“That’s too generous,” I told Sammy. “I’d love to have it, but why don’t you let me buy it? You’re an artist. You need to sell what you create.”

Sammy was grinning like a child. “Bullshit. The next one, I’ll sell. This one’s for you, Bobo. After all the encouragement you’ve given me, it’s the least I can do.”

“Why don’t we swap?” I suggested. “I’ll send you a painting.”

Sammy studied me suspiciously. A twitch fluttered over his left eye. His grin spread. He said quietly, “Jesus, Bobo, I’d like that, but I’m not in your league. It’d be unfair.”

“No, believe me,” I said. “I’ve thought about this before, having one of my paintings here. I want to do it.” I remembered a landscape that I had had for years. Carolyn had advised me to paint over it. “It’s dull,” she had judged. “You’re better than that.” But I had liked the painting and had stored it. I knew that Sammy would hang it and tell enthusiastic lies about artists—real artists—sharing their art.

We walked leisurely and Sammy jabbered about his envy of my medium. He had tried oils and watercolors in the city, in art classes, he confessed, but he could never make his fingers do what his eyes were seeing, and that is why he turned to sculpture. He told me that the first time he chipped at a piece of sandstone with his hammer and chisel, he felt empowered, like a god making life.

“But if I could do what you do, Bobo, I’d throw the goddamn hammer in the creek,” he vowed. “I mean it. I was looking at some paintings in Woodstock not long ago, and I—”

I interrupted. “Sammy, have you ever heard of Jean Archer?”

He stopped walking. “Heard of her? Bobo, I met her.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Woodstock. Two or three months ago. I was over there to talk about my exhibit, and I saw a crowd of people hanging around this woman. I asked somebody who she was, and they told me. Well, hell, I’d heard of Jean Archer for years, so I pushed my way through the crowd to get to her and I introduced myself. Tell you the truth, Bobo, I think she was relieved. Goddamn punk kids, with their silly-ass dyed hair and earrings dangling out of their noses. Who the hell wants to be around those assholes?”

I asked him to tell me about her.