“She’s here! Your mother’s here. I can always feel it,” Mrs. Always said. She meant it. She wasn’t lying. Her thoughts unwound like pink girlish ribbons, garnishes of sentimentality twirling on them everywhere: She believed wholeheartedly and with grim determination in Mother Love as the strongest force on earth, or anywhere else for that matter; and now she was convinced that she felt that force materializing. She listened inwardly. She sweated; an indignity gladly accepted for the sake of such a worthy task. And finally she saw a mental image. She whispered, “I see her. Your mother. In a lovely blue gown. She’s standing to the left, over there. She says ‘Give my dear son my love. Roger, I’m with you still’”

Mrs. Always’s misty, half-closed eyes lit on Roger’s face so that he tried to freeze his expression into an acceptable one for the occasion.

“Your mother says that your father is here, too,” Mrs. Always said. “And so you see, true love is reunited.”

“She and father never got along,” Roger muttered. He wanted to ask, “What about that old reprobate she took off with at an age when she should have known better? Is he there too?”

But his sister, Anna, said in a small girlish voice, “Mama? Is it really you?”

Roger blushed uncomfortably. His sister was past fifty, for God’s sake, and she hadn’t called Lydia “Mama” since she was a girl.

“Is it really you?” Anna asked. She knew it wasn’t, she told herself; but suddenly she felt very forlorn and childlike—overweight and dyed red hair to the contrary—and the room seemed depressing and sad in contrast to the medium’s face, which was filled with a saintly innocence that she certainly wasn’t faking. Was she?

“Your mother says that she and your father are both happy,” Mrs. Always said. “Your mother is standing by me now. A man is with her. He’s medium-sized with white hair and blue eyes. Is that your father?”

“No. He died quite young,” Roger said meanly.

“Oh, well, maybe he’s your mother’s father. Even mediums can’t always be sure. He died of a severe illness.”

Christ, most people do, Roger thought. He was ready to get up and leave.

“He worked in—leather. Yes, that’s it,” Mrs. Always said. Roger and Anna both gasped. Anna grabbed her lace handkerchief and buried her face in it; it was drenched with perfume, and the scent made Roger sneeze violently.

“Oh, dear! Do be still,” Mrs. Always cried. “You’ll ruin the vibrations.”