The Gallery by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Page A

too.
    â€œIt’s Eve,” I broke the silence. “See the apple?”
    He laughed loudly. “That one is not Eve.”
    â€œIt is so,” I retorted. “And I should know, after eight years of Catholic school.”
    A sound escaped the side of his mouth like a deflating tire. “You think you are the only Catholic? Where I come from, it is not just school. We are fermented in it, like wine.”
    â€œWhere’s that exactly?”
    He ignored me. “That is no apple. And that is no Eve.”
    â€œNot an apple!” I guffawed. “What is it then, I’d like to know?”
    â€œAmericans.” He shook his head. “You know nothing but catsup and Cracker Jacks.”
    â€œThat’s rich!” I shot back. “When the French eat snails! And frogs!”
    â€œThe legs of the frogs,” he retorted coolly, as if this explained it all. “And as for the lady in the painting,” he continued before I could get another word in, “you do not have to wonder. Her name is right at the top of the painting.”
    He was right. At the very top, several lines of verse appeared as if written on an old-fashioned scroll. I tiptoed up to see, but it did me no good.
    â€œIt’s in some other language.”
    â€œTrue,” he shrugged. “Not so difficult if you read Italian.”
    â€œAnd you do, I suppose.”
    He shrugged again. “But you do not even need language to unlock this painting. All you need to know is in the picture itself.”
    Before I could ask him what he meant, a click of the door admitted Ma and her businesslike step. “Aren’tyou done yet? Why is that drape off? Alphonse, what business do you have here?”
    Alphonse immediately took up the drape and, after shaking out the glass gingerly in the direction of my dustpan, tossed it back over the painting. I in turn scrupulously swept up the chards.
    â€œThe young lady could not reach the top. I was helping.”
    Ma looked at us suspiciously. “Well, now you’ve helped enough. There’s no one on the door, and Mr. Sewell wouldn’t like it, especially with all the trouble we’ve had.”
    Once the doors were closed behind Alphonse, Ma turned back to me. “I don’t like you speaking with him.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Ma.” I kneeled down to sweep the last of the glass. “He barely talks anyway.”
    â€œStill. I am quite serious on this. There’s to be no fraternization on my staff.”
    â€œI’ve got no idea what that means, so I can’t imagine I’ll be doing it.”
    â€œEnough of your sass. It means chatting up the fellas, and it’s a one-way ticket out the door with no reference letter.”
    I nodded, although I knew this was an empty threat, as Ma was the one who’d be writing my reference.
    â€œAnd don’t go touching the paintings.” The drape had slipped again, and Ma reached out to fix it, then stopped and pulled it back just as I had. “These are Miss Rose’s pride and joy,” she murmured, gazing at the beautiful lady, “and her ticket in.”
    â€œTicket to what?”
    â€œTo New York society. When Mr. Pritchard and Miss Rose moved from West Virginia to New York, no one would give them the time of day, no matter how much money they had. So Mr. Pritchard took Rose to Europe, ‘to get cultured’ he said. Came back with all this art, all the books in the library, even designed this house to accommodate the haul and the folks he hoped to attract—the gallery, the ballroom. Used his railroad connections to get a private railway platform in the basement, to lure society types direct from their country houses upstate.”
    â€œDid they come?”
    â€œOh, land, yes! Half the social register turned up for the teas and dinners and dances, eager to see the fancies. And it worked. Between her father’s money and my dress skill, all the most