Mrs. Johnson came back to the door and he cut himself off in mid-sentence. “Mother’s lying down. She’s with a friend, but she’d like to know if Daddy said anything special this morning when he talked to you. Can you come on in?”

Mr. Contreras, beet-colored at the idea of talking to Mrs. Mohr while she was lying down, tried excusing himself. I grabbed his arm and propelled him forward.

The bedroom scene was actually as chaste as could be. Instead of the normal pint-sized bungalow room, Mrs. Mohr occupied a master suite. A ruffled duvet hid the bed. Mrs. Mohr was slumped in a large chintz armchair, her feet on a matching footstool. She was dressed for day, in stockings and heels, her face fully made-up, so that the furrows cut by tears and terror emphasized her age. The neighbor sat next to her in a straight-backed chair. A pitcher of iced tea and a glass were at Mrs. Mohr’s elbow.

The curtains, done in the same bright floral pattern, were pulled back so that only white gauze covered the windows. A set of French doors led to a patio. Beyond it I could see a swimming pool. A remarkable addition for a South Side home.

“Here are some more friends for you, Gladys,” the neighbor said, getting up. “I’m going to go home for a while, but I’ll bring some supper over to you later.”

“You don’t have to do that, Judy,” Mrs. Mohr said in the thread of a voice. “Cindy here can take care of me.”

Cindy, Kerry, Kim—all those cute, girlish names parents love to bestow on their daughters, which don’t suit us when we’re middle-aged and grief-stricken. I thanked my mother’s memory for her fierce correction of anyone who called me Vicky.

When Judy left I moved over to Mrs. Mohr’s side. “I’m V. I. Warshawski, Mrs. Mohr, and this is Mr. Contreras, who used to work with your husband. I’m so sorry about his death. And sorry we have to bother you.”

Mrs. Mohr looked at me apathetically. “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter, really. I just wanted to know what the two of them talked about this morning. It seemed like afterward he was angry and upset, and I hate to have to remember him like that.”

“It looks as though you have a lot to remember him by,” I said, indicating the room and the pool beyond with a sweep of my hand. “He seems to have been a wonderful provider.”

“It was when he retired,” Mrs. Mohr explained. “He worked hard all his life and earned himself a good pension. Young people complain nowadays. Like all those niggers, they just want something for nothing. They don’t understand you have to work hard, the way Eddie and I did, to earn the nice things in life.”