“Do you like it here?” I asked.

She looked around the kitchen, then rolled her shoulders. “It’s all right.”

“Your father was an important man here. He was even on the city council,” I told her. “He helped start the ragweed wars.”

“What was that?” she asked seriously.

“I guess it does sound a little strange, doesn’t it?” I said. “This area used to be famous as a haven for people with hay fever. If a ragweed came up, somebody yanked it out of the ground and destroyed it. Your father was in charge.”

“He went around pulling up ragweeds? Is that what he done? I thought he drove a garbage truck.”

“He did,” I explained. “But he was involved in a lot of things.”

Shirley nodded thoughtfully, as though she were trying to imagine her father in some official uniform that was neatly pressed and decorated with ribbons and medals signifying his heroism against ragweed. After a moment, she nodded the thought away and looked around the kitchen again.

“Won’t take but a couple of minutes to put some eggs on,” she said. “I fry them sunny-up in butter and high-broil them for a couple of seconds. Best eggs you ever had.”

I suddenly felt sorry for Shirley Benton Bagwell. She did not understand anything I had said about her father. He was dead. She did not remember him. That was all she needed to know.

“I think I’ll pass,” I said. “But I appreciate the offer. I’ll just take my coffee and go sit on the porch for a few minutes. Take in the morning air.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Glad to meet you, Shirley.”

“Same,” she replied.

The girl on the bicycle was still in the street, still turning in slow figure-8 circles. I sat in a chair and watched her, but she did not look up. Her eyes were on the pavement in a mesmerized stare. She was graceful and pretty, her long blond hair billowing off her shoulders in the slight morning breeze, the daydreamer’s look of monotony resting easy, and a little sad, on her face.