〃Yes； of course。〃
〃Good！ Good！ Hold it for a few days before sending it down。 I want to get Mr。 Debierue settled in a good nursing home； you see…he doesn't know that you have the painting； does he？〃
〃No； and it'll be better if he doesn't。 I've mentioned it in my article； although I won't run a photograph of it。 Before sending it to Palm Beach I intend to take some good color plates of The Burnt Orange Heresy for eventual publication； if you get what I mean 。 。 。〃
〃Naturally…is that the title； The Burnt Orange Heresy？ That's great！〃
〃Yeah。 It'll probably have an additional title； too。 Self…portrait。〃
〃Jesus…James； I can hardly wait to see it！〃
〃Just let me know when； Mr。 Cassidy； and I'll send it down to you air express。〃
〃Don't worry； I'll call you。 And listen； James； I'm not going to forget this。 When the time es to exhibit it； you've got an exclusive to cover the opening。〃
〃Thanks。〃
〃My problem right now is to persuade Debierue to enter a rest home。 He's much too old to take care of himself。 If he had been asleep when the fire started； he would've been killed you know。 And when I think of those paintings that went up in smoke…Jesus！〃
〃Did he tell you anything about them？〃
〃Not a word。 You know how he is。 And nothing seems to faze him。 He spends most of his time just sitting around watching old movies on TV and drinking orange juice。 He can do that in a rest home。 Well； you'll hear from me。 This is a long distance call； you know。〃
〃Sure。 Later。〃
He didn't call me again； however。 He sent me a special delivery letter after he had settled Debierue in the Regal Pines Nursing Home； near Melbourne； Florida。 I sent Cassidy the painting； air express collect； although I had to pay the insurance fee； in advance； before they would agree to send it collect。
The critical reaction to my article； when it appeared in Fine Arts： The Americas； followed the pattern I had anticipated。 Canaday； in the Times； had reservations。 Perreault； in The Village Voice； was enthusiastic； and there was a short two…paragraph item in The L。A。 Free Press remending the article to would…be revolutionary painters in Southern California。 This was more newspaper coverage than I expected。
My real concern was with the concentric ripples in the art journals and critical quarterlies。 This reaction was slow in ing； because a lot of thought had to be put into them。 The best single article； which set off a long string of letters in the correspondence department； appeared in Spectre； and was written by Pierre Montrand。 A French chauvinist； he saw Debierue's 〃American Harvest〃 period as a socialistic rejection of DeGaullism。 This was an absurd idea； but beautifully expressed； and controversial as hell。
With my photograph of Debierue； many newspapers printed sketchy accounts of Debierue's mysterious immigration to the United States； but I kept my promise to Cassidy and the old man。 I never divulged Debierue's Florida address after Cassidy had him admitted under a false name to the Regal Pines Nursing Home； and Cassidy had covered his tracks so well the reporters never found him。 I mailed Debierue the tearsheets of my article； a dozen 8〃 x 10〃 photographs of the burning newspaper shot； and an autographed copy of my book； Art and the Preschool Child。 He didn't acknowledge the package； but I knew that he received it because I had mailed it Return Receipt Requested。
For the first week after my return to New York I bought a daily copy of the Atlanta Journal…Constitution （it 〃covers Dixie like the dew〃）； and searched through the pages to see if there was any mention of a body being found near Valdosta。 But I disliked the newspaper； and searching for such news every day was making me morbid。 I quit buying the paper。 If they found her； they found her； and there was nothing I could do about it。 Inevitably； though； a reaction appeared in my psyche； caused； naturally enough； by the death of Berenice。 It wasn't that my conscience bothered me； although that was a part of my reaction。 It was a second…thought overlap of self…doubt； a feeling of ambivalence that vitiated my value judgments of the new work I witnessed。 I overcame this feeling； or overreaction； by partmentalizing Debierue in a corner of my mind。 I was able to rid myself of my ambivalence by setting Debierue apart from other artists as a 〃one…of…a…kind〃 painter； and by not considering him in connection with the mainstream of contemporary art。 It didn't take too many weeks before I adjusted to this mental suggestion。 I was able to function normally again on my regular critical assignments。
My reputation as a critic didn't soar； but my workload doubled and； with it； my ine。 Tom Russell gave me a fifty…dollar raise； which brought me up to four fifty a month at the magazine。 My lecture fee was raised； and I gave more lectures； including a lecture at Columbia on 〃New Trends in Contemporary Art〃 to the art majors…and the Fine Arts Department paid me a six…hundred…dollar lecture fee。 To lecture in my old school； where I had once been a povertystricken graduate student； was perhaps the high point of the entire year。
My agent unloaded some older； unsold articles I had written months before…two of them to art magazines which had earlier rejected them。
I had always done a certain amount of jury work； judging art shows for 〃expenses only；〃 and more often without any pensation at all。 I now began to receive some decent cash offers to judge and hang important exhibits at major museums。 On a jury show I served on at Hartford； there was a Herb Westcott painting entered in the show。 Westcott had changed his style to Romantic Realism； and his fine； almost delicate draftsmanship was well suited to the new style。 The Hartford show had an antipollution theme； and Westcott had painted an enormous blowup of a 1925 postcard view of Niagara Falls。 The painting wasn't in the First Prize category； but I was able to persuade the other jury members （the museum director and Maury Katz； a hardedge painter） to tag Westcott's painting with an honorable mention and a thousand…dollar purchase prize。 I had treated Westcott rather shabbily in Palm Beach； running out on him and his show at Gloria's Gallery； and it pleased me to give him a leg up…which he well deserved in any case。
Now included in my books to review were books that the managing editor used to reserve for himself…beautiful； expensive； handsomely ifiustrated； coffee…table art books… that retailed for twenty…five； thirty…five； and even fifty dollars。 After being reviewed； these expensive books can be sold at half of their wholesale price to bookdealers。 This pocketed cash is found money I。R。S。 investigators cannot discover easily。
I no longer slept well。 I didn't sleep well at all。
I knew that Debierue had read my article； and although I had made an educated guess that he would say nothing； I could not be positive that he would continue to say nothing。 I had dared to assume that four important European art critics had also invented imaginary paintings by Debierue to write about。 But they couldn't denounce me。 Only Debierue could do that and； thanks to the fire I had set； he couldn't actually prove anything。
Nevertheless； late at night； I often awoke from a fitful sleep； covered with perspiration。 Sitting in the dark on the edge of my bed； trying to keep my mind as blank as possible； I would light one cigarette after another； afraid to go back to sleep。 In time； I would tell myself； all in good time； my nightmares would run their course and stop。
A year later； almost to the day that I returned to New York； Debierue died in Florida。 Mr。 Cassidy wired me； inviting me to the funeral； but I was tied up with other work and couldn't get away on such short notice。 Bodies； in Florida； must be buried within twenty…four hours； according to the state law。 I wrote the obituary…a black…bordered one…page tribute…for the magazine； of course； inasmuch as I was the authority on Debierue； and had already written the definitive piece on him for the forthing International Encyclopedia of Fine Arts。
Ten days after Debierue's death I received a long； bulky package at the office。 When I unwrapped it at my desk I discovered the dismantled baroque frame that had once been Debierue's famous No。 One。 This unexpected gift from beyond the grave made me cry； the first time I had wept in several months。 There was no personal note or card with the frame。 Debierue had probably left word with someone at the nursing home to mail it to me after he died。 But the fact that he sent me the frame meant exoneration。 Not only a plete exoneration； it proved that he had been pleased by my critique of his 〃American Harvest〃 period。 From all of his many critics； Debierue had singled me out as his beneficiary for No。 One。
The dismantled frame had no intrinsic value； of course。 I probably could have sold it somewhere； or donated it to the Museum of Modern Art for its curiosity value； but I couldn't do that to the old man。 His gesture deeply moved me。
I walked down the hall to throw the frame down the incinerator。 As I opened the metal door； I noticed a small dead fly scotch…taped to one of the sides of the frame。 The old m