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was narrow-featured and sharp-eyed, and made an elegant, spidery presence among the ordinary furnishings of the living room, from whose walls shone down the glittering colors of paintings by Kenneth Noland, Jules Olitski, and, I think, a small one by Jackson Pollock. Clem scurried about, bringing water or wine and an ashtray; his face was strained.
    On the subway back to Brooklyn, Martin said he had been astonished by Clem’s obsequious behavior toward the priest. What was the reason for it, I wondered. The latter acted with the confidence, touched by hauteur, of a man high in office and in his own estimation—but still, why was Clem as nervous as an altar boy?
    While Martin and I had been in Greece with my two boys, my former husband had gotten hold of Clem’s unlisted phone number and called him to inquire after his sons’ welfare (not usually a pressing concern with him), the implication being that he had not heard from them in months. Clem commented, “His voice was paranoid.” I was gratified that he had perceived (I had not spoken a word about my former husband to him) this trait of his nature.
    Clem and Jenny visited us briefly at a cottage we rented one summer on Martha’s Vineyard. We met them at the island airport, accompanied by Gabriel, then ten. Gabe charmed adults, and Clem was no exception. But it was clear he had no idea of how to behave with children. Again and again from the back seat he exclaimed to Jenny, “Do you notice how attentive he is to us? Did you hear how he expressed his concern for our comfort?” During that visit I invited them to spend New Year’s Eve with us in Brooklyn. Jenny’s reply, in a vague voice, “Oh, well, you know . . . we go to the same people every year . . . ,” reminded me of an earlier occasion when we had met at Joe’s apartment and she had referred laughingly to my second novel, Desperate Characters, as “Depressing Characters.”
    We went to Clem’s eightieth-birthday party a few years later, in a loft on 23rd Street. There were many guests from all over, and the dust rose from the floorboards chin high. I searched for someone to talk with but had no luck. At the end of one long table covered with glasses was a big chocolate cake. When we left by a corridor that ran by two warehouse elevators, Clem was standing in front of them, his cheeks filled like a squirrel’s. I leaned forward to kiss him. He warned me off, saying, “My mouth is stuffed with cake.” He said these words with no irritation, indeed cordially.
    I never saw the art critic, the family critic, again. He died shortly after giving an interview to the New York Times in which his criticism of his father had had an unpleasant tone, making public feelings and opinions he should have kept to himself. The interview suggested the distance at which he held himself from his father and his family. Martin felt that Clem was ashamed of his immigrant Jewish origin. His father spoke with a heavy Yiddish accent.
    Clem died in the hospital after a fall in an alcoholic haze after drinking the contents of a bottle of whisky an acquaintance had sneaked past the nurses. Martin visited him there. He was comatose. When he stopped breathing, Martin said good-bye to Jenny and left. When he came home, he was quiet and thoughtful.
    For many years now, I’ve saved a postcard from Clem. (Postcards were what he sent his family and in-laws.) This one, dated 21 December 1984, concerns a novel of mine I had given him.
    Dear Paula [it read] ,
    I waited to read A Servant’s Tale, before writing to thank you. It’s the best ever, I’m glad to say. I started it yesterday & finished it this morning. I couldn’t put it down. I’m not saying this to be pleasant or make you feel good. It’s a fact, that’s all. Luisa evolves and takes me along. I was sorry when the book ended.
    Thanks for the inscription. Holiday greetings and love to you