The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney Page A

woman from New Canaan left a message at my studio: “I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said, “and please don’t think I’m crazy but you sound like a sincere person who is really in trouble. I’m divorced and live in New Canaan, Connecticut, and have a beautiful house here. My daughter is getting married soon and if you need a place to stay, you are always welcome here. I mean it.”
    I phoned Susan—that’s her name—and thanked her for the unbelievably generous offer, and tell her I am familiar with how lovely New Canaan is: my parents had lived for more than thirty years in nearby Darien.
    â€œYou came across as a genuine person,” she said, “and I thought if there is any way I could help. And then I realized I have this big house—”
    â€œYou are beyond kind,” I said, “but I think I’ll be okay. I can stay in my apartment for a while at least, and I’ll figure out a way to make money.”
    â€œIf you ever need time off, a weekend, a month, a year, you would have a space all to yourself. I mean it,” she said. I am certain she did.
    A few days after my conversation with Susan, I received an e-mail saying, “You have been selected to apply for a grant from the New York Foundation for the Arts.” Astonished by the note, I immediately called to find out details but was politely told to fill out the forms and that my application would be reviewed. I did as requested, and just a few days after mycall I was approved for a grant. I did my investigative best to find out who was behind this incredible generosity, but the courteous young woman at the Foundation said firmly that the donor “wished to remain anonymous.” The person who instigated the grant knows that art is my primary passion and I am indescribably grateful to you, whoever you are. You have helped me in the deepest way possible.
    And despite the bad rap lawyers get in my town for being overpriced and overblown, a few of them—strangers before my MF experience—have been unstinting with their time and advice. When you get in a big complicated mess like the one I’m in, you realize why they get paid the big bucks. Brad Friedman, a lawyer at Milberg, was on the MF’s case early on. I sat behind him in court the day after the MF was arrested and we waited and waited and waited in vain for him to appear. Brad came to my house for coffee one morning, and although I didn’t sign up for a class action suit, he gets back to me instantly on his BlackBerry any time I have a legal question. He really is a decent man and sympathetic to the wreckage that Madoff has wrought. Then, when a friend suggested I get in touch with the hotshot litigator Steve Molo, I e-mailed him about my plight and he called me fifteen minutes later. Lawyers from high-priced white-shoe firms to one-person operatives who just want to help and offer counsel have been in touch with the MF’s casualties across the country.
    When I get home from the studio on Monday, a blue Brooks Brothers box is waiting for me at home. I haven’t ordered anything, of course. One of my favorite activities—shopping—is out of the question, maybe for the rest of my life.
    I have no taste for it. Not a nano-smidgen of desire. Nada. Not only do I have no money, there is nothing in the world I need or want except peace of mind, something that no amount of money can buy. Or can it?
    I’m gladly diverted from my thoughts by the Brooks Brothers box. I’m sure there’s been a mistake but after I inspect the label and see that it is addressed to me, I open it. Inside a small white envelope lies on a pristine white shirt.
    â€œThis is one of my favorite things,” writes Nan, a special friend, “and you’ll never have to iron it.” It’s a perfect fit. Who has friends such as these? How lucky can I be!

CHAPTER 11
Everyone Has a Story to Tell
    O n a