We strolled the mall and I watched Amy inspect rows of furniture, almost buying, then changing her mind, then retracing her steps to look again. She peered at displays of jewelry, clowned childishly with earrings and old hats and granny glasses and delicately woven shawls. Her laughter was like music.

And then she said, “Look, finally something for you.”

A large display of paintings and prints in eloquently refinished frames was hanging from a corner section of the walls.

“Find something for me,” urged Amy. “Something that would go well in the guest bedroom, but nothing that’ll clash with the one you’re going to paint for me—for free, of course.”

“Do I have to frame it also? That’s where the cost is.”

“No, I’ll do it,” she teased. “I’m sure there’ll be some scrap wood left from building the deck. For your work, that’ll suffice.”

She drifted away from me as I moved slowly along the wall, studying the display. The works were varied, from overly inspired copies of classic styles—da Vinci, Matisse, Rembrandt, van Gogh—to the dabblings of primitive art from the school of Grandma Moses. I found a watercolor of yellow and reddish wildflowers—evening primroses and bull thistles, I thought—from an artist named James Broadax that appealed to me. Its colors were vivid and happy, like children at play, and yet it was warmly contained against a backdrop of fields and woods.

I turned and called for Amy. She did not answer. I saw her standing at the opposite wall, staring up at a print. I crossed to her and looked at the print. It was of a young girl leaning against a walking cane, staring at viewers with a vacant, hurting expression. The print was from a limited edition of a painting by Jean Archer. The face of the girl was mesmerizing, but it was not Amy’s face.

“Amy?” I said quietly.

She turned to me and faked a smile.

“You know,” she said, “I think I will buy that walnut secretary we saw. Do you think we can get it in your car?”

CHAPTER

19
 

MANY SECRETS, EVEN THOSE THAT ARE SOMETIMES DARK AND fearful, are like gifts from benevolent gods. They feed the soul with memories that are too grand to forget, but too risky to share. Still, we share them, or they do not live.

Avrum Feldman had such a secret, and one afternoon in 1955, annoyed by the taunting of Harry Burger over Amelita Galli-Curci, he shared it with me, making me vow never to tell it to anyone.

I reminded him that I had never broken any of the many commitments of silence that he had imposed on me.

“This one, this one is important,” he urged. “For this, I could go to the jail.”

“Then maybe I don’t need to know,” I told him.