He had kind eyes and callused hands, the kind of straightforward man country boys grew into. I didn’t think he’d ever been farther from his hometown than Amsterdam. He had no flowery talk, no gentlemanly compliments. What few words he did say were usually about his work. He had a coarseness to him, like rough-cut wood, his planes not sanded to a smooth finish.

He paused at the door of the back room to peer inside. “Just the five? I could f…frame all you need. You can pay me later, as sales come in.”

“Thank you, but five will be enough for now.” I would not live on the village carpenter’s charity.

I planned on sending the paintings to Goupil in Paris, if they refused the last batch I had mailed them.

“Mamaaaa!” Wil cried again, another spoonful of mash in his eyes, and up his nose too this time.

“What have you done, you silly boy?” I hefted him from the chair and over to the sink, splashing water into his face. He squirmed like an eel caught in a trap.

“Oh, you’re big. All right, all finished.” I plopped him back into his chair.

By the time I turned around, Janus had disappeared into the back room. Wil moved on to the pumpernickel roll with great relish. I poured milk into his bowl so he could dip the bread, which he did. He only had six teeth.

“Mama too.” He held out the soggy roll.

He said that every time he had food. Mama too.

“Thank you, my darling, but right now, I am full.”

I picked up my knife and the last potato, nearly stabbing myself when the widow Ballot burst through the door. “Would you look at these sweet babies?”

“Two, Mevrouw Ballot?”

She held the brown tabbies toward me, her cap askew, a lock of her gray hair trailing to her shoulder. “They are brothers. The last of the litter. I could not separate them.”

Two wriggling kittens were more than Wil could bear. He dropped his half-chewed roll into his bowl and was off his chair and running forward, arms outstretched. “Mauw! Mauw!”

To the woman’s credit, the sticky fingers didn’t intimidate her. “Wipe your hands on my apron, Wil.” She helped. “The child is welcome to totter over to see the kitties settled in. I will be happy to keep an eye on him.”

“I would be grateful.” I splashed the last potato into my white-blue enamel bowl.

As the widow was about to turn out, she caught sight of the envelope on the shelf by the door. Her eyes rounded, like a hen spotting a golden kernel of corn. “And who is the letter for? Who is this gentleman by the name of Émile Bernard?” She peered at me. “I see the address is Paris. An artist?”

“A friend.” I washed the potatoes.