I knew that in Washington, D.C., my high school classmates were at the Lincoln Memorial, and their laughter was so shrill I could hear it in the Catskill Mountains over the churning sound of the machine and the clicking of glasses being washed in a stream of hot, hissing water. I thought of Carolyn and wondered if she missed me as much at that moment of loud, shrill laughter as she had at Penn Station. Or had the tears dried quickly? Had she found the waiting shoulder of Gary Reeder, offering a tender, pretended comfort? She had dated Gary before dating me and he had slipped into the seat beside her on the train as she was waving to me. I saw him smile triumphantly. His hand shot up and he flipped a bird toward me.

The memory of Carolyn’s body against mine, her arms tight around my back, her hands stroking my shoulders, the warmth of her breath on my face, made me shudder. I dropped a glass and it shattered at my feet.

A voice snapped at me, “Was ist los?”

I turned to see a man standing in front of the swinging door. He was dressed in oversize trousers, a wrinkled shirt, and cardigan sweater that drooped far below his belt. He had narrow shoulders and a slender chest and a soft, pillowed belly. His hair was gray and thinning and he had it oiled and plastered in a straight backward combing, except for a few curls over his ears. He wore a hard, accusing stare on his face. A long, unlit cigar dangled in his hand.

“Was ist los?” he said again.

“Ah, excuse me?”

“Mein Gott,” he growled.

“I—I don’t speak German,” I said.

“Dummkopf,” he mumbled. He pointed with his cigar at the glass on the floor. “Ker das auf.”

“Sir?”

He made a sweeping motion. “Ker das auf.”

“Sweep it up?” I said.

The sweeping motion became more vigorous, pulling him toward me. He said again, “Dummkopf.”

I nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir. Dummkopf. Sweep it up.” I mimicked his motion and pointed toward the glass.

A glimmer flashed in his eyes. “Ja, ja. Das ist gut.”

I knew that ja meant “yes.” It was in the way the man’s head bobbed when he said it.

I said, “Ja.”

I thought I saw him bite a smile. He bit, instead, his cigar and he looked at me pitifully. “Dummkopf,” he muttered, then turned and pushed through the swinging door. The door slapped gently at the jamb—twice, three times, then stopped. I thought I heard a giggle from behind the door, but I knew I was mistaken. Madmen did not giggle. I hurriedly found a broom and swept up the glass.