I chose one painting for Howard.

When he came home that evening I told him, as he came into our room and kissed me hello, that I had chosen a painting for his office, I was so pleased! He was pleased that I was pleased. As I said before, Howard didn’t care what was on the walls of his office, he wouldn’t have cared about such a thing. I understood Howard too.

And then I added, it’s a surprise though. I’ll have it framed and I’ll bring it in a couple of weeks. Oh, I’m really happy about it, I remember saying, again. We went to the children, and in to dinner.

The next afternoon I took the canvas and drove with it to my framer. He was farther away, farther than my usual weekday route to ballet and Eric. André had been making frames for artists for a long time, Eric had suggested him originally, and he’d never led me wrong with a frame. Sometimes I doubted myself with frames, I felt they weren’t part of my canvas and they were hard to match, to find a frame that didn’t intrude on my own work. But André was good.

We stood together, André brought out frame after frame. I like the painting, he said. André didn’t like everything I brought him, so this meant a lot. He was right in the end about the frame I think, because we disagreed over one or two, but then I saw he must be right.

I wish I could remember now what frame we chose, I have such a vivid memory of the painting, but no memory of the frame. And where that painting is now, I don’t know. Perhaps Stephen took it, because it came to New York with us. Yes, perhaps Stephen took it for his first apartment, I have an idea Howard told him it had come from his office, please, take it, Howard would have said.

A WEEK LATER I picked up the framed painting and drove it to Howard’s office. There was quite a scene with it then, because I was so particular about where it should hang. Candace had come from the reception into Howard’s office, his own office, and was admiring the painting and giving suggestions about which wall, what height. I became very tense, the chatter between Howard and Candace so annoying, and I, anxious to have my way with the placement. I became even more anxious because I didn’t want to be rude to Candace and soon I was almost in tears. Ah, Candace, call Frans from downstairs, will you, Howard said, ask him to come up with hammer and nails. I knew at once that Howard had understood how I felt, how close I was to tears. And Candace went to get Frans.

Frans, the Black man, came up with his toolbox, a battered box that rattled as he walked. André had connected the picture wire, but the nails? For a moment I thought of André, and wished I’d brought him. I was sure the Black man would do it all wrong, I had to rummage with him through his box, through the nails, nails and nails of all sizes, to find the right one, and then direct him, so carefully, to a pencil mark I’d made on the wall. And he hammered the nail in: gently, I said. Candace and Howard were silent, they were watching, now and then Candace would say, just to the left a touch, a tiny bit lower, Mrs. Kline. I remember so clearly Candace’s blue skirt and white blouse, she was a slim girl, so young. It was embarrassing.