And the problems, the vexations, were so close at hand: Sheila’s cleaning woman was incompetent, or lazy, or deliberately dishonest; the boy who groomed Parsifal did a poor job of it, so that—as Monica learned to her amazement—Sheila herself had fallen into the habit of doing most of the work, without wishing, or daring, to say anything to the boy; the man who cleaned her septic tank (Roman Valentino was his unlikely name) had charged her $450, approximately three times too much. (Monica learned this by simply making a few telephone calls.) The Edgarsville roofing company had quoted so absurdly high an estimate, for repairs on the roof of the house, Sheila hadn’t wanted to have the work done; nor had she gotten around to calling in other companies, for other estimates. It maddened her, she said, to be cheated; yet she felt resigned, listless. Morton was always being cheated and so it was quite natural that she was being cheated but what could she do about it. . . .

Sheila’s fatalism in these matters angered Monica; the women fell to quarreling. “It’s all so petty, so soul-numbing petty,” Sheila said, “—let the sons of bitches cheat me if they want to,” and Monica said, exasperated, “Don’t be ridiculous, that’s just what they are counting on, don’t be stupid.” So Monica examined the bills, the receipts, the letters, Monica examined Sheila’s checking accounts (she seemed to have three), Monica made telephone calls, spoke briskly and assertively as she would never have spoken merely on her own behalf. (For who was Monica Jensen set beside “Sheila Trask”?) She derived a genuine pleasure from redressing outrageous wrongs, informing local tradesmen that their bills were exorbitant and would they please submit legitimate bills; otherwise, they may as well strike the account from their books.

There was the matter, more crucially, of Sheila’s impending show. (Postponed now until May 17, the last possible date for the season.) Calls came daily from Sheila’s gallery, from both the owner and the manager, was Sheila going to be ready on time? was Sheila all right? why wouldn’t Sheila come to the phone? Numberless arrangements had to be made: invitations mailed, the brochure’s galleys proofread by the artist, prices for the paintings settled, last-minute contacts made with the media. A champagne opening, of course, but Sheila must be there. (“I promise that she’ll be there,” Monica said, with more certainty than she felt.)