She senses Janice’s eye on her and turns her face and says, “It’s so embarrassing, isn’t it? My turning up like this. Embarrassing to me, embarrassing to you.” She has a plump upper lip that gives her smile a childish, questioning quality. She looks easy to bruise.

“Well,” Janice pronounces, back in her wing chair with a fortified mug whose healing tang settles her more broadly in the pose of authority. She vowed years ago never to let herself run to fat like her mother did but she did admire the way in her last years, her husband gone, her generation dying off, Mother took charge of things, keeping a grip on the family pocketbook, standing up for her notions of decency and propriety. Living here in this house, Janice feels still surrounded by her—Bessie Springer’s adamant unchanging furniture, her fixed sense of her own worth. Koerner mulishness, Mother would call it when being funny at her own expense. “Maybe that was your mother’s idea, to embarrass everybody,” Janice tells the girl. “What earthly good did she think telling you all this would do, at your age? Make mischief, is the sum of it. And who’s to say it’s true, any of it?” Though she feels it is—a whiff of Harry, a pale glow, an unsettling drift comes off this girl, this thirty-nine-year-old piece of evidence.

“Oh, she wouldn’t have made it up, it poured out of her. It wasn’t her nature, to make things up. She used to say of these detective novels she was always reading, ‘How do they make all this up? They must have a screw loose.’ And she showed me my birth certificate, at a hospital in Pottstown. ‘Father unknown,’ it said.”

“Well, that’s it, unknown,” Janice presses on, like a lawyer urging a case she knows is bad.

“You asked why,” Annabelle says. “I think she thought”—suddenly tears reflect light in her eyes, the plump upper lip quivers out of control—“you people could help me, somehow.” She laughs at her own tears, quickly swipes at her face with expert hands, hands used to giving—rubbing, holding, patting, seizing—a nurse’s care. “I was so alone, she must have thought. I haven’t had a serious relationship for years. And my brothers, Scott went to Seattle and Morris to Delaware—he was the angriest when she sold the farm and moved in with me in Brewer. He had thought he could work the place and live on it but it wouldn’t have been fair for her to have left it all to him. Not that a farm that size could support anybody any more. Even my dad—even Frank—had to run the township school buses to make ends meet.”