Hazel’s older daughter, Marilyn, a pathologist, and possibly a lesbian, living in a women’s co-op in the east end of the city, phoned and, drawing on the sort of recollection that Hazel already had sutured, said, “Dad would not have approved. I know it, you know it. I mean, Christ, flogging pots and pans, it’s so public. People crowding around. Idle curiosity and greed, a free show, just hanging in for a teaspoon of bloody quiche lorraine or whatever’s going. Freebies. People off the street, bums, anybody. Christ. Another thing, you’ll have to get a whole new wardrobe for a job like that. Eye shadow so thick it’s like someone’s given you a punch. Just ask yourself what Dad would have said. I know what he would have said, he would have said thumbs down, nix on it.”

Hazel’s other daughter, Rosie, living in British Columbia, married to a journalist, wrote: “Dear Mom, I absolutely respect what you’re doing and admire your courage. But Robin and I can’t help wondering if you’ve given this decision enough thought. You remember how after the funeral, back at your place with Grandma and Auntie Maxine and Marilyn, we had that long talk about the need to lie fallow for a bit and not rush headlong into things and making major decisions, just letting the grieving process take its natural course. Now here it is, a mere six weeks later, and you’ve got yourself involved with these cookware people. I just hope you haven’t signed anything. Robin says he never heard of Kitchen Kult and it certainly isn’t listed on the boards. We’re just anxious about you, that’s all. And this business of working on commission is exploitative to say the least. Ask Marilyn. You’ve still got your shorthand and typing and, with a refresher course, you probably could find something, maybe Office Overload would give you a sense of your own independence and some spending money besides. We just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.”

At first, Hazel’s working day went more or less like this: at seven-thirty her alarm went off; the first five minutes were the worst; such a steamroller of sorrow passed over her that she was left as flat and lifeless as the queen-size mattress that supported her. Her squashed limbs felt emptied of blood, her breath came out thin and cool and quiet as ether. What was she to do? How was she to live her life? She mouthed these questions to the silky blanket binding, rubbing her lips frantically back and forth across the stitching. Then she got up, showered, did her hair, made coffee and toast, took a vitamin pill, brushed her teeth, made up her face (going easy on the eye shadow), and put on her coat. By eight-thirty she was in her car and checking her city map.