“Picasso called her Femme.”

“How’d you—” Glenna smiled sheepishly. “Let me guess. You read it in a book?”

“A book.”

“You can see Femme from the bed when you’re writing. She’ll keep you company till I get home from the hospital. And there’s a surprise for you. On the back.”

I took down the drawing and read the inscription written on the cardboard backing in Glenna’s neat, efficient hand:

G: Never fear. 10 yrs from now, when you’re looking at this picture, I’m going to be looking at it with you.

I love you,

G.

Replacing the picture, I said, “Thank you. This is great.”

Then I hugged Glenna, and we stood in each other’s arms, with Femme standing by on the wall.

Chapter 19

ON THE SUNDAY my Madame Restell story appeared, Glenna and I got up early and zipped over to a candy store on Johnson Avenue, where I bought ten copies of the Long Island Press. My story had made the cover of the magazine, with a byline right above a four-color artist’s rendering of Madame Restell dead in her ornate marble tub, one fleshy arm hanging over the side.

Glenna and I ordered coffee and cinnamon Danish and sat at the counter. I was still admiring my byline on the cover when Glenna finished reading the story.

“This is terrific, Gordo. It’s fascinating.”

Glenna had a half smile on her face, and her gaze was so warm it felt as if I were sitting under a sunlamp.

She said, “I know there are people who can write well.”

“Because they have libraries and such.”

Her smile widened. “Because my boyfriend can. And I love it—that you write so well, and your story’s on the cover. Want to go home and celebrate?”

What I felt like doing was driving to Brooklyn, slapping the magazine down in front of my father, and saying, Read this. And dig it—they paid me two hundred and fifty bucks.

It was a tempting fantasy—tempting enough that it was a good thing my folks had gone to Montreal for a long weekend with Aunt Lil and Uncle Jerr.

“Breakfast’s on me,” Glenna said, and asked the kid behind the counter how much we owed. He told her, and she began digging into the front and back pockets of her Levi’s. She dug through all of her pockets twice and came up with a dime and two pennies.

“Wrong jeans?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“Wrong jeans. This guy I live with took the right jeans off me last night and tossed them behind a rubber tree.”

“Sounds like a smart guy.” I put a five on the counter.

“Oh, yes,” Glenna said, taking my arm. “He is.”

AT HOME, our celebration lasted until late morning. When we went downstairs, talking about where to go for lunch, Biff and Robin were in the living room.

“We certainly can do it,” Biff was saying.

“Do what?” Glenna said, as we sat on the couch.