This week’s notices included promises made by people who offered to look after children, teach yoga and fly tying, purchase military medals, form choirs or prayer groups, administer safe tattoos, predict the end of the world, practise meditation, provide instruction in ventriloquism, sell lotion guaranteed to soften cracked heels, exchange seeds, teach sermon writing, look after cats, run a boot camp, join laughter groups and divulge foolproof ways of making money. One notice asked for extras for Friday night poker. Another hinted at “discreet” services; Marvin must not have spied that. An index card advertised Sam the Man with Truck. Some ads required severe editing. Half a dozen were posted by people who needed or offered the services of a handyman. She read one of these and laughed aloud: Handy Andy, supplies own tools. She was not taken in by that.

Her own notice was clearly written and direct:

GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP

Weekly: Tuesdays 7–8:30 p.m.

Backroom at Cassie’s (Cassandra’s Café—38 Beamer Street).

First meeting September 18. All welcome.

Cassie’s was located two blocks from the grocery store. Anyone from the east side would know its whereabouts; anyone coming in from farms or suburbs on the west side could find it easily enough. In recent years, the café had become a popular drop-in place. Cass Witley, Hazzley’s friend, was generous about allowing people to use the backroom, at no charge, for community purposes. During this morning’s phone call, she’d assured Hazzley that the space was available Tuesday evenings. Hazzley, new to this sort of venture, booked the backroom for four weeks. Cass had told her she could use one of the round tables for the meetings. She had three, of different sizes.

Hazzley rechecked her notice for precision and inclusivity. She had slit fourteen tear strips along the lower edge, each printed with address, time and date of the first meeting. She did not include her personal phone number and email address because she wanted nothing to do with crank calls or lunatics. She had no firm plan for the meetings, but she would not schedule talks on how to do your own banking (for women whose recently deceased husbands had run the entire show) or how to boil an egg (for men whose late wives had fed them three squares a day). She would not invite earnest guest speakers who would expound with PowerPoint. She wanted nothing more than a quiet and uncluttered setting. Cass’s backroom could provide that, along with coffee, tea, maybe a glass of wine—all of which could be purchased at the café. Hazzley envisioned honest men and women who would support one another, share conversation and companionship. She admitted to herself that her expectations were vague. Life’s events would unfold. After four weeks, if participants wanted to continue, she would rebook the room and carry on.

She would also keep track of events in her journal, a practice she’d kept up for fifty years. She had never shaken the desire to write things down. For a long time, she’d been making her living by the pen.