operation； but she had sick leave accumulated； and she took it。 Her pale pink skin had turned gradually to saffron； and then to golden maple。 The coccyx scar had changed from an angry red to gray and finally to slightly puckered grisaille。
Our romance had passed through similar shades and tints。 I met Berenice at the Four Arts Gallery； where I was covering a traveling Toulouse…Lautrec exhibit； and she refused to go back to Duluth。 That would have been all right with me （I could not； in all honesty； encourage anyone to return to Duluth）； but I had made the mistake of letting her move in with me； a foolish decision that had seemed like a great idea at the time。 She was a large…strapping is a better word…country girl with a ripe figure； cornflowerblue eyes； and a tangle of wheat…colored hair flowing down her back。 Except for the thumb…tack scar on her coccyx； which was hardly noticeable； her sun…warmed sweet…smelling hide was flawless。 Her blue eyes looked velvety； thanks to her contact lenses。 But she wasn't really good natured； as I had thought at first； she was merely lazy。 My efficiency apartment was too damned small for one person； let alone two； and she loomed in all directions。 Seeing her dressed for the street or a party； no one would believe that Berenice was such a mess to live with…clothes strewn over every chair； wet bath towels； bikinis on the floor； the bathroom reeking of bath salts； powder； perfume； and unguents； a tangy mixture of smells so overpowering I had to hold my nose when I shaved。 The state of the pullman kitchen was Worse。 She never washed cup； dish； pot； or pan； and once I caught her pouring bacon grease into the sink。
I could live with messiness。 The major problem in having Berenice around all the time was that I had to do my writing in the apartment。
It had taken all of my persuasive abilities to talk Tom Russell into letting me cover the Gold Coast for the season。 （The official 〃season〃 in Palm Beach begins on New Year's Eve with a dull dinner…dance at the Everglades Club； and it ends fuzzily on April 15。） When Tom agreed； finally； he refused to add expenses to my salary。 I had to survive in Palm Beach on my monthly stipend； and pay my air fare down out of my small savings （the remainder of my savings bought me a 250 car）。 By subletting my rent…controlled Village pad for almost twice as much as I was paying for it myself； I could get by。 Barely。
I worked twice as hard； writing much better copy than I had in New York； to prove to Tom Russell that the Gold Coast was an incipient American art center that had been neglected far too long by serious art journals。 Such was not truly the case； as yet； but there were scattered signs of progress。 Most of the native painters of Florida were stifi dabbing out impressionistic palms and seascapes； but enough reputable painters from New York and Europe had discovered Florida for themselves； and the latter were exhibiting in galleries from Jupiter Beach to Miami。 Enough painters； then； were exhibiting during the season to fifi my Notes column on new shows； and at least one major artist exhibited long enough for me to honor him with one of my fulllength treatments。 There is money in Florida during the season； and artists wifi show anywhere there is enough money to purchase their work。
With Berenice around the tiny apartment all the time； I couldn't write。 She would pad about barefooted； as quiet and as stealthy as a 140…pound mouse…until I plained。 She would then sit quietly； placidly； not reading； not doing anything； except to stare lovingly at my back as I sat at my Hermes。 I couldn't stand it。
〃What are you thinking about； Berenice？〃
〃Nothing。〃
〃Yes； you are； you're thinking about me。〃
〃No； I'm not。 Go ahead and write。 I'm not bothering you。〃
But she did bother me； and I couldn't write。 I couldn't hear her breathing； she was so quiet； but I would catch myself listening to see if I could hear her。 It took some mental preparation （I am； basically； a kind sonofabitch）； but I finally； in a nice way； asked Berenice to leave。 She wouldn't go。 Later I asked her to leave in a harsh and nasty way。 She wouldn't fight with me； but she wouldn't leave。 On these occasions she wouldn't even talk back。 She merely looked at me； earnestly； with her welkin eyes wide open…the lenses sliding around…tears torrenting； suppressing； or making an effort to hold back； big； blubbery； gasping sobs… she was destroying me。 I would leave the apartment； forever； and e back a few hours later for a reconciliation replay and a wild hour in the sack。
But I wasn't getting my work done。 Work is important to a man。 Not even a Helen of Troy can pete with a Hermes。 No matter how wonderful she is； a woman is only a woman； whereas 2；500 words is an article。 In desperation I issued Berenice an ultimatum。 I told her that I was leaving for Miami； and that when I came back twenty…four hours later I wanted her the hell out of my apartment and out of my life。
And now I was returning seventy…two hours later； having added two extra days as insurance。 I expected her to be in the apartment。 I wanted her to be there and； paradoxically； I wanted her to be gone forever。
I parked in the street； put the canvas top up on the Chevy…a seven…year…old convertible…and started across the flagged patio to the stuccoed outside staircase。 Halfway up the stairs I could hear the phone ringing in my apartment on the second floor。 I stopped and waited while it rang three more times。 Berenice would be incapable of letting a phone ring four times without answering it； and I knew that she was gone。 Before I got the door unlocked the ringing stopped。
Berenice was gone and 'the apartment was clean。 It wasn't spotless； of course； but she had made a noble effort to put things in order。 The dishes had been washed and put away and the linoleum floor had been mopped in a halfassed way。
There was a sealed envelope； with 〃James〃 scribbled on the outside； propped against my typewriter on the card table by the window。
Dearest dearest James…
You are a bastard but I think you know that。 I still love
you but I will forget you…I hope I never forget the good
things。 I'm going back to Duluth…don't follow me there。
B。
If she didn't want me to follow her； why tell me where she was going？
There were three crumpled pieces of paper in the wastebasket。 Rough drafts for the final note。 I considered reading them； but changed my mind。 I would let the final version stand。 I crumpled the note and the envelope and added them to the wastebasket。
I felt a profound sense of loss； together with an unreasonable surge of anger。 I could still smell Berenice in the apartment； and knew that her feminine pound of musk； sweat； perfume； pungent powder； lavender soap； bacon breath； Nose…cote； padded sachet coat hangers； vinegar； and everything else nice about her would linger on in the apartment forever。 I felt sorry for myself and sorry for Berenice and； at the same time； a kind of bubbling elation that I was rid of her； even though I knew that I was going to miss her like crazy during the next few terrible weeks。
There was plenty of time before the preview at Gloria's Gallery。 I removed my sport shirt； kicked off my loafers； and sat at the card table； which served as my desk； to go over my Miami notes。 My three days in Dade County hadn't been wasted。
I had stayed with Larry Levine； in Coconut Grove。 Larry was a printmaker I had known in New York； and his wife Paula was a superb cook。 I would reimburse Larry with a brief ment about his new animal prints in my Notes columm。
I had enough notes for a 2；500…word article on a 〃Southern Gothic〃 environmental exhibit I had attended in North Miami； and an item on Harry Truman's glasses was a good lead…off piece for my back…of…the…book columm。 Larry had steered me to the latter。
A mechanic in South Miami； a Truman lover； had written to Lincoln Borglum； who had finished the monumental heads on Mount Rushmore after his father's death； and had asked the sculptor when he was going to add Harry Truman's head to the others。 Lincoln Borgium； who apparently had a better sense of humor than his late father； Gutzon； claimed； in a facetious reply； that he was unable to do so because it was too difficult to duplicate Harry Truman's glasses。 The mechanic； a man named Jack Wade； took Borgium at his word； and made the glasses himself。
They were enormous spectacles； more than twenty…five feet across； steel frames covered with thickly enameled ormolu。 The lenses were fashioned from twindex windows； the kind with a vacuum to separate the two panes of glass。
〃The vacuum inside will help keep the lenses from fogging up on cold days；〃 Wade explained。
I had taken three black…and…white Polaroid snapshots of Wade and the glasses； and one of the photos was sharp enough to illustrate the item in my column。 The spectacles were a superior job of craftsmanship； and I had suggested to Mr。 Wade that he might sell them to an optician for advertising purposes。 The suggestion made him angry。
〃No； by God；〃 he said adamantly。 〃These glasses were made for Mr。 Truman； when his bust is finished on Mount Rushmore！〃
Th