Edie’s bottom lip began to shake, her mouth contorted, the tears fell, and I heard a deep noise break from her throat.

I reached over to her, placed my hand over hers, and patted it for a moment.

Out of nowhere, Linda erupted, “You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” she said, leaning toward Inga, her face suddenly animated. “Look at you, playing the noble mother in order to wheedle the dope out of Edie. It’s revolting. Glamour-puss Ph.D., writing those pretentious books showing off how smart you think you are, how truly special and superior: Ms. Perfect with the perfect daughter and the perfect Tribeca apartment, widow to the Late Great Cult Hero Max Blaustein. I knew I’d find some dirt on you. You needed taking down a peg or two. You want to know why I bothered? That’s why I bothered.” This speech was delivered through clenched teeth with an unmistakable snarl accenting her final word.

My sister’s mouth opened, then she put her hand to her chest, as if the verbal assault had hit her body.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Linda continued.

Inga continued to gape. In a small voice, she said, “Remember you?”

“From Columbia. I knew your friend Peter.”

“Peter?” Inga said. “You knew Peter?”

“I was in journalism school. You were in philosophy.” She spat out the word. “We had coffee together three times with Peter. Three times. I might as well not have been there. You two were rattling on about Husserl. I said something about it and you laughed.” The woman’s eyes didn’t leave Inga.

“I’m sorry,” Inga said. She leaned forward. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Mom doesn’t laugh at people,” Sonia said. “She laughs a lot, but not at people. She can’t remember everybody she meets. And I can say one thing for her, she doesn’t go through other people’s garbage.”

Inga could barely get the word out of her mouth. “Garbage?”

“Why don’t you tell my mother what I never told her, that I found you going through our garbage. There she was”—Sonia pointed her index finger in Linda’s direction—“with the bag open, rummaging through our eggshells and coffee grounds, fishing out papers and letters.”

Linda didn’t answer this. She sat tight-lipped in her chair.

Inga hugged herself. “It’s awful to be forgotten and ignored. It’s happened to me, too.” She looked confused, reached both her hands toward Linda, and said, “You’ve taken it awfully far, haven’t you?”

Henry interrupted. “I should say so.” He turned to Edie, who was still sniffling.

“They belonged to me!” Edie said before Henry could speak. “I told you! He sent them to me! And then all of a sudden, everybody wants them.” The tears were running hard down her cheeks. She gasped. “Seven stupid letters. So important. A whole lot more important than I am, for Christ’s sake. Or Joel, or any person. Just some crapola on a few pages. I mean, the whole thing is disgusting.”