It was now midafternoon and the heat radiated from the sidewalks and the brick of the buildings. It was like walking through an oven. I passed a horse that had collapsed while pulling a cart loaded with barrels. Small boys stood around staring curiously while the driver cursed and attempted to free it from the harness as it lay dying. I stared at it with pity, wishing there was something I could do, but dead horses were an all too frequent sight in New York in summer. As my train bore me northward again I thought longingly of Central Park and the boating lake and ice cream sodas and I told myself that when I was a married lady, I wouldn’t have to venture out on hot afternoons if I didn’t want to.

When I alighted, I came down the steps to a lively scene. Small boys had set off a fire hydrant and were running through the jet of water, squealing with glee while a constable tried to drive them off, and grownups stood around shouting encouragement and applauding. I stood watching for a while, enjoying the feel of the spray floating toward me, before I dragged myself off. I turned back once, as the scene brought back memories of my childhood in Ireland. I recalled a small skinny girl running through the spray as giant waves crashed onto the beach, daring my brothers to follow me. Then, of course, I remembered the beating I had received afterward for running around in my underclothes and for leading my brothers astray. Life was not all easy, even in those days. I sighed and set off to find the address on Ninety-fifth Street and Park.

I suppose I was expecting a hospital, but the red-and-white brick house wasn’t bigger than those surrounding it. In fact I would have walked right past it if a polished brass plate to one side of the front door hadn’t caught my eye. It said ASHER CLINIC. Dr. Frederick Asher. I rang the doorbell and it was opened by a nurse in a smart, crisply starched uniform.

“Yes?” she said, appraising me and my somewhat crumpled skirt and cheap straw hat.

“I believe you have a Mrs. Harry Houdini here at the moment?”

“No,” she said. “There is nobody of that name here. I’m sorry.” She went to close the door.

“Wait.” I attempted to put my foot into the closing door. “This is the address she gave me in her note. I was told her doctor wanted her to stay here and rest.”

The nurse was staring at me in that impassive way that only nurses can stare. Suddenly it dawned on me. Houdini wasn’t their real name. I tried to recall the conversation in the dressing room. Bess had laughed when I suggested that her husband was Italian. She had said that he was Jewish and Houdini was his stage name and his real name was . . .