Is she remarried? The possibility never occurred to me. I feel like hitting redial. I’d say, Teresa, just for the record, I don’t think our marriage was a complete bust. You’d at least agree with that, wouldn’t you? And then I’m remembering how, for the first few years after I left, I received a card from the kids on my birthday, and on Father’s Day. It occurs to me that those cards were probably Teresa’s idea. She probably followed each of them around the house with a pen, haranging them to sign.

I pour a little more Cutty Sark into the glass. The stars are brilliant, even if they’re all stirred up. I dial information in Jacksonville.

“Frankie Kerrigan,” I say.

But there’s no Frankie listed. No Francis. No F. Kerrigan. He’s either moved or unlisted, or Teresa was lying. If she was, I can’t say I blame her, but the thought irks me. I don’t know where else to look for Frankie, so I decide to try the rest of them.

Matt, as far as I know, is still in Utica. I have the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, the pen poised over my palm. I give the operator the name, but there’s no listing for a Matthew Ragazzino in Utica or the surrounding area. I ask the man if there are any other Ragazzinos listed and he says there are around a hundred.

“What about a Dermot?” I ask. No Dermot. I take a shot in the dark. “How about Karen Ragazzino?”

I hear clicking for a few moments. “No sir.”

“What about in general, then?”

“You mean all of New York?”

“The country,” I say. “There can’t be that many Karen Ragazzinos in America, can there?”

“We search by area code.”

“Can’t you just put in a name and zip across the whole database? I’ll bet the FBI can do that.”

“This is Information,” the man says.

“All right. Bear with me a minute.” I try to think of where else Karen might have landed. D.C. Hollywood. These kids could be anywhere, doing who knows what. They could turn up in People magazine tomorrow, for all I know.

“Sir,” the man says, “do you need another number?”