“I don’t know if it is or isn’t.”

We didn’t speak for a time. The shop was quiet, nearly empty. The two baristas behind the counter were popping towels at each other and yawning.

I didn’t know enough to argue one way or another. And whatever had caused the barmy talk I’d heard from her, medication or anything else, it had been an unhappy demonstration. I said, “You and Oscar and Barb were talking about her money problems.” He nodded. “And now you’re talking about it with me. Why?”

“So you’ll know. So you can help her.”

“I don’t see how anybody can help. I guess we can try to get her to the conference so she gets paid for it.”

“That won’t be enough to make much difference. Not for long.”

I said, “I don’t feel comfortable talking about her like this. When she isn’t here.”

“I understand that, but it’s important. She might lose her house.”

I couldn’t imagine Viridian living anywhere else. I wanted everything to stay the same, and of course nothing ever did. It was selfish and sentimental of me to think that we would all live forever, and that Viridian would always preside over us, gracious and untroubled. But who could blame me for it?

The next thing Boone said was, “How much do you know about Mathias?”

“A little.” He seemed to be waiting for me to demonstrate how much, or how little. “He was a poet your mother knew.”

“Knew.”

“They were together. They were lovers. He was brilliant.”

“Do you think he was? Brilliant?” I must have hesitated. Boone said, “She left my father to go back to Mathias. She left me, too. I guess I’m wondering if it was a fair trade, you know, our little paltry human happiness for great art.”

“I don’t think I can decide that for you.”

“He was nuts.”

“He had mental health issues. He committed suicide.”

“Everybody seems to know that part,” Boone said. “It feeds into the cliché that artists are wild and crazy and you have to let them get away with stuff because of their talent.” He raised his eyebrows, either kidding or pretending to be.

“I don’t believe that.” I had my own ideas about it by now. “Every poet’s different. But they’re all tuned into another frequency. They hear things we don’t.”

“Like dogs.”

I was not amused.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was being flippant.”