Mrs. Donohue’s apartment was a typical San Francisco railroad flat, all the rooms opening off a long, dark, narrow hallway that led from the front door to a small, sunlit space at the back. The high-ceilinged hallway was half paneled in narrow slats of oak. Above the paneling was a gallery of framed family photographs. She led me into a front room that faced the street by way of three tall, lace-curtained bay windows through which, no doubt, she had been seen me come up the stairs. Above a gas fireplace was a faded, hand-tinted photograph of a stern-faced young man in a navy uniform. Mr. Donohue, I assumed. The parlor—I couldn’t imagine she called it anything else—featured Oriental carpets, large, dark pieces of furniture and Staffordshire bric-a-brac. Doilies covered the end tables and antimacassars were strategically deployed on the backs of the armchairs and the sofa. A built-in bookshelf held rows of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books dating to the ’50s. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a large, framed colored print of a severe looking Jesus parting his robe to reveal a heart crowned with a circlet of thorns and a flame. Through the open pocket doors, I saw a dining room filled with the same heavy furniture. The table was covered with a lace tablecloth and, in its center, was a blue and white ceramic bowl filled with plastic fruit. The place smelled like old wool and attar of rose. There was not a speck of dust anywhere.

I had stepped back in time to when the Castro, then called Eureka Valley, was home to working-class Irish families. I had occasionally seen an old Irish widow—for it seemed the only remnants of that era were women—trudging up Castro Street, retaining custody of their eyes just as the nuns had taught them, by looking straight ahead and ignoring the hordes of young men that engulfed them. The spire of their parish church, Blessed Savior, was, along with the bright neon Castro Theater sign, one of the neighborhood’s two signature landmarks.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Donohue commanded and when I did, said, “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

I handed her a business card.

“This says you’re a lawyer, not an insurance man.”

“I am a lawyer, but I also work part-time for Western States Insurance Company as a claims investigator.”

“You’re sure you’re not working for them,” she said, laying hostile emphasis on the last word.

“For who, Missus Donohue?”

“Them that’s swooped in from Chicago and turned Nick out of his house. Bill Ryan’s kin.”

“No, ma’am. I’m just trying to find Nick to confirm the details of Bill Ryan’s death so we can pay out the policy. I had no idea Bill Ryan’s family was here.”