Kip looks at the floor.

“Is it a secret?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You know a lot about secrets, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’m your mother’s sister, all right? I’m here to do whatever she would do, if she were here. I’m a pretty good listener, if you don’t mind my bragging, and I can keep a secret, too.”

Kip looks up. “When Dad brought us home from school yesterday, someone had been inside the apartment.”

“Like a burglar?”

“I guess. But he didn’t steal anything. I couldn’t tell, but Dad knew. Dad went into his office to make sure his things were all there. I thought he looked scared. And then he came out again and that’s when he went down to the shops and came back with the vodka.”

As I listen to this spare account, and stare into my nephew’s serious dark blue eyes, I feel as if I’m looking at one of those trick drawings. You know the ones I mean. You think it’s a profile of an old man, say, but then someone says, Don’t you see the beautiful young woman in the old-fashioned dress? And the man’s big nose becomes a bustle or something, and the curls of his beard become her tumbling hair, and even though the drawing hasn’t changed—the strokes of pen remain exactly the same—you realize it’s a different picture altogether than the one you saw first.

I fold my arms and look around me. I assumed the mess was the result of a drunken rage, Digby coming apart because of guilt while his wife struggled in the throes of labor. But now the scattered papers and open drawers suggest a different story. Digby’s drunken binge speaks of another kind of despair.

Kip stands before me in the tiny room, wearing his drawn, pale face. He needs me to do something. He needs me to hold myself together. He needs me to take charge of this disaster.

“I’ll tell you what. If you can do your best to tidy things up in the living room, I’ll tidy things up in here. Then we’ll put your father in bed for some rest and go visit your mother and your baby brother in the hospital, all right?”

For a second, I imagine he might hug me. Instead, he takes a deep breath, nods, and leaves the room. I light myself a cigarette and start to work. An hour later, I’ve put everything in order, more or less, but I haven’t found anything you might call incriminating.

On the other hand, if the KGB’s searched the place, they’ve probably already found it.