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plans until Paul mentioned it in passing.
    “They’re going to discuss Vincent’s cure,” Paul said, as he leaned against the wall. I was rolling out a sheet of pie dough and tried to hide my curiosity.
    Paul had arrived home that afternoon from his studies in Paris. It had been his first year away from our home and his semester had nearly come to an end. He would be returning home full time in only a matter of weeks.
    “Well, I’m certainly glad Papa didn’t invite Vincent to live with us this summer,” Paul muttered as he fumbled in his pocket and retrieved his small pipe. “He’s quite a curious little man. But I wouldn’t want to share the same roof with him.”
    I looked up and smiled at him and said nothing. In truth, I thought my brother’s comment a bit ironic. At that point in our lives, Paul was not full of bitterness toward me. In fact, he was a rather benign young man in his youth, albeit a bit odd. Much to my chagrin, his first year at school had only accentuated his oddness, not curbed it as I had hoped it would. I suspected he was having quite a hard time adjusting to life in the city after such a sheltered existence in Auvers.
    I tried to change the subject between us. “You shouldn’t smoke here while I’m cooking,” I chided. “My pie is going to taste like tobacco!”
    Paul ignored me, and lit his pipe anyway.
    “Have you seen him yet, Marguerite?”
    “I was here the day before last, when he painted in our garden,” I said, trying to sound disinterested.
    Paul, however, was making no attempt to conceal his curiosity about Vincent’s arrival. “Just today, when I arrived from the station, I saw him painting in the field behind the church. He was dressed like a beggar, and had paint all over his face.”
    I scooped up some flour from my ceramic bowl and spread it on the countertop. “He seems perfectly nice to me. Perhaps a bit eccentric, but that just makes him more interesting than the others….”
    “Eccentric?” Paul laughed, shaking his head. “Madame Chevalier told me that Papa said he cut off his ear in Arles!”
    I suddenly felt the color drain from my face.
    “I don’t believe you, Paul. You shouldn’t make up such terrible things.”
    “It’s true! Next time you see him, take a good look at his left ear. He cut off the bottom part!”
    I shook the flour off my palms and wiped my hands on the front of my apron.
    “We shouldn’t be gossiping, Paul. He’s a patient of Papa’s.” I tried hard not to seem affected by what my brother had just said, but, inside, I felt my stomach turning. I reached for a glass of water. The stove was making the room unbearably hot and it was difficult to breathe.
    “Whether Vincent is ill or not, he’s immensely talented. I saw the painting he began of our garden. The colors were so vibrant, and the paint was applied so thickly that it seemed almost sculptural.” I paused for a second, remembering how I’d been impressed by the canvas. “Truthfully, Paul, I think he’s better than Papa’s friends Pissarro and Cézanne put together.”
    My brother’s face suddenly changed. He was capable of instantly becoming morose, as he had inherited our father’s mood swings. “You really think he’s that talented, Marguerite?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    Paul began to sulk, chewing on the side of his mouth while pulling on the chain of his pocket watch. “You always seem to be around when there’s excitement in the house,” he grumbled, still playing with the watch.
    “Paul, that’s because I’m always here. Consider yourself lucky you’re not in the kitchen half the day!” I said. To emphasize, I smacked him on his thigh with my dishrag.
    I managed to get a small smile out of him, but it quickly vanished. I knew this year had been a difficult adjustment for Paul. Over the past several months, while doing my dusting, I had glanced at some of his letters, which were often left opened on Papa’s desk. He complained that his classmates had