I walked over and placed the hatbox on Thelma’s desk. “Kathleen, the kinds of dramas Nelson wrote, no one’s doing those now. There’s no The Best Years of Our Lives, or How Green Was My Valley. His great, Oscar-winning film, The Ice Age, would never get made now. Everyone wants epics or musicals so bright they hurt your eyes.”

“On the Waterfront did a clean sweep at the Oscars this year. Look, please, please, Roxanne, just read these. My girls are teens now—they’re hoping to go to college. They ought to have something from their father’s estate, something from his long career.” She gulped with emotion.

“Nelson’s name can never go on anything ever again,” I said, regretting the cruel finality of it, but what other choice was there?

“I don’t expect his name to be on it. Someone else’s name. A front. Like you did for Max. No one else would know.”

“Then what can your daughters be proud of if they can’t say it’s their father’s work?”

“They would know. We would know. There’s six scripts there. The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea is the best thing he ever wrote. It will kill you, it’s so . . .” Kathleen bit her lip, collected herself, and placed one gloved hand primly over the other. “Two of these scripts aren’t even finished. Nelson was in such despair for a long time. Especially after the Committee came after Simon and he had to leave the country. Nelson and Simon were true comrades. Nelson was dedicated to social justice. He was a good man, and a good father, no matter what else he was.” She rose, walked to the desk, opened the box, and lifted the scripts out of rustling tissue paper, as though they were newborn babes. “It’s wonderful work. He really was so very talented, you know. I’ll accept whatever you say, Roxanne. I just ask that you read them. Please.”

“You came all the way from Phoenix to bring me these?”

“I should have called ahead. I’m sorry. I thought if I saw you . . .”

“Can we get you something, Kathleen? A cup of tea, maybe? Coffee?”

“A drink?” said Thelma.

“No. Thank you. I have to get back home. I have to catch the afternoon train.”

“You want a ride to Union Station?”

“I came here in a cab. I can take a cab back. Could you call me one, Thelma?”

Thelma reached into the drawer and took out her purse. “I’ll drive you.”