the story rolling out of him now.
“But as you said yourself, there’s been no sign of her assailant, and it was her own knife, with only her fingerprints on it, that was found beside her.
She also claimed that her stalker appeared in the background of all of those marvelous self-portraits of hers.
Well, I—and others—have gone back through every last one and scoured them for any sign of this man.
We found nothing, Don. Absolutely nothing. ”
As the drama of his own words crescendos inside him, Paul sees this effect mirrored in Don’s face. The host’s next questions come stuttering out.
“So you’re saying—but who killed her, then? And why?”
“She may have taken her own life,” Paul says bluntly, and one of the studio crew members, out of sight, lets out a gasp.
For Paul it echoes what must be a chorus of gasps in all the tuned-in living rooms and kitchens of the country.
Paul feels it run through him like an electric current—crackling, unstoppable.
“I think she may have been…very ill. I’ve spoken to a trusted psychologist about this, as well as the police. Judith was assaulted and…injured in her home as a teenager. This may have festered in her until now and made her mind turn against her.”
“All these years later?” Don asks. Paul nods. He knows Malcolm and Detective Schuyler will be furious to hear him expounding on this on national TV, even if he’s withheld their names. But he goes on, carried on the current and the knowledge that the people out there, watching him, are riveted.
“So her death was…a suicide?” Don asks, so genuine now that the two men might be lounging in a café, having a private conversation.
But Paul flinches at the word. He knows he’s all but said it himself, but he’s purposely avoided saying it.
America doesn’t like that word, suicide; doesn’t Don know better? Paul backpedals.
“This is a theory, Don. I want to be clear on that. But it’s a strong one, backed by expert advice, and I felt obligated to share it with the public.
It’s changed and deepened the way I look at her photographs, and I hope the same will be true for other people, for her fans.
She has a lot of them, I know,” Paul says, smiling out at the viewers, reassuring them.
Don nods but looks lost as he veers toward the wrap-up.
“Well, that’s certainly some shocking news we’ve had from Paul Sorenson, consulting curator of the upcoming Judith Stanley show at Doven Gallery here in New York City. That’s all the time we have for now. Paul, thank you for joining us.”
When the cameras stop rolling, Don leans toward Paul.
“Well, that should boost your attendance, shouldn’t it? Not to mention picture sales.” Paul can’t read his tone. Half impressed, half annoyed by the surprise? Not angry, though. He’s smiling, so Paul smiles back.
“Sorry you weren’t prepared for that. We had to keep it under wraps.”
Don waves this away.
“All the better. The higher-ups loved it, I’m sure.
Great for ratings.” He shakes Paul’s hand briskly and then strides off the stage.
Paul envies him, leaving this interview with his life unchanged.
Paul rises shakily to his feet, feeling the pain in his chest return as he follows the maroon-suited girl, now grimly silent and unsmiling, to an exit.
Outside in the cold, he tries to recapture the warmth he felt while connecting with his countless invisible and captivated viewers.
He shivers; it’s vanished now—and he may have invented it anyway.