“Sure, you do, and some of ’em would say the same thing as me. Times have changed, but not that much. Get a tattoo before you know what you want to do with your life, and it can hurt your chances. Want to be a teacher? Or a nurse? Or, Christ, a politician, and sleeves like mine’d be the kiss of death.”

“I don’t want a whole armful,” Joy drawls in concession. “Maybe just one?”

“You already have one,” Anne says. Her voice is fond, and I’m sure it’s sincere. The issues Anne has with me have never spilled over onto my daughter. But I cringe, knowing what’s coming.

Joy goes very still. Only her eyes move, shooting me a horrified look.

“Anne,” I caution. “Not a tattoo. A birthmark. And not something to discuss here.”

But Anne doesn’t have a thirteen-year-old daughter. She doesn’t know how sensitive they are about their bodies, even girls as bold and unfettered as Joy. And in front of two men, neither of whom she knows well, one the prim grandfather she wants to impress, the other a man she clearly thinks is super cool?

“It’s beautiful,” Anne argues, speaking to me, which is another sign that she doesn’t know my daughter. Joy is old enough to be addressed directly. But Anne is seeing the baby whose diaper she changed and the toddler who played naked on a deserted Maine beach. She has seen the J-shaped mark low on Joy’s groin. We never made a big thing of it. But she forgets that Joy is now pubescent. Apparently, too, Anne forgets when she was that age with a body whose inborn quirks seemed different in the light of womanhood.

“It’s her initial,” she says with enthusiasm. “It’s unique. It sets her apart. Isn’t that what a tattoo does—except that she inherited hers from Mom, which makes it really special.” Finally acknowledging Joy, she adds, “I wish I had one like that. I could have used the connection.”

Bill has a hand on her arm, though I’m not sure whether he is trying to comfort her or get her to stop.

“Mom?” Joy begs.

“Enough, Anne,” I say.

“Doe is in Albany,” my father puts in.

His interruption has to be one of the kindest things he’s ever done for me. I doubt it was intentional, but the timing couldn’t be better. All eyes go to him.

“John Doe?” I say.

“Yes.”

“A real person?”

“Of course he’s real. Would I mention him if he wasn’t? What is wrong with you? Can you not hear me?”

I wither.

But Anne is smiling at him, indulgent. “Do you remember the case, Daddy?”

His silver brows come together. “Of course I remember the case. I told you. It was the estate.”