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Her body lay beneath her dining room table for over three weeks. I remember the day well i met her Ms. Marie Doherty. We were at church. It was coffee hour there in that day in that summer back in the late 90's. She was British and a former Military nurse for the British Navy. She carried a camera, and Tom Fleurnoy also had a camera wrapped around his neck that day. He was a chum from the Salmagundi club. And my friend Janet, the grand old dowager of Gramercy Park, said, "would you just look at her over there with that camera, she's peculiar?" We walked over to her in Anderson hall, our coffee and cookies neatly in hand and Janet introduced herself. We were looking for a third, someone to come with us to our never-ending Sunday brunches where the cocktails would go on hours after the last egg dish was served. We hadn't much luck with Lettie. She was strictly the "one drink" type. But ah, a Brit, well you could always count on a Brit. If nothing else, they knew how to drink.
I remember well the day I met Marie. After talking to her for some time, I being in my twenties, and her, I was guessing about fifty, she told me of her budhism faith intermingled with Episcopalianism. She said that I was at that sixth rung, or something like that and what I could only mean meant self-actualized. And so Janet and I took her under our wing and for years we would play that Sunday Brunch game wherein we would try, each sunday after mass to locate a new venue in which to have our lunch. The game went like this, we'd have to find a place that was under 20.00 and included a free drink, and Janet was always a fan of the word "unlimited." We'd found the Slaughtered Lamb gave a nice brunk with unlimited pitchers of bloody marys, and Park Avalon on Park Avenue South had some lovely strawberry butter and fresh rolls and jazz - oh how she loved that jazz.
Over time Marie would display other knowledge. She'd run a business as a Case Manager specialist for the aged. She'd often duck behind menues in certain restaurants, like The Gramercy Tavern, or 21 and tell me that she didn't want to be seen or photographed. She instructed me on how to set up a small business and helped me with the never ending Art Salons I was throwing to display many of the contemporary artists which I represented.
But in all the years I knew her, I'd never been upstairs into her Park Avenue apartment. She remained a mystery.
The years past. I gave up dealing my artwork or hosting the salons and traveled the globe for awhile.
Upon my return I'd heard that Marie was ill. I called her. Spoke to her. Sent her flowers. I called over to the church and begged some of the clergy to pay her a visit, but my voice fell on deaf ears.
On my last telephone conversation to Marie, I suggested she check into a hospital. She said, "And what for? What can they do for me? I am doing pain management and I am getting better. Don't worry about me, worry about yourself."
And then for some time I couldn't get ahold of her.
Her phone had been disconnected.
Janet made her way over from The National Arts Club (where Janet lived), but couldn't get any response after ringing the door bell and climbing the staircase to Marie's apartment.
We thought she was avoiding us.
Eventually I called a neighbor of Marie's who informed me that an eviction notice had been placed on Marie's door.
And then I called the state.
I finally found a case worker. They explained to me that there was no information in Marie's apartment to connect her to anyone or anything. If they'd found even one scrap of paper they would've contacted the church, or me, or Janet.
But there was nothing. She'd been dead under her dining room table for weeks.
The state had her cremated and buried in potter's field.
I explained how I knew Marie Doherty and how she had a house in Florida and a car and money. But they said that because there was no evidence of anything she became a problem for the state to take care of.
A problem she was.
I spoke to certain members of the church. Alice Jones, of the Jones everybody was trying to keep up with (her family is very old) suggested that we might have her ashes moved into a sachistry box in the church on Park Avenue.
I spoke to the state officials. They told me that it would have to be a "next of kin" person.
I researched Marie thoroughly. According to all known records, she never existed.
She must have been running from something or someone.
I'll never know who she was. All I have are my memories.
It seems that we have to at times accept people for what they let us have, or what they give us. And in the end, she had what she set herself up for, and empty death under the table in her dining room with no connection to anyone or anything.
And her true identity will lie forever a dark secret in this dark world.
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