Now on a hanger—on a hook, on the inside of my bathroom door—my mother’s blameless wedding dress regarded me with unlaced simplicity. The bed was neatly made for me. No naked bodies, locked together in an upside-down embrace, were reflected in the skylight. No rain, no thunder, no lightning—the storm had passed. I left a light on in the bathroom, with the door ajar—a night-light for the night groomer—and got into bed in my boxers. The skylight, partially open, was tilted toward my bed. I heard a moth, flapping against the screen, no doubt drawn to the light from my bathroom. I could also hear the zither—a zither makes ghostly music when you hear it from far away, especially “The Harry Lime Theme.”

The tread I heard on the attic stairs was too heavy a footfall for Granddaddy’s ghost—at the time of his death, the diaper man didn’t weigh as much as Little Ray. But then I reconsidered: Why should you hear a ghost’s footsteps at all? When that telltale step sharply creaked near the top of the stairs, I heard the trail groomer say, “Don’t worry, Kid—it’s just me.” Under the circumstances, this wasn’t entirely reassuring. At the time, I may have been more afraid of Molly than I was of anybody’s ghost. Molly was wearing some workout shorts and a tank top without a bra, what my mom might have slept in on a warm summer night, and the night groomer got under the sheet with me as matter-of-factly as my mother would have—notwithstanding that the final resting place for my grandfather, whose ghost we awaited, had been under a sheet.

“I don’t think Granddaddy’s ghost will be charred black, or even a little bit burnt,” I said to Molly. “Do you think ghosts look like they looked at the moment they died?” I asked her.

“I don’t think about ghosts—I don’t see ghosts, no matter what they look like or how they died,” Molly said. “I think some people see them, and some don’t,” she added.

“My mom sees them, and she’s always asking me if I’ve seen them, but I’ve only started to see them,” I explained to Molly.

“I just know I’m not going to Aspen, or nowhere near that hotel your mother never stops talking about. There are plenty of other ski towns and hotels to go to,” the night groomer told me.

“The Hotel Jerome,” I said—as reverentially as possible, given the history.

“You couldn’t get me to go there for breakfast,” Molly said.