“I’m fine. I’ll see you soon.”

Mae walked into the kitchen as I hung up.

“Hey, pal,” I said, “want to go to the playground?”

She smiled and it was her mother’s smile, guileless and open and without hesitation. “Playground? They got swings?”

“Course they got swings. Wouldn’t be much of a playground without swings.”

“They got a jungle gym?”

“They got one of those too.”

“They got roller coasters?”

“Not yet,” I said, “but I’ll put in a suggestion to management.”

She hoisted herself up on the chair across from me and put her untied sneakers on my chair. “Okay,” she said.

“Mae,” I said as I tied her sneakers, “I have to go see a friend, though, and I can’t take you with me.”

The momentary look of confusion and abandonment in her eyes broke my heart in quarters.

“But,” I said hurriedly, “you know my friend Angie? She wants to play with you.”

“How come?”

“Because she likes you. And she likes playgrounds.”

“She got pretty hair.”

“Yeah, she does.”

“It’s black and tangly and I like it.”

“I’ll tell her you said so, Mae.”

“Patrick, why we stopped?” Mae said.

We were standing on the corner of Dorchester Ave. and Howes Street. If you looked directly across the avenue, you saw the Ryan Playground.

If you looked horizontally down Howes Street, you saw Angie’s house.

And, at this moment, Angie. Standing out front.

Kissing her ex-husband Phil on the cheek.

I felt something clench in the center of my chest and then just as suddenly unclench and fill with a gust of chilled air which seemed to hollow out my insides like the flick of a spade.

“Angie!” Mae said.

Angie turned, and so did Phil, and I felt like a voyeur. An angry voyeur with violence in my heart.

They crossed the street and walked to the corner together. She looked, as usual, stupendous in a pair of blue jeans, purple T-shirt, black leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair was wet and a single strand had come out from behind her ear and clung to her cheekbone. She tucked it back as she approached and waved her fingers at Mae.

Phil, unfortunately, also looked good. Angie’d told me he’d quit drinking, and you could see the effects. He’d dropped at least twenty pounds since I’d last seen him, and his jawline was smooth and hard, his eyes devoid of the puffiness that had all but swallowed them over the last five years. He moved loosely in a white shirt and pleated charcoal trousers that matched the color of the hair swept off his forehead. He looked fifteen years younger and his pupils carried a spark I hadn’t seen since childhood.

“Hey, Patrick,” he said.

“Hi, Phil.”

He paused at the curb and clutched a hand to his heart. “Is this her?” he said. “Is this the one? Is this the great, the unforgettable, the world-renowned Mae?”

He squatted by her and she smiled broadly.