Sheila did not resemble a country squire’s wife now. Her hair was uncombed, she’d thrown on a dirty sweatshirt and manure-stained jeans, for, clearly, it little mattered in Monica’s house what she looked like; nor did it matter what sorts of wayward, bizarre, pointless things she said. No need for pretense, here. She spoke bitterly of enemies—detractors—hers and Morton’s—gallery owners who had cheated them—“friends” who were misleading Sheila even now—the world of art parasites—reviewers, critics, promoters, dealers, collectors, “art historians”—all parasites, yet highly regarded—richly rewarded—admired, pursued, sucked-up-to. God, how she detested them!—wished them all dead!

She finished one can of beer, opened another, tossed the ring-pull on Monica’s coffee table. Monica asked about Halleron—was he married, was he still working—but Sheila seemed scarcely to hear. She said: “But what am I speaking of except—mortality. Always and forever mortality. Nothing else engages me, nothing else terrifies me, but I can’t seem to translate it into work, my mind is racing, spinning, it’s going around in circles and I can’t get off, every syllable I utter is the sheerest self-pity and I’m not imagining it—my brushes are lousy. Fucking bloody lousy my very brushes, it’s no wonder I can’t work, have you ever heard anything more pathetic—?”

Of course the woman was funny, deftly funny, her facial mannerisms, her gesturings, her verbal timing—all very skillful indeed. But Monica refused to laugh. Monica stared at her, unsmiling, and said: “Sheila, please. Don’t. Don’t go on like that. If I can do anything to help, I will, but . . .”

Sheila regarded Monica with a look of affectionate contempt. Deliberately she sucked at her beer, wiped her mouth, rose to her feet with an air of precarious dignity. “‘But,’ says Mary Beth quietly, ‘But,’ says sweet little Mary Beth, meaning ‘Get out of my house,’ meaning ‘I can’t be the one to put you out of your misery, or to comfort you, you’ll have to hire a professional for that, my friend.’” She set down the beer can, snatched up her quilted jacket, prepared to leave. “I shouldn’t have come over. I’m simply presuming upon your good nature. Your too-good too-sweet blond nature. Good night!”

Monica followed Sheila into the kitchen, protesting. She didn’t want Sheila to leave, she said. Why didn’t Sheila stay for another drink, or for dinner . . . ? Why didn’t she tell Monica what was wrong . . . ?

“It’s the holiday season,” Sheila said cheerfully. “None of us is responsible for what she says or does. Or thinks.”

“But what is wrong, Sheila?” Monica asked. “Why can’t you work? Why are you so unhappy? You seem so changed—”