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Okay, thisissome sort of con. “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I’m really not interested in playing it.”
“Allow me to make a suggestion,” he urges. “Hang up the phone, take a minute to google me and my law firm—Abood, Kane, Harrison, and Wong—and then call me back at the number listed on the website.”
I have this overdue collage staring me in the face, and every second I spend on the phone with Kane is a second that I’m notdevoting to it, but... what if Iamthe right person? Blowing him off feels a bit like failing to respond to one of those chain letters I got emailed as a teenager, the kind asking for something like a prayer or a dollar. A tiny part of me always worried that if I didn’t respond, I might live to regret it.
I don’t do as he tells me, not at first. As soon as I disconnect, I google “Christopher Whaley, Scarsdale” instead, and an obit surfaces immediately. With a quick skim I discover that Whaley passed away of pancreatic cancer a week ago.
There’s no photo included, but based on the details in the obit—age forty-nine, Scarsdale resident, business executive, married, two children—I’m now even more certain that this man and I never crossed paths, though it’s hard not to be a little saddened at what this must mean for his wife and kids.
From there I google the three names of the law firm that I’ve managed to recall and immediately find a link to its website. It appears to be a legitimate, boutique-sized outfit in Westchester County, New York, with trusts and estate planning as a specialty. There are photos of the major players, including Kane, who looks to be in his late forties, too. He’s one of those older preppy types, with light brown hair, dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a pricey-looking tie.
I call him back at the main number. He and his firm might be legit, but this has to be a screwup.
“Thank you, Ms. Moore,” he says. “Now if you don’t mind indulging me on one additional matter. As I mentioned previously, for security purposes I need to verify your identity. Can you please provide me with your address?”
Even if thereissomething fishy about this whole business, Bradley Kane is probably not going to show up at my walk-up, also in Manhattan’s East Village, and make off with my three-year-oldlaptop, my thirty-inch flat-screen TV, and the sad little pair of fake diamond studs I keep in a Ziploc bag. I rattle it off for him.
He thanks me again and then tells me he’s sure there’s no mistake, that Mr. Whaley intended for me to be the beneficiary.
“Beneficiary of what?” I ask. “Do you mean actual dollars and cents?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to share the exact details quite yet.”
I sigh in frustration. “Can you at least explain why you think I’m the right person? What was the reason he gave for leaving me anything?”
“Mr. Whaley didn’t share the reason for the inheritance, but he did provide your address and background information about you. You were born and raised in West Hartford, Connecticut, graduated from Tufts, worked at the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art in Hartford before attending one year of an MFA program at Boston University, and you’ve been living in New York for over a decade, currently working as a graphic designer and artist, correct?”
“Right,” I say, my guard still up. It feels creepy that he has all that info at his fingertips, but I guess he could have gotten most of it from LinkedIn.
“Obviously there’s no mistake. I’m hoping then that you’re free to come to my office in Scarsdale on Monday at eleven, at which point I’ll share the details with you.”
“Is that the reading of the will?”
“No, this is somewhat different. Are you able to come then?”
“This is starting to soundverycomplicated.”
“Please, Ms. Moore. I know it’s an inconvenience, but it’s essential that we speak in person.”
I think for a second. The collage will have to be done by then, anyway, and I can deliver it to Josh once I return to the city in the afternoon.
“Will it just be the two of us?” I ask. I’m certainly not going to subject myself to a room full of people.
“Just one other person will be joining us. I simply ask that you bring your license or passport so I can verify your identity.”
“Okay, I guess I can be there.”
He wraps up the call by offering directions to the building from the Scarsdale train station, but I don’t bother to write them down, figuring I can always rely on GPS. Besides, despite what I told him, I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to show up. I need to think it through some more.
Not right this second, though, because I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Before tossing my phone aside, I shoot an email to the creative director who assigned me the graphic design job due Monday, begging for an extension. After pouring myself a glass of water from a jug I keep, I return to my studio worktable and stare long and hard at what I’ve done so far. The nine other collages for the show aren’t specifically part of a series but they could be, since each one has to do with an aspect of being female, and each also involves a startling, perhaps even disconcerting juxtaposition of images. The new one has to have the same degree of impact, but so far that isn’t happening.
My eyes wander to the window. Lights have begun to blink on here and there in the buildings across Second Avenue, and from where I’m sitting, I can see three enchanting-looking wooden water towers dotting the rooftops.
Maybe I need to play withthreeof something. Three is the smallest number that can create a pattern, and even simple patterns of three, if done right, can be intriguing and charged with meaning. I grab a pencil and begin doodling in my notebook. When that gets me nowhere, I page through a small stack of the old photography books I’ve bought for dirt cheap at the Strand Bookstore and tear out a few pages that speak to me.
When I finally close the last book and push it aside, I noticehow quiet the building is—no footsteps or chatter coming from the corridor outside. Checking my phone, I see that it’s after seven, later than I realized and past the time when most people on my floor—other artists and various freelancers—seem to split for the day. Though I don’t interact with the other tenants working in my part of the building—unless you count the occasional hello with a Mexican artist named Alejandro who rents space two doors down from me—I feel safer when they’re around. The building doesn’t have a security guard, or even CCTV.
I stuff a few things into my messenger bag, kill the lights and lock up, then step into the wide, poorly lit hall. There’s not a soul in sight, and the only noise is from the honking horns and revving car engines eight floors below. After what seems like an endless wait, I take the elevator to the lobby.
