“In the beginning, when I was young, he was simply a family friend, that"s all. One who told amazing stories and recited poetry. Most of all I liked him because he let me paint his finger and toenails, and put make-up on him without being asleep. I had done it once on my grandfather when he had dozed off one Sunday afternoon, and although he laughed about it, it wasn"t as much fun as doing it to Peter. He enjoyed it. I was ten in that photo, not the eleven you guessed at, and he was thirty-five. He still had his fingers and toes painted, you know, when that photograph of him was taken. Peter was a laugh, a joy to be around for a ten-year-old.” We were seated now as far apart as it was possible to be in my office and I had shown her the damming evidence of association.
“His father died a y
