The big house had beautiful furniture and carpets and framed mirrors. The spooky old man with his scary wheezing sat by the window and gawked at the Long Island Sound, and when Nola opened the back door, he crooked his already crooked finger and tried to smile, except that only half his face moved, and then saliva drooled out. The cat that always wrapped around his neck pawed at the string of saliva until it detached.

Nola helped herself to the food and brought over a plate to the old man, placing it on the small table in front of him. She gave him a fork and a spoon, but not a knife, because he could only use one hand, and that one shook. She didn’t sit with him, because with his mouth always drooling and food smeared all over his chin, he was too gross to look at.

Dad, who was the old man’s grandnephew, would later sit with him. So would the woman who lived on the third floor and who didn’t mind his being gross. She now came down, her face sour, like she had just bitten into a lemon, but said nothing when Nola used the phone to call for oil delivery since the furnace had run out and she borrowed a blanket because Mom had given hers to the guests.

Dad was home when Nola returned and said that he was proud of her because she was a precocious girl, “the smartest second grader there is.” Nola got her notebook, where she collected new or long words, and wrote “precocious.” Some words were beautiful, like colored glass beads, each with its own tint and transparency. One day she would string them into songs. Elvis, who had just died—Mom cried about it—had written songs all by himself.