“I’m Lily Aaron, and this is my son Lincoln.”

“Max Fischer.”

As we were shaking hands, the man who’d complimented me a few minutes before returned, holding a catalogue of the show.

“I’m sorry to bother you again, but would you mind signing this? I should’ve asked before, but I felt kind of funny invading your privacy. Is it okay?” Assuming Lily Aaron was with me, he looked from one to the other, as if asking both of us for permission.

Now, bitch mother or not, there is nothing nicer than being publicly recognized right in front of a pretty woman.

“Sure it’s okay. What’s your name?”

“Newell Kujbishev.”

Listen to our silence after he said that.

“Excuse me?”

“Newell Kujbishev.”

I looked helplessly at Lily. She smiled and grew a look on her face that said, “Get out of this one gracefully, big boy.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to spell that, Newell.”

He did while I slowly took his dictation. Then we shook hands and he walked away. “There goes a man who should be required to wear a name tag at all times.”

“Your work is in this show?”

“Yes. I draw the comic strip Paper Clip.’”

“I don’t know it.”

“That’s okay.”

“Have you heard of the restaurant Crowds and Power on Fairfax?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She nodded. “Then we’re even. That’s where I work.”

“Oh.”

“Mom, are we going in or what?”

“Yes, sweetie, right now. But would you show us your piece, Max? I’d like to start that way. Okay, Lincoln? You don’t mind, do you?”

The boy shrugged but then, as we moved from the spot, tore off and disappeared around a corner. This didn’t seem to faze his mother. He reemerged a couple of minutes later to announce he had found my picture and would lead us there. It was an endearing gesture, pure jealous child. He didn’t know what to make of me or his mother’s interest, so he’d steal my thunder by finding my work and, in announcing its place in the museum, make it his own. We followed him, chatting as we went.

“Lincoln loves to draw, but mostly battles. Catapults flinging boiling oil, warriors. Every picture has hundreds of arrows flying about. I only wish they weren’t always so aggressive. That’s why we came today: I’m hoping he’ll be inspired by this and start drawing Xanadus, instead of soldiers with cannonball holes in their stomachs.”

“But kids like violence. It comes with their territory, don’t you think? Isn’t it better if he works it out by drawing, rather than if he were to conk someone?”

She shook her head. “Nonsense. That’s only the easy way out. Reality is, my kid likes to draw pictures of people getting shot. All the rest is psycho-fluff.”

Stung, I averted my eyes. It took a split second to realize she had stopped. “Listen, don’t have thin skin. Life’s too short and interesting. Don’t think what I said was an insult. It wasn’t. I’ll tell you when I’m insulting you. I’m also wrong a lot and you’re allowed to tell me that. A fair trade. I guess that’s your picture?”

Before I could catch all these balls she was throwing at me, we came across her son, arms crossed and stern-faced, standing in front of my drawing. His back was to it.

“What do you think, Lincoln?”

“Pretty good. You’re sure you did it, you’re telling the truth? Swear to God?”

He wore a crisp white T-shirt. Without asking permission from either him or his mother, I took out a black marking pen, pulled him to me, and began drawing on the front of his shirt. He gave a small peep of protest, which I ignored, and I kept going. His mother remained silent.

“What’s your favorite part of my picture?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see it from here!” He twisted and fidgeted but not too much. It was plain he loved what was going on. Under my hands he felt like a puppy getting its tummy scratched.

“Doesn’t matter. Use your memory. Can’t you remember things?” I kept drawing. The pungent smell of felt-tip ink was everywhere.

“Yes, I can remember! Better than you, probably! I like the part where those big buildings are shaking hands.”

“Okay, I’m putting that in right now.” I stopped a moment and turned to Lily. “Are you angry?”

“Not a bit.”

So I let fly. Dancing clocks, birds in top hats, buildings shaking hands. It took a few minutes to complete but both of us had such fun (Lincoln squirming and giggling, me drawing fast) that it seemed no time at all. Sure I was showing off, but come on, it’s allowed when you’re making a child laugh.

When I was finished, Lincoln pulled the shirt off and held it up in front to see what I’d done. His smile was as wide as a plate. “You’re crazy!”

“Think so?”

“Ma, did you see this?”

“It’s great. Now you’ve got to take good care of it because Max is famous. You’ve probably got the only shirt like that in the world.”

He looked up at me with big eyes. “Is that true? The only one?”

“I’ve never decorated a shirt before, so yeah, it’s true.”

“Cool!”

There were features on both their faces that gave away the fact they were related: thin well-formed noses, long mouths that went straight across with no lift or curl at either corner. When they weren’t smiling, although both smiled often, you couldn’t read what they were thinking by their expressions.

Lincoln was nine but small for his age and it bothered him. “Were you small when you were my nine, Max?”

“I don’t remember, but I’ll tell you this—the toughest guy in my town was short and nobody messed with him. Nobody. Bobby Hanley.”

“What would he do if you did?”

“Pull your ear off.” I turned to Lily. “That’s true. I once saw Bobby Hanley, who really was the toughest kid in town, almost pull someone’s ear off at a basketball game.”

“He sounds like a peach.”

Lily wore a man’s white dress shirt and a long blue linen skirt that came to the top of her ankles. Intricate, beautifully woven leather sandals and toenails that were painted red.

“How come you do your toes but not your fingers?”

“Toenails are funny; painted fingernails are sexy. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

She was full of opinions, and she was glad to tell them to you at the drop of a hat. At first I thought she was pompous and/or a tad screwy because some of her beliefs were unrepentantly black and white, others absurd. All television was bad. Travel was confusing rather than broadening. Gorbachev was a sneak. She believed one should spray house plants with water whenever it rained because they “knew” it was raining outside and longed to be there. She was reading a famous composer’s biography but, as with all biographies, preferred reading it last volume to first because it gave her a better picture of the artist.

“It’s like that in life—first you meet a person as they are now, then only after you’re interested in them do you want to know more about their past or their childhood. True?”

Seeing an exhibit with a new person is like doing your homework and listening to the radio at the same time. You want to look, but you also want to make an impression. And remember the child who likes you but is suspicious at the same time. The only work Lincoln liked was a loony 3-D city street by Red Grooms. The rest of the time the boy kept wandering away for long stretches, or asking his mother if they could leave now.

Contrary to the first impression, I liked the way Lily Aaron handled her son. She paid real attention to the boy, listened carefully to what he said, spoke to him with no condescension in her voice. If one were to hear only that voice, it would sound like she was talking with a friend, someone she cared for but in no way felt superior to.

She was great, but was she married? Committed? I hinted left, right, and center. I prompted unsubtly but none of it got me the answer I sought: Yes, I am married. No, I’m alone now.