“You know, Mother …” It interrupted her, which made him feel awful. “That’s Helmen’s barbershop, over there. I used to go get my haircut there. About a year ago, I had to stop going, and I have a man come to the studio instead. It’s social—I have him do it in the courtyard, and I sign papers, and people joke with me—but it’s lonely, you know. Even so, it’s lonely.” Helmen’s, the brick façade, the transom over which a young boy had once slithered on a truth-or-dare, spending the night crying among the fallen hair. Helmen’s with the four chairs, discussions about how the ponies were running—all out of Chaplin’s life now, because when he last sat in the chair for a shave, by the time the hot towels came off, there was a crowd outside. They didn’t seem to want anything except to see him, which made it more frightening.

It had gotten warm in the last few minutes. Chaplin was beginning to sweat. Hannah’s pace was slow but steady. She’s not that old, Chaplin thought. She’s only fifty-four.

“Here,” he said.

They were by Taylor’s Market on Sunset. There were heaps of oranges and apples and pears in bins along the front, and inside, where it was warmer, there were long shelves stacked with cans of food. To the side was a delicatessen case, whose metal racks were groaning with meats and cheese. His mother raised her glasses. She fell silent.

“Would you like ice cream?”

She nodded.

“Two ice-cream cones,” Chaplin said with an easy smile to Mr. Taylor, behind the counter. Then he put his hands in his back pockets and rocked in place on his heels.

“You should take those glasses off, Charlie, when you’re indoors.”

He did so.

“They won’t be penny licks?”

“No, Mum.”

She watched the grocer half vanish into the standing freezer, digging his scoop into the ice-cream bin.

“Excuse me,” she said to him.

He looked up. He was about Chaplin’s age, with tired eyes that had red rims to them. He smelled not of alcohol but of a life hard-lived.

“It’s not a penny lick, is it?”

“What?”

“Hey,” Hannah said, “a penny lick? Or something diffrunt?” With an ease that sent chills down his spine, Hannah had just used Mildred’s intonations perfectly.

“What’s a penny lick?” Taylor asked.

“No, Mum. I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor. My mother is from England. A penny lick”—he tried to use his hands to describe a flower vase—“it’s a type of glass instead of a cone that— It makes the ice cream look larger and better than what you actually get.” Then, “No, Mum, here in Hollywood it’s not about penny licks—it’s all waffle cones.”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. A moment later, he handed Hannah the first cone and went back to the bin, digging more.