if he planned to look for a college with “a cosmopolitan feel.” The assessment of those two hit him harder than the judgment of the peers who simply called him a faggot, who stuck Kotex to his locker. Because that happened to other kids too. Anyone could have their underwear thrown into the pool, anyone might have to use, night after night, a chemistry textbook that had once been drenched in piss. But only real fags got looked at with pity by adults. And so although Roman was hardly a teenager—he was only a few years younger than Yale, really—Yale dropped the subject.
“Our biggest priority,” he said when they stopped for gas in Fish Creek, “besides any connection to full paintings, is dates. Can we help her figure out the year, at least, for the undated works. I know what she wants is to tell us stories, but Bill’s gonna be peeved if we come back without a timeline.” Plenty of the pieces were signed, but few were dated. The Modiglianis, frustratingly, were not.
“I do have to be back by Friday,” Roman said.
But it was only Monday, and although Yale wanted to stay in Wisconsin forever, away from Chicago, away from Charlie, he said, “I only think it’ll take two days. Big weekend plans?”
“She’s really dying?” Roman squeegeed the windshield while Yale worked the pump. Roman wore a black coat and black jeans—Yale had never seen him in anything but black—and out of the context of the city, he looked odd, depressed.
“Congestive heart failure is apparently a waiting game. We have to assume each visit could be our last. So, big picture first. Colorful details later.”
Back in the car, Roman said, “I want to know how you made her trust you that fast.”
Yale considered feigning ignorance, but instead he said, “I think I remind her of her grandnephew. We were good friends. He died in October.”
“Oh.”
“He had AIDS.”
Roman looked out his own window. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
They had dinner in Egg Harbor and checked in at the bed and breakfast. Nora had told them the morning was her “best time,” and so—without the influence of Bill Lindsey and his endless bottles of wine—they settled in early. Through his bathroom wall, Yale could hear Roman brushing his teeth, spitting out water. The sinks must have backed right up to each other. He could say “good night” right through the wall, but why make things strange?
They found Nora sitting in front of a meager fire. She was holding a plastic spray bottle, no wheelchair in sight. “Let’s get you some coffee,” she said, which sent Debra clomping to the kitchen like an underpaid waitress.
“Roman,” Nora said, pronouncing it “Ro-mahn,” as if he were Spanish, “would you be a dear and help with this?” She meant the spray bottle. “Debra doesn’t think it will help. It’s peppermint water, for the mice.” Yale and Roman both scanned the room. Yale didn’t see any rodents. “It keeps them away. Could you spray along the floorboards? The windowsills too.”
“I—sure,” Roman said, and left his notebook and pen on the couch next to Yale.
Yale had wanted to ease into things slowly, logically; he’d thought of several ways to frame the conversation, none of which had to do with mint-bombing rodents. He searched his folder for the list of the works, but Nora was already talking.
“I’ve been in quite a state,” she said, and then stopped and looked at Yale as if he should know exactly why. “Those papers we signed. I should have asked Stanley to explain more.”
“Oh! Is there—”
“Everything we said, about making sure the work was all displayed equally, it wasn’t in there.”
Roman stood by the fireplace twisting the nozzle of the spray bottle, trying to get the mist right. Yale could hear, in the kitchen, the coffee percolating, Debra banging around.
“Right. Right. That’s okay. Occasionally someone might do a tailored gift agreement, something with specifics, but they’re a lot of trouble. I can assure you I haven’t forgotten your wishes.”
“Listen,” she said, “I’m no fool. I know Ranko’s work isn’t something you’d normally feature. But it’s not bad.”
“I love the two paintings!” Roman said. He was spraying beside the record shelf. “The perspective is way off, right? Sort of tentative and haphazard at the same time. But in a good way, like he was on the verge of figuring something out.” Roman had never said this before, and Yale wondered if he was lying or if he’d just kept quiet about it around