Black & White by Dani Shapiro

can hardly remember them all. Jealous Ruth, competitive Ruth, manic Ruth, exhausted Ruth, lost-in-the-wilderness Ruth. But the scariest Ruth of all, at least to Clara, is this one. Hysteria spreads its map across her mother’s face, a series of red blotches blooming on her cheeks, the tip of her small nose.
    “I think I can afford to commit suicide if I want to, Kubovy,” Ruth says, catching her breath. “I think I’ve earned that right.”
    “I apologize. It was a poor choice of words,” says Kubovy. “But Ruth, we have a legacy to think about. It would be most prudent to leave the current works with Matthew, whose name, let’s face it, is more bold-faced than mine at this point.”
    “I can’t bear that place,” Ruth spits out. The red blotches have faded, along with the hysteria, and now she looks completely spent. Her skin is translucent, a tangle of blue veins throbbing visibly in her forehead.
    “He’s done well by you,” says Kubovy.
    “He’s a preening sycophant.”
    “Be that as it may.”
    Peony is watching the back-and-forth of this exchange as if it’s the finals at Wimbledon. She is leaning forward, eager not to miss a single point. She is receiving a valuable education in the business of photography, as she is receiving an education in the business of dying. When she got the internship with Ruth Dunne, most likely she had been hoping to work in the archives, answer correspondence, or, if she were really lucky, apprentice in the darkroom.
    “As your friend and adviser, Ruth—and I’m sorry to be speaking in such a direct manner—”
    “Oh, bugger off, Kubovy.”
    Kubovy’s tan deepens once again. This exchange is costing him. He loves Ruth—he has always loved Ruth. Clara realizes that she hasn’t once—not once since she left New York—thought about what might have become of Kubovy Weiss. She has put him high up on the shelf in her mind where she keeps everything else related to her childhood. Now that he’s here, right in front of her, close enough to throttle, she feels herself shaking.
    Of course, she supposes, any good gallery owner could have put Ruth Dunne on the map with the Clara series. But it hadn’t been just anyone. It had been Kubovy, and he had been brilliant at it: a master. All the more amazing that Kubovy had remained Ruth’s friend, even after she left him in the late eighties for Leo Castelli.
    “What, Ruth?” He sounds weary. “I’m trying to help you. I assume you asked me for my advice because you trust me. And what I’m trying to say here is that I’m in a better position to deal with your estate if Kubovy Weiss is not your gallery. Believe me, when it comes to the IRS I’ve been through this before—”
    “Estate! The fucking IRS!” Ruth explodes. “I can’t stand it. I won’t listen to another word of this.” She tries to lift herself off the sofa, struggling to her feet—an impossibility. She collapses back into her seat, her bony bottom barely making an impression in the cushions.
    She turns to Peony. “Help me up.”
    Peony moves to one side of Ruth and swings her easily upward with her strong young arms. She pivots Ruth, whose feet dangle uselessly, and deposits her into the wheelchair.
    “You could have a career doing this, you know,” Ruth says to Peony. And then, as if she knows she may have just said something insulting, “Peony is a very talented young photographer, Kubovy. Interesting work in photo-collage. You should take a look at her slides.”
    “I’d be delighted,” says Kubovy.
    Peony doesn’t know where to look. She keeps her eyes on her toes, but seems like she might levitate at any second.
    “Ruth, we have unfinished business,” says Kubovy.
    “To be continued.” Ruth waves airily from her wheelchair as Peony begins to push her back to her bedroom. Clara stands next to Kubovy and watches her mother’s head, erect and bobbing on her narrow shoulders.
    Kubovy puts an arm around Clara and steers her toward the