A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,57

mouth, giving it a rather dumb appearance.

The third was by Connois, a market scene, a sketch that looked to be a finished drawing in its own right, which was curious, because Elm wasn’t aware that Connois ever finished his drawings. Two Connoises so close together—Indira’s pastel and now this sketch? How strange, their popping up like toadstools. But, then, coincidence was commonplace, and this was rather lovely.

Klinman’s web page said he dealt primarily in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century pieces, especially French, Italian, and Flemish artists, maintaining offices in London and Paris. Working in conjunction with museums, restorers, and master framers, he presented the art in its best possible condition.

Other Google entries quoted Klinman in articles about stolen Nazi art, specifically the faking of provenances. “Ruthless dealers and incompetent experts abound, sadly, in the art world. The temptation to verify that which is not verifiable is strong.” “Art stolen by the Nazis should be returned to the family of the original owner whenever possible. When not possible, the families should be compensated. Descendants of murderers should not be allowed to profit from their grandparents’ marauding.”

Another entry was a press release announcing the highest price ever paid for a Raphael sketch, $48 million, sold via Sotheby’s in London by a family who wanted to be known only through their representative: Augustus Klinman. The purchaser’s name was also kept anonymous.

The uneasy feeling that started the second she dialed the clinic hadn’t subsided all day. It remained through the rest of the afternoon, following her on the bus up First Avenue, to the grocery store, and home, where she was distracted.

Colin was involved in his own drama. “It won’t be inked for thirty days, the deal,” he said tersely in response to her automatic How was your day? “I don’t want to discuss it before then.”

“Fine,” Elm said. She slammed the door to the microwave. She was planning on telling him about her visit with Dr. Hong, but his hostility made her want to keep it to herself.

Moira must have sensed the tension. She refused to eat the spaghetti Elm made for her, and then, after Elm microwaved some chicken fingers, refused to eat the middles, or even touch the single stalk of broccoli alongside them.

“Just eat it,” Colin said with uncharacteristic harshness. Moira sat up as straight as if he’d thrown a glass of water in her face. She began to cry. Elm frowned at him. She picked Moira up and carried her to the bathroom for her bath. Moira began to cry louder, in a whining, overtired way that grated on Elm.

“Please, Moira,” she said. Then: “Don’t you dare kick me. You love baths.” She tried to strip her daughter, who had turned her body to stone in protest. Finally, she wrestled Moira into the bath still wearing underwear and a T-shirt.

“Mom! You forgot to take this off. Now it’s all wet,” she said with an accusatory and slightly teenage inflection. She removed her shirt in disgust.

Elm sat on the closed toilet while Moira splashed and sang. She both hoped the man from the institute would call her back and dreaded that call. She rubbed her eyes, worried again that she was going crazy. Crazy like those people with the dog. Would a sane person believe her son could be cloned? The dog’s name popped into her mind, Dishoo, and got stuck like song lyrics. She repeated it as a mantra: Dishoo, Dishoo, Dishoo, Dishoo.

“Mom?” Moira interrupted her reverie. “Can we get a cat?”

“No,” Elm said.

“You didn’t even say maybe, or we’ll see.”

“That’s because there’s not the slightest glimmer of hope that we’ll get a cat.”

“But why?” Moira whined. Elm wondered if Moira was entering one of those phases through which Elm wished she could fast-forward.

For a while, in a bathroom humor phase, Moira had finished every sentence with “in your butt.” As in, “Where’s your jacket?” “In your butt.” “How was school?” “In your butt.” Elm wasn’t sure if she should say something or just let Moira get over it. In the end she decided to ignore it and it wore off within the week.

It was terrible, she knew, to compare children, but Ronan hadn’t been this difficult. She recognized that she was looking back at the experience, and the past was always gossamer and preferable to an uncomfortable present. Maybe she’d been more involved then. She remembered looking at him in the bath and thinking, I created this. His smooth small arms pushed a rubber duck around, creating small swirls of