She was still beaming, so apparently it hadn’t been the worst reaction. “It’s on Hollywood Boulevard. I found out about it from Dorothy and Lillian—”

“Did you?”

“Yes. It’s a great place,” she said, and she began to describe the interior: not stuffy, like normal churches, but warm and friendly and devoted to serving the unique spiritual needs of those who have succeeded in the film industry. “I won’t get in your hair so much. They have a women’s group.”

“I see,” he said.

“Are you mad?”

“Are you?”

“No, Charlie.” She risked another laugh.

“And what does it cost?” Chaplin asked.

“That’s the good part—nothing.”

“Unless you choose to donate?” It wasn’t even a question he had wanted to ask.

Mildred’s smile slipped away and reappeared like a star peeking from behind a late cloud. “Of course, Charlie.”

“And what’s it called, this church?”

“Saint Lawrence the Divine. They believe in laughter.”

Chaplin was suddenly aware of Mildred’s mink. She had several of them now, and this one was gray, and ended at the hips, and had a matching hat, which she was not wearing. He was not judging the expense, the way he often did, and he was giving himself a great deal of credit for being so rational.

She handed him a brochure. The paper was slick. Chaplin read it, but his eyes bounced off as if the text were made of rubber, and all he could think about was Frances.

“You see, they believe that laughter is the best solution to life’s problems.”

“Do they?”

“So we’re encouraged to respond to adversity with a smile,” Mildred said, but her voice was beginning to turn in on itself, as if she had walked into a cul-de-sac she hadn’t known was there. “Charlie?”

The brochure was open in his lap. “‘Saint Lawrence,’” he read, “‘our patron, was burnt to death on a gridiron in A.D. 253. He is said to have called out, in the midst of his agony, “Turn me over. I’m done on this side.” This rare example of humor from a saint sets our example for …’” He skipped some paragraphs. “‘The unique spiritual challenges for a successful player in the film industry …’

“Mildred,” he said. Within himself, he felt buildings collapsing, and people crushed at their desks, the sun blotted out, landscapes thrown into shadow.

“I just,” Mildred said, swallowing, “wanted to make you happy with me.”

He shook his head.

“I thought you, of all people …”

“Take the car, and go buy the baby something, a blanket or something. Then go laugh. Go find some people to laugh with.”

He left the apartment and stood on the porch, surveying the half-destroyed set, the orchestra at rest, the new museum set to which new risers and canvas backdrops were being pegged, the throngs of extras, and he walked sightlessly toward Alf.