His advice was mostly practical. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. But it was only six-thirty. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. It was the beginning of June. Least of all myself. Jonathan had not deceived him. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it.
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