Soon we were tied up again; soon we drove off to a five-course dinner in a private room. It was a costly club called The Thunderbird. Mother first stopped off at their underfurnished stucco hacienda; upstairs she slid into a cream-colored silk dress with a Chinese collar and frogs all down its tailored front. The wrought-iron staircase was spiral and, descending, she took full advantage. Mom had put on lipstick and maybe a little eye-stuff. Now night was here, sixty-four started looking forty-two. Mother, ashore, acted gracious and overconfident, even tony. The staff at the T-bird seemed genuinely glad to see her, and the maître d’ nodded my way. “You must be Grace’s author.”

We were led to a white leather banquette; it featured table settings for seven. One more than we, the living, required. I kept casting an eye on the revolving door, expecting some surprise guest. Hoping.

Mostly Grace interviewed my girls about what foods they liked and what were their favorite colors and what young folks read these days; she asked them both to map out all they really hoped for in a boyfriend. And I heard things from them I’d never guessed. This woman kept pressing up against everything held in common with two granddaughters she’d never met, girls of a mystery race Grace would never know or care to guess.

Cold cucumber soup sprinkled with chopped mint and dill. Soon as we finished, three waiters appeared. They changed the unused silverware and plates at table position number seven, too. As if Mom had given instructions: someone, slotted to arrive late, mustn’t feel left out; keep the meal going till he gets here. No one else seemed to find this spare chair odd. I didn’t like to mention it or stare. I recalled a Seder dinner, one honored chair reserved for the prophet Elijah.

As I drank excellent Burgundy, as I marveled at the beauty of these all-ages women, I felt a presence come to occupy that chair. Some column of humidity, not quite a mist. But if you put your hand in it, you’d know! It took slow, fond possession of that chair, that one-seventh of our white tablecloth. I loomed closer into mutual candlelight. I said less and less but sat safe behind my half-smile that nobody noticed. And I sensed its enjoying us even more than we remembered just now to enjoy ourselves. Museums, I swear, museums should be phoned.

After Buck secretly slipped our waiter a platinum card, preventing my “getting this,” as our chatter wound warmly down, I excused myself. I was headed into the chrome-and-granite crypt of a Men’s Room when I heard some big swamp bird’s cry. Across the narrow hall, one screen door stood open. It showed a trash-canned dock overlooking the weedy canal out back.