“Well, then I don’t know if you can understand. You’re walking down the street and if your child gets hit by a meteorite, it’s your fault. You should have done something about it. You shouldn’t have walked on that street, or on that side of it, or on her left instead of on her right. You’re her parent. You’re not allowed to let her die.”

He owned a memorable scowl. “So what then? You tour from one dead town to another—”

“Towns that Linney and I never went to. Towns where she was never likely to go. So there are no memories there, real or imagined. Linney isn’t there, wouldn’t have ever been there, she’s missing nothing there. . . . I don’t see her friends growing up, don’t see the high school she would have gone to, don’t meet the boys she might have kissed. And that’s the prescription, Bob. If you have a better plan for me, just let me know.”

“It’s no way to live,” he said.

“It’s the only way I can, Bob. And I don’t know that I’m right to even be doing that.”

He got up. “I’ll send your wife in. After that, you’re free to go. You ever start another fight on my island, I guarantee you’ll stay in one place for a while, and it won’t be the Hotel Claremont.” He indicated the Popsicle in my hand. “Make sure you leave me the wrapper when you’re done with that, okay? I’m saving up for a Schwinn racer.”

He left the room and a minute later Nancy was allowed in. “Nice,” she said, appraising my face.

She opened her makeup kit. I’d last seen that case in the days when her motionless pose as Lady Godiva had been the best frozen treat at the Fourteenth Street Theatre. She’d been seventeen at the time, although she’d claimed she was eighteen. I forgave her the lie, since I’d told her I was twenty-five. At nineteen and eighteen respectively, we’d been among the youngest parents in the maternity ward of Columbia Hospital, although back then it wasn’t that unusual for people to get married and have kids straight out of high school.

I didn’t mean to be an ingrate, but I said, “Did you have to tell the lieutenant about Linney?”

She set out a few tubes of makeup. “He was going to arrest you. His understanding was that you had started the fight. He told me what the sideshow exhibit was and I felt that if I explained to him, he might not bring you up on charges.”

“I don’t like sympathy,” I muttered.

“No fooling,” she said. “Lift your head a bit.”