The Clam Box on the dock, that lidded, sunken, mossy place, hurried, humid, steaming tubs of shellfish, small orange light; it was here they all sat—two, three nights ago.“Don’t,” Isabel had advised Ned behind their menus.“Don’t what?”“Oh, to hell with it. Do what you want.”He had shown off. Good schoolboy, having done his homework and up to date on Clive’s opinions, full of praise for de Kooning: “firsthand, deep and clear.” He, Ned, wanted to be intense like de Kooning’s colors and intense, intensely himself. Homer, Marin? The muddy sea? And why not? No doubt, he was a bore. “I really can’t remember a fucking thing,” he said.Oh, God! Turning from these considerations, he makes his way across a room of shirtfronts and bare arms. He is looking for Isabel, who has disappeared. Light fizzes. Someone taps his shoulder and he turns and sees the only crone in the room with skin as luminous as coal, dry patches, and above her upper lip, small hairs.This old woman with the mustache keeps turning up.“I’m spooked,”
