“That’s true,” Eady said, “but we’re changing. That’s all I can say. I can’t talk about living members.”

Klay scanned the gallery. The portraits were not only all white men, he realized, they were all dead white men.

On his next visit Klay arrived early, so Arno Tyne had directed him upstairs to wait. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the local NPR station blaring Bill Clinton’s scratchy drawl. Upon reaching the second floor he was surprised to find the ex-president sitting forward in a wingback chair, that big red nose, puffy white hair, and confident smile working cheerily on a dour William Rehnquist. Clinton was taller than he’d expected; Rehnquist was frailer. “If you like those Hush Puppies,” Clinton was saying, patting the chief justice’s bony forearm, “the chukkas with arch support will completely change your life.”

The second floor was dark and empty tonight, so Klay continued up the stairs to the top floor. He heard voices as he climbed and recognized the cadence of Eady’s low murmur set against loud, unfamiliar bursts. Klay hesitated. He had thought he’d have Eady to himself tonight. He stepped quietly, and arrived at the doorway without drawing attention.

Eady sat in an oxblood leather wingback, on the opposite side of the room, beneath a small painting. He held a pipe in one hand, and had one leg crossed over the other. He was talking to a stranger who looked to be about Eady’s age, but instead of sporting thick white hair like Eady, the man’s head was bald and dotted with liver spots. The man wore a brown suit, white dress shirt, and cowboy boots. He had a big, hard gut that looked like it could take a punch. Something about the man told Klay it had.

Still unobserved, Klay tried and failed to get a bead on the men’s relationship. Eady wore his enigmatic smile, and there was something slightly off in his companion’s loud laugh. The stranger grabbed a fistful of mixed nuts from a dish on a table between them. He raised a hand in the air and called out, “Alfred!”

Which is when they noticed Klay.

“Well, here he is,” the stranger said, dusting salt from his hands.

Klay shook Eady’s hand, reflexively making his mortician’s assessment. It was something that happened, growing up in a funeral home, working as a door greeter. Most people die of old age, and their mourners tend to be elderly also. Shake enough elderly hands and you develop an ability to intuit a person’s state of health. The grip and musculature of a handshake could give you an idea of how many years a person had left.