I shut the door behind me as carefully as I could, which wasn’t carefully enough, because a whole pack of crazed dogs came pouring down the stairs, barking like wild animals. Cass’s house smelled like patchouli incense and cigarette smoke, and was so bright it seemed like her whole ceiling was made of glass.

“It’s you,” she said from the top of stairs. “I thought maybe it was a serial killer.”

“Then you should lock your doors,” I said.

Cass shrugged. “You don’t have to pay off your debts if you’re murdered. Or worry about really anything anymore.”

If a serial killer did come, they’d have very little resistance from her dogs, who were excitedly rubbing their faces against my legs and jumping up to lick my face.

“Come upstairs if and when you succeed in fighting them off,” Cass called, and turned to go. She wore a long black hooded gown, something I am sure sold for thousands of dollars and was gifted to her for free. Cass treated it with utter carelessness, as evidenced by the stains on the wrists from her photo chemicals.

I didn’t know why I’d come. It wasn’t like Cass could help me through the trauma of suddenly being able to see another world. Or, worse, suddenly discovering that I was way more messed up in the head than I had previously believed.

But if there was anywhere I could go to get out from under the weight of all that, to feel better about humanity, to feel less helpless about swastika graffiti and Solomon’s madness, it was here.

Once upon a time, and for many years, Cass had been the editor in chief of Strut magazine, which for most of the seventies made Vogue look like Highlights. The most artistic and innovative photography; the most edgy-looking and diverse models. Vogue didn’t put a Black woman on the cover until 1974, but in 1972, Strut did a whole issue featuring exclusively Black models and designers. Every photographer and designer and model and celebrity were dying to be in its pages, but Cass had the final call, and if she didn’t think you were It, she couldn’t be convinced by fame or love or money.

Before that, she had been the assistant to—and protégée of—my favorite photographer, Diane Arbus. Somewhere along the line Cass’d gotten obscenely rich—maybe through marriage, maybe through savvy real estate investments—and bought this huge house far away from New York City. She was our town’s only Recluse, which is to say, the only person with enough money to be listed separately from all the other shut-ins, who are Just Crazy.

“Coffee in the kitchen,” she called from upstairs. So I headed that way.