It is mid-April now. Martin is away—as usual—and Kat and I begin this Tuesday afternoon with a trip to the library. Then we go for a long stroll down Market Street to have ice cream, and then to a butterfly house so that Kat can see the splendor of a chrysalis and its transformation from crawling worm to beautiful butterfly.

As we start for home in the late afternoon, I congratulate myself on how well I’ve settled in to my new perspective on my life. I’ve even begun to appreciate the singleness of my devotion to merely one person—Kat—instead of having to divide my affections between spouse and child as most mothers and wives have to do. As we walk down Mission Street to catch a streetcar, stunningly gowned women and smartly dressed men emerge from carriages to dine at the Palace Hotel prior to attending the opera tonight. Enrico Caruso is in town, as the posters declare, to sing the role of Don José in Carmen. Gaily dressed skaters readying for the masked carnival tonight at the pavilion are on the streets, too, boasting about which of them will win the thousand-dollar prize. The mood downtown is festive, alight with promise.

When we arrive home at dusk, Kat heads upstairs to her room and I decide to make a cup of tea before getting started on supper. Martin has been gone for two days and I expect he will be gone for two or three more. Maybe four. I have grown accustomed to knowing very little about his stints on the road or even about his occupation as a man who assesses risk for an insurance company. He has never talked about his work, never takes calls at the house related to his job. There has never been work-related mail delivered to the house because, as he finally told me months ago, he uses a post office box for that.

I am not expecting a caller when the front bell rings. As I go to answer it, I wonder if perhaps Libby is coming by for one of her charity visits, which she still grants me from time to time. But when I open the door, standing on the mat is a petite woman with strawberry blond hair and a decidedly rounded stomach. The woman has to be seven or eight months pregnant. She also seems out of breath and maybe even lost.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Yes,” the woman says. “At least I hope you can. Is this the home of Martin Hocking?”

“Yes, it is. I am Mrs. Hocking.”

“Is Mr. Hocking at home?”

How odd it is to have someone at the door asking for Martin. No one ever comes calling for him.

“I’m afraid he’s not,” I reply. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The visitor seems hesitant to speak her reason for coming. “Would you happen to know my husband, James Bigelow?” she asks several seconds later.

I shake my head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”