even of his brother Francis), and even
though Martin Daugherty insisted Peter had no worries, for clearly I had been made in the Phelan image. Without legal or moral ties, without faith in itself, this anomalous, double-named family
persisted, jealousy, wounded love, and fear of error (in Peter) being the bonding elements of a tie that would not break.
Kathryn Phelan died in her sleep, presumably of a stroke, this, her second shock, coming on opening-night-minus-two of Peter’s one-man show. For the next several days The Beautiful Belinda
would be prancing on the boards somewhere in Boston, and therefore it was decided that I should stay in New York rather than travel with my mother, artistic revelation being more valuable to my
young life than backstage privilege. But then arose Peter’s dilemma: since the one-man show and its opening could not be canceled on behalf of a corpse, so long-standing had its planning
been, would the artist, then, present himself among his works and bask in whatever glory accrues to such presence, or would he return to Colonie Street to bask in the cold exudation of a dead
mother?
Several months after his breach with Kathryn and Sarah in 1913, Peter had returned to the house for fortnightly overnight visits, and also contributed to the support of the family with pittances
that increased as his ability to sell paintings improved. The healing of the breach with the family had come so soon after the separation that Peter perceived that rancor was never the cause of the
break, but merely the ruse by which he had gained momentum to pursue his art; and in perceiving this he understood that, even in aspiration, art is a way of gaining some measure of control over
life.
And so, really, the dilemma’s solution was foregone; for kinship maintained the major share of control over Peter’s life, and his art, in the end, could only bear witness to this. He
would go home.
Because of the pre-sale of two of his paintings Peter left Manhattan with four hundred dollars in his pocket, the most money he had ever held in his hand. The dawning of this
realization spurred him to show the money to me when we settled into our seats on the Lake Shore Limited out of Grand Central Station.
“Four hundred dollars there, boy,” he said. “Feast your eyes. The sky’s the limit on this trip.”
I took the money into my own hand, counted it (fifties and twenties), tapped it on my knee to even its edges as I would a pack of cards, folded it, felt its thickness and heft.
“It’s nice,” I said. “What are you going to buy with it?”
“I’m going to buy the light of the world and bring it home,” Peter said.
“Where’s the light of the world?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Peter said, “we’ll have to go shopping.”
I smelled the money, then gave it back to Peter, and we watched the streets of New York whiz by our window.
Peter had small alternative to bringing me with him to the wake, for my mother would be away through the weekend, and there was no one to leave me with (I was ten) except an untrustworthy
neighbor. And though the poison thought of bastardy never stopped giving pain to Peter’s gizzard, he was also coming to the conclusion that he really might, after all, be my father; and what
sort of father would that be if he kept me apart from the blood kin I had never met, especially if he allowed me to miss out on the ultimate silencing of the whipsong?
And so he had packed my bag, and we rode in a taxi from the Village to Grand Central Station, my first taxi, and walked across the heavenly vaulted concourse of the station with its luminous
artificial sky that bathed me in awe and wonder. We rode the train north out of the city and along the banks of the great Hudson, monitored the grandness of its waters and natural wonders, and
emerged into another vast and dwarfing room, Albany’s Union Station, this entire experience creating in my mind a vision of the American way that
though Martin Daugherty insisted Peter had no worries, for clearly I had been made in the Phelan image. Without legal or moral ties, without faith in itself, this anomalous, double-named family
persisted, jealousy, wounded love, and fear of error (in Peter) being the bonding elements of a tie that would not break.
Kathryn Phelan died in her sleep, presumably of a stroke, this, her second shock, coming on opening-night-minus-two of Peter’s one-man show. For the next several days The Beautiful Belinda
would be prancing on the boards somewhere in Boston, and therefore it was decided that I should stay in New York rather than travel with my mother, artistic revelation being more valuable to my
young life than backstage privilege. But then arose Peter’s dilemma: since the one-man show and its opening could not be canceled on behalf of a corpse, so long-standing had its planning
been, would the artist, then, present himself among his works and bask in whatever glory accrues to such presence, or would he return to Colonie Street to bask in the cold exudation of a dead
mother?
Several months after his breach with Kathryn and Sarah in 1913, Peter had returned to the house for fortnightly overnight visits, and also contributed to the support of the family with pittances
that increased as his ability to sell paintings improved. The healing of the breach with the family had come so soon after the separation that Peter perceived that rancor was never the cause of the
break, but merely the ruse by which he had gained momentum to pursue his art; and in perceiving this he understood that, even in aspiration, art is a way of gaining some measure of control over
life.
And so, really, the dilemma’s solution was foregone; for kinship maintained the major share of control over Peter’s life, and his art, in the end, could only bear witness to this. He
would go home.
Because of the pre-sale of two of his paintings Peter left Manhattan with four hundred dollars in his pocket, the most money he had ever held in his hand. The dawning of this
realization spurred him to show the money to me when we settled into our seats on the Lake Shore Limited out of Grand Central Station.
“Four hundred dollars there, boy,” he said. “Feast your eyes. The sky’s the limit on this trip.”
I took the money into my own hand, counted it (fifties and twenties), tapped it on my knee to even its edges as I would a pack of cards, folded it, felt its thickness and heft.
“It’s nice,” I said. “What are you going to buy with it?”
“I’m going to buy the light of the world and bring it home,” Peter said.
“Where’s the light of the world?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Peter said, “we’ll have to go shopping.”
I smelled the money, then gave it back to Peter, and we watched the streets of New York whiz by our window.
Peter had small alternative to bringing me with him to the wake, for my mother would be away through the weekend, and there was no one to leave me with (I was ten) except an untrustworthy
neighbor. And though the poison thought of bastardy never stopped giving pain to Peter’s gizzard, he was also coming to the conclusion that he really might, after all, be my father; and what
sort of father would that be if he kept me apart from the blood kin I had never met, especially if he allowed me to miss out on the ultimate silencing of the whipsong?
And so he had packed my bag, and we rode in a taxi from the Village to Grand Central Station, my first taxi, and walked across the heavenly vaulted concourse of the station with its luminous
artificial sky that bathed me in awe and wonder. We rode the train north out of the city and along the banks of the great Hudson, monitored the grandness of its waters and natural wonders, and
emerged into another vast and dwarfing room, Albany’s Union Station, this entire experience creating in my mind a vision of the American way that
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