Sam held up his hands. “I’m not anyone’s old man,” he said. “Lilly and I just wrote a bunch of times back when I was in Korea, that’s all.” He turned to me. “Look, I’m sorry. I can probably guess how all that made you feel, but by the time the army was done with me, you wouldn’t have wanted to know me anyhow.” He stared at my face and his voice became soft. “Eight seventy-four Fernvale Road, East Cleveland, Ohio, 44112.” For a split second, he didn’t look old. “If it’s anything to you,” he said, “I’ve got a darkroom I only use nights. If you’re not fixed for a space yet, you can use it days, if you want.” Before I could answer, Jane had led me out the door and I was standing on the sidewalk still holding my tea. All of which is to say that I’d have replied to your questions if I’d known the answers, but Squirrel, the truth is that I never really knew Sam at all.

106. Lionel Jr. walking his dog, Cleveland, 1971

SAM DECKER: I didn’t think she’d actually take me up on it. I figure a famous photographer like her already has a setup, but apparently she is living with her parents and had been sick without the chance to do much of anything. The very next morning she shows up and orders a chamomile. Even I’m not a big enough jerk to welch on her again all these years later, so I hand over my key. Before I’m done with the next order, she’s history. Doesn’t reappear until closing time, hands me back the key, and she’s gone. It’s like this the next few days before it hits me she’s as allergic talking to me as I am to her. I start leaving the key inside an empty sugar bowl beside the mugs. Busy mornings, I don’t even know she’s come until I look in the bowl. Afternoons, she’s either waiting until my back is turned, or that key is magically reappearing on its own.

There’s no sign of her when I get to my darkroom each night. She doesn’t leave her prints lying around, puts everything back the way it was. Meanwhile, the girl hasn’t been coming by, so the first time I leave a note just to make sure the kid’s all right. The next night, there’s a note where I left mine, in handwriting I haven’t seen in twenty years. My heart starts pounding like it’s mail call after four weeks of night duty on Termite Hill, Lilly’s last letter rubbed to pieces in my pocket, the memorized bits looping in my head to block out the sound of the Chinese. It’s so real, that feeling. Then it’s just me in the darkroom again with Lilly’s note, so I pick up a pencil and I write her one back.