When I reached my apartment, I saw that Mattie's car was gone and Henry's kitchen was dark. I wasn't sure what to make of that. The temperature was somewhere in the eighties, almost unheard of at this hour. It was still light out and the sidewalks shimmered with accumulated heat. The air felt sluggish, with no movement to speak of and humidity probably hovering at 95 percent. You'd think it would rain, but this was mid-July and we'd be stuck with drought conditions until late November – if the weather broke for us at all. My apartment was stifling. I sat on my porch step, flapping a breeze at my face with the folded newspaper. While most Southern California properties have sprinkler systems, few have central air conditioning. I was going to have to haul a fan out of the closet and set it up in the loft before I hit the sack.

Nights like this little kids toss aside nighties and pajamas and sleep in their underpants. My aunt Gin always swore I'd be cooler if I did a 180 turn on the bed, feet on the pillow, my head propped on the tangle of covers wadded at the foot. She was remarkably permissive, this woman who raised me, having never given birth to any children of her own. On those rare California nights when it was too hot to sleep, she'd tell me I could stay up all night even if I happened to have school the next day. We'd lie there reading our books in our respective bedrooms, the trailer so quiet I could hear her turning the pages. What I treasured was the heady sense that we were breaking the rules. I knew "real" parents probably wouldn't tolerate such license, but I saw it as one small compensation for my orphaned state. Inevitably, I'd drift off to sleep. Aunt Gin would tiptoe in, slip the book out of my hands, and douse the light. I'd wake later to find the room dark and the sheet laid over me. Odd, the memories that linger long after a life is gone.

Finally, just as the streetlights came on, I heard the telephone ring. I pulled myself to my feet and scooted into the apartment, snatching up the handset. '"Lo?"

"This is Cheney."

"Well, hi. I didn't expect to hear from you. What's up?"

There was sufficient noise in the background I had to press a hand to my ear to hear what he was saying. "What?"

"Have you had dinner yet?"

I'd eaten a box of popcorn at the movies, but I didn't think that counted. "I wouldn't call it that."

"Good. I'll be there in two minutes and we'll go out and grab a bite."

"Where are you?"

"Rosie's. I figured you'd be here, but I was wrong again."

"Maybe I'm not as predictable as you thought."

"I doubt that. You own a sun dress?"

"Well no, but I have a skirt."