Before Monica visited Sheila’s studio for the first time, in early October, she felt a clutch of apprehension. She was worried that she might be forced to lie about Sheila’s work—and she knew herself to be, as her husband had called her, an “insultingly unconvincing” liar. But the paintings were most unusual, most striking. There were nine of them, six large triptychs and three smaller canvases, in a style she would have characterized as Abstract, though she knew very little about contemporary art theory. The prejudices she had had before meeting Sheila Trask—the smug little bigotries and affectations—had long since dissolved; she was ashamed to have imagined she knew anything at all. (“But surely you know what you like?” Sheila said, winking, “—or what you suspect you should like?”)

Sheila was in the midst of completing the series for a show in late February. She had more than enough time, she said—she wouldn’t be caught up in the usual frenzy and anxiety of the final weeks—she wouldn’t make the same tactical error she had made the last time. (“What do you mean by the ‘last time’? What happened?” Monica asked. “Nothing I want to talk about,” Sheila said curtly.) The sequence of paintings had been started years ago, before Morton’s death, and afterward she had put the canvases away to work on other things, less ambitious things, simply to keep her mind occupied and her nervous energy flowing so that it wouldn’t back up on her. (“If I don’t work I get sick, and when I’m sick I can’t work—I’ve never known which comes first,” Sheila said.)

Sunshine fell so blindingly through the skylight that Monica had to shield her eyes. She studied the canvases, aware of Sheila’s close presence, Sheila’s scent, the bright black slightly derisive eyes, the cigarette slanted in the lips, the posture of self-mockery, self-consciousness, apprehension. Monica looked from one canvas to another to another. She felt an instant’s sensation of alarm—vertigo. Were the paintings as remarkable as she thought?—as beautiful?—or was her eye simply befuddled by the privilege of the occasion?—Sheila Trask’s affection for her, Sheila Trask’s intense and unwavering interest in her.

Sheila said: “If you’re trying to ‘like’ it, Monica—if you’re trying to think of some appropriate adjectives—please don’t: I didn’t bring you up here for that.”