I expected something with a spire and stained glass, if only because that was what the word “church” meant to me, but the church to which I was directed was a plain, plaster-covered residential house, converted to its current use many decades before. Twenty-seven years had passed since Mrs. Takahashi had last set foot inside its cool, dark interior, but that central room had remained unchanged: smelling of incense and polished wood and carrying, in its shadows, a peaceful quietude. The pews looked not unlike those of the various Catholic churches of my childhood, although in place of some bleeding Jesus at the head of the room was a kind of altar or shrine carved from dark teak upon which sat the image of the Buddha surrounded by various incense containers, small books, gongs, and the like.

When the priest appeared, he and Mrs. Takahashi exchanged greetings in Japanese. He was a diminutive man, bald and very old, and he smiled warmly in my direction when Mrs. ­Takahashi introduced me. The conversation continued in Japanese, so that I knew nothing of what was said and eventually excused myself, returning to the blazing heat of the parking lot.

“Did she find someone to talk to?” Evelyn Wilson asked me. She had remained in the passenger seat, window rolled down, and if she perspired at all there was no indication of it.

“She’s talking to the priest,” I said. “Is he a priest? I’m not sure that’s the right word.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Thank you for driving us around. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.”

“Not really,” I said.

“What are your friends doing?”

“I don’t know anyone around here, really,” I said. “Just my gran.”

“Is that what you call her? Your gran?”

“That’s what I’ve always called her. You’re a . . . I mean, you’ve got grandchildren, right?”

She did not answer for a time, her eyes, behind those great orb-like sunglasses, staring out past me into the bright summer sunlight. Then she said, “Yes, I’ve got grandchildren.”

“What do they call you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They don’t call me anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have a relationship with them.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I mean . . . boy, I just stepped in it, didn’t I?”

“It’s all right,” she said. “My daughter Helen, her husband’s from Chicago and they both moved out there. Helen and I, well, we just don’t have a relationship.” She shook her head. “It’s one of the reasons I finally got up the courage to go talk to Kim. I thought if I could find her son then maybe I could find my grandson.”

“Because he’s the only grandchild you have left.”