The Inseparables by Stuart Nadler

that elicited obvious allusions to Early American folk art. She’d settled on the name Eugenia because Oona, when she was very young, had rubbed her hand against the woman’s belly as if she were a magic genie. This was how Genie became Eugenia.
    “Excuse the mess,” Henrietta said preemptively. “I’m moving.”
    “I see that,” Juliet said, with a noticeable look of concern on her face.
    “I take it from your expression that you don’t often collect works of art in places as messy as this,” Henrietta said.
    “Not frequently,” Juliet said. “No.”
    “It’s safe here,” Henrietta said. “The weathervane, I meant. Not you. Although you are also safe here. I assure you.”
    Juliet offered a nervous smile. “That’s good.”
    Henrietta took her into the living room. She felt keenly aware of the mess, the dirt, the general disorder. The old housewifely instincts rose up—instincts she detested, but instincts nonetheless hammered into her by her mother and grandmother. She felt herself on the verge of apologies—a subject she had lectured on years ago: the gendered propensity for needless justification—when she remembered, This is a business transaction. I need money.
    They had spoken earlier in the week by phone. Juliet wanted Henrietta to send pictures so that she could generate a general ballpark figure. Henrietta had managed inexpertly, using the camera on her phone. “If the market is right, there’s no telling what one of these can fetch,” Juliet told her.
    This surprised Henrietta. “Is there really a market for weathervanes?”
    “There’s a market for everything,” Juliet had told her, before emailing Henrietta photographs of weathervanes that looked vaguely similar to hers, and which had fetched nearly a half million dollars at auction.
    The numbers astonished her. “You’re sure we’re talking about the same thing? Those things on your house that go round and round in the wind? I thought they were junk.”
    “Those very same things,” Juliet said. “They’re not junk. They’re considered works of art.” Instantly Henrietta did the math in her head. A half million dollars, even with the penalty for tax and commission, could sustain her for at least fifteen more years if she lived frugally. That would get her to age eighty-five. A good age. A full life. A life extended miraculously by the discovery of a weathervane. Then Juliet issued a caveat after looking over the images Henrietta had sent: “Mind you, the examples I emailed over, those were in terrific condition. Far more so than yours looks to be.”
    In the living room, Juliet stood expectantly, adjusting her white gloves. Juliet’s preliminary ballpark figure had come in at $10,000, which, Henrietta knew, would not change her life. But then again, $10,000 was ten thousand she did not have.
    “Before we do the exchange,” Henrietta said, “I have a few other things I was hoping you might look at.”
    Juliet said nothing. Impatiently, she stretched her neck, and then her gloved fingers.
    “See, I’ve been packing the place up,” Henrietta said, already feeling a queasy sense of humiliation and dread. “And I’ve found some things I think might also be worth something.”
    Juliet shrugged. “Well, I’m certainly happy to look,” she said, although she did not seem it.
    Henrietta moved toward the table, waving her hand across everything she’d gathered as if she were a game show host. Juliet paused a moment to regard the table and everything on it. There may never have been a more uninterested moment. And this, Henrietta thought, this was the best stuff she could find in her house.
    Juliet took a pair of eyeglasses from her purse. They were thick and outfitted with magnifying lenses. First, she took the cedar box, inspecting it, shining a flashlight onto it.
    Henrietta had tried to have someone do this in her parents’ apartment. She’d brought in a man from one of the neighborhood antique shops, and he’d