After Uncle Phil had consumed his share of ice cream and left, she called Becky and asked if she could come over for an hour or so, and when Becky knocked on the door, Teresa opened it and said, “The power’s out,” before the girl could make the observation herself. Teresa already had her purse in her hands. “Be good,” she said to the children. She walked along the concrete balcony to the steps, followed them down to the street, and walked to the corner. There were three people waiting for a bus: two men seated on the bench and a woman wearing an aqua-blue dress, with a matching pillbox hat, standing next to the sign. The woman was sweating, smoking a cigarette, and waving her free hand like a large feather in front of her throat. Teresa stood next to her. She commented on the heat, and the woman smiled. Then Teresa asked her if she might have an extra cigarette. The woman’s eyes ran the entire length of Teresa’s body, as if she suspected Teresa was not a real smoker. But she reached into her purse and gave her one, then produced a flame from the corner of her cigarette case. “Thank you,” Teresa said. She closed off her throat and pushed the smoke out of her mouth. “That’s lovely.” The woman gave her a strange, almost worried look, then turned and resumed watching for the bus. I’m just not cut out for it, Dermot had written. How long would Becky wait for her to return before panicking? How long before Becky found Uncle Phil’s number stuck to the refrigerator and called him, and how long before he, assessing the situation in his blunt and practical way, called the police? The thought was like a train speeding through Teresa’s mind, and she caught herself smiling as the ash of the neglected cigarette dropped onto the sidewalk. Changes in sound, changes in light, a whole new cast of characters. “Is this you?” the woman in the aqua-blue dress asked, for the bus had arrived, was standing in front of them, and Teresa hadn’t even noticed.

It’s August. Sunday evening. She’s in her apartment, her children are asleep, she has written by candlelight the date, the city. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ragazzino, You don’t know who I am. We’ve never met. But I’m your daughter-in-law, Teresa Ragazzino, and your son, Dermot, walked out on me. “Honey,” the woman asked, “is this you?”