“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.”

“That’s what you think of my father?” Sonia yelled these words, stood up, leaned toward Edie, and began to shake her hands in the air. “You didn’t give a shit about him, did you?” Then Inga stood up, reached for her daughter, and grabbed her by the arm. Sonia turned an angry face toward her mother. Edie cried more loudly, and Henry leaned back in his chair. He looked genuinely distraught.

“Okay,” I said in a booming voice. “I think . . .” But before I could continue my sentence, Henry gave a small gasp, and I heard the door behind me slam against the wall. Startled, I wheeled around. Moving quickly toward us was a big disheveled woman with bright pink lipstick and rouge on her broad fleshy face. She was dressed in a huge gray coat, thick green socks covered only by slippers, and a red-and-white stocking cap that partially concealed what appeared to be a curly blond wig. She was carrying two large Macy’s bags and an umbrella, and she had a wild look in her eyes.

“Dorothy!” Henry said, “What on earth are you doing here?”

Linda raised her hands. “You’re the one,” she shrieked. “You’re the one who hit me!”

Edie lifted her head, and her eyes, now blackened by smeared mascara and running eyeliner, widened in a look of puzzlement. “I’ve seen you,” she said, “I know you from somewhere.”

Dorothy held up one of the bags and said in a clear deep voice, “I have them.”

I suddenly knew who it was, but it was Inga who said it: “Burton?”