Even when Monica worked hard to entice her, however, Sheila sometimes couldn’t eat: she sat at the table, trying, her forehead damp with perspiration, trying trying to lift a fork or a spoon, her shoulders hunched inward, the cloth of her shirt pressed lightly against her breasts, showing only faintly the outline of her small breasts, the tiny hard nipples. Please eat, Monica begged, you must eat, Monica said severely, soup, omelettes, cheese and French bread, a lavish green salad filled with things Sheila loved, or had once loved, and eaten greedily. You must eat, Monica said, sitting across the table from her friend, watching—you’ll break my heart if you don’t eat! she said, making a joke of it. But Sheila simply couldn’t. Her stomach had closed, she said, her throat had closed, she felt no more attraction for food than she’d feel for chunks of paper or cardboard, nothing had any taste, she was frightened of becoming nauseated if she swallowed a few mouthfuls, please wouldn’t Monica understand?

“Yes,” Monica said, slowly, staring at Sheila, “—I understand. But my heart is broken just the same!”

So she joked about the situation, she teased and cajoled and went away hurt, furious, baffled, worried. (Should she call Sheila’s doctor in Philadelphia? Should she insist that Sheila make an appointment to see him?—as if Sheila could be talked into anything of the kind.)

One day Monica happened to find, amidst a pile of bills and receipts in one of Sheila’s drawers, an astounding document: a bill from Argus Investigative Services of Greater Manhattan, for $1,200, dated December of the previous year, and stamped PAID.

For some minutes Monica simply sat there, staring.

Argus Investigative Services . . .

December of the previous year . . .

Then she snatched up the receipt and ran over to the carriage house, ran up the stairs to Sheila’s studio, half-sobbing in her fury, muttering under her breath, How dare you, how dare you, bitch, liar, she slammed into the room where Sheila was squatting before one of her canvases, brush in hand, she thrust the slip of paper at Sheila, into Sheila’s dazed face, she began to scream, suddenly she was screaming, she was sobbing, “How dare you, how could you be so contemptible, so vulgar—this is so vulgar—” It was a measure of Sheila’s odd blank resigned state that she made no attempt to defend herself against Monica’s sudden frenzy: Monica slapped her, Monica even punched her on the shoulder, knocking her off balance: “Sheila, for Christ’s sake, how could you!—how could you!”

Though Sheila could not have known what was wrong, she crouched guiltily, protecting her face with her arms, hunched like a small frightened child.

“How could you—” Monica cried a final time.