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Broadway, a man stands in the center island, one hand on his chest, belting out an aria from Don Giovanni. Wow. That guy. He had been a fixture down around Carnegie Hall when Clara was a kid. He had a beautiful, professionally trained voice, and he sang on street corners, an open empty violin case at his feet.
    “How was your swim meet?”
    “I placed second.”
    “That’s great, honey!”
    “No. First would be great.”
    Clara can hear Sam squirming, the kitchen chair creaking. She’s probably wearing the holey old gray sweats she puts on after swimming, her dark wet hair woven into a sloppy braid. She’s skinnier than Clara ever was, but, other than that, Sam looks exactly like Clara did at nine. Last summer, Clara and Sam were at Jumpin’ Java on Main Street, where the summer people go for their cold drinks, and an older gentleman in a windbreaker had stopped and stared at Sammy. Clara knew—even before he spoke, she knew. My dear, you’re the spitting image of that girl in Ruth Dunne’s early photographs. The daughter. What was her name? The man’s crinkly blue eyes swept over the two of them, not really registering Clara. She had always been on guard for the day when someone would make the connection: a wealthy collector, a summer resident of the island. Clara had known it could happen. She pushed herself off her stool and grabbed Sammy’s hand. Come on, honey. We’ve got to go.
    “Mom, why are you in New York?” Sammy’s not letting go of this one.
    “I have some work to do.”
    “What do you mean?”
    A reasonable question, since Clara doesn’t really have work of her own. She helps Jonathan with a small amount of local advertising and marketing and makes sure the shop runs smoothly. Even a nine-year-old is going to detect the bullshit.
    “Hey, can I talk to Daddy?”
    There’s silence for a moment. Sammy’s chewing.
    “He’s not here.”
    “What do you mean, he’s not there? Who’s with you?”
    “Elizabeth. We made nachos.”
    Elizabeth is the daughter of the next-door neighbors. Sixteen years old. An honors student. You couldn’t ask for a more competent babysitter. But where is Jonathan?
    “Daddy said he’d be home late.”
    Goddammit, Jonathan. Clara’s skin feels too tightly stretched over her bones. Why tonight, of all nights? She’s never been away from Sam before. Did she really have to spell things out?
    Below, she can see two men arguing over a parking space on the east side of Broadway. One guy has climbed out of his car and is standing in the empty space, his arms crossed. Staking his territory. The other guy, in a sleek little sport car, has parked his car at an angle into the street, hazards flashing. He has one foot out the door. Middle-aged men acting like high school boys. Clara moves away from the window, once again lowering the blackout shade. She has been gripping the phone so tightly her hand aches.
    “I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise. Tell Dad to call me when he gets home, okay?”
    She blows a kiss, then hangs up the phone. She turns off the desk lamp, plunging the studio into darkness. She closes her eyes and imagines she is somewhere else, anywhere but here. She summons Flying Mountain at the mouth of Somes Sound—one of her favorite spots on the island—and tries, mentally, to put herself there. The view stretching wide over the great harbor. The Cranberry Islands in the distance. Next, she pictures her own house. Her small backyard. The dozens of bulbs she planted in the fall, waiting, sleeping beneath the snow-covered ground. Nothing is working. It’s the silence, she realizes. It pierces every thought, every willful daydream. It is the dead silence of her mother’s studio, a place where the rest of the world simply does not exist.
     

     
    A CRITIC once wrote that Ruth Dunne’s work was a “hedge against memory.” The phrase had wounded Ruth. They don’t understand, she said at the time. Why do they write about things they don’t