“Sure. Six—no, make it twelve.” After all, I’d probably be getting condolence callers. Oh, God, what a horrible, horrible thought.

I shopped without an appetite, which always makes for an interesting icebox. Ozzie helped me carry the stuff to the sidecar. I was afraid he’d bring that up, what was I doing with the Ticker’s bike, or was she here? But I complimented him on his hair, and the subject didn’t come up.

It was my apartment. It was just my apartment, and nothing had changed, and maybe if I went up to the roof to work on my tan, maybe everything would start over and I could make it come out different this time. I put the food away and started to clean house.

The laundry and the bedclothes went first, and the rugs and towels. I separated them into loads on the picnic table in the back yard, and started the first one thrashing in the gas-powered washer on the porch. Then I took the cotton mattress out and beat it, and left it to air in the sun, put another load in and hung the first one to dry. I went back upstairs and took a broom to the cobwebs in the corners, moved all the furniture (there wasn’t really very much) into the hall and swept the floor. Downstairs again, to tend the next load of laundry and get the bucket and the scrub mop.

I washed the windows, which I could almost sort of remember how to do. I was surprised at how well the wood floor boards responded to the mop; I’d have sworn they’d never been that color while I lived there.

By then I needed another shower, but there was no point in having one before I finished. I was careful not to think of how nice it would be to use Sunny’s shower again, where the water was actually hot. I changed into cutoffs and dropped last night’s shirt and jeans off the upstairs porch railing onto the last load of laundry. There went another piece of history; there went another inch of hair.

I came back down the hall to find that someone had threaded his way through my furniture and was knocking on my front door. It was a tall, thin person with long white hair, and for a second in the dim hallway I didn’t recognize him. But he turned when I came near, and I saw Captain Hawthorn’s long face and severe features. My heart gave an ugly kick, but he smiled when he saw me, that annoying warm paternal smile, and I relaxed.

“Captain Hawthorn. Hullo.” He put out his hand, so I gave him mine. I was suddenly afraid that this might be a sympathy visit—but no, it was the wrong smile. “Come on in—oh, I guess you’d better bring a chair.”