“He did? Mike?”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t Santa Claus.” The door shuts in my face, but I do something that surprises both of us. Right before the door closes, I stick my foot in it. She squeezes my foot and then opens the door very slowly and stands in the afternoon sunlight that slants across the field. I stand there on the stoop for a minute. I open my mouth, but no words come out. There are too many.

“I—I—” I stutter on the first sound. “I—I’m sorry.” It takes such an effort to get it out that I practically holler it at her. What am I sorry for? “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I stammer. No, that’s not it. So I keep going. “I’m sorry I was so … stupid. I didn’t mean to be.”

Mrs. Grimshaw’s face changes a little. She nods. Neither of us thought I was going to say that. She steps back and turns away, leaving the door open. I can see into the house, see the trash spilling off the counter and onto the floor, the potato chip bags and juice boxes and plastic spoons and broken toys. People always said the Grimshaws lived like rats in this house, that it should be condemned. I never knew what they were talking about. I came here day after day, and I never saw any trash. All I saw was people. Now I see the trash. A heap of garbage bags leans against the house, dating from when Whitney and Dallas were in disposable diapers. It’s been gathering for years. Then I hear a window slam shut and the TV goes off. The only noise left is the slow bang of a shutter in the wind.

I stand there on the stoop and listen to the irregular rhythm of the cars going by on the highway, and every now and then the Jake brake of a truck already stuttering for the ride down the hill. So this is the end of the story. She went back to LA for a second shot at leaving all this trash behind, and there’s nothing I can or should do about it. At least now I know where she is, and I can think of her again, developing her act at the Over Easy.

Grimshaw’s gone. She’s really gone this time. I can feel it. And why wouldn’t she go? Why would anybody come back here? There’s nothing to come back to. So she’s gone. She had her choice, and she made her choice. And this time I don’t have to go get her. I ball up the letter and throw it on top of the trash.

About a week after that, I’m in French 4 Fun, listening to the foreign exchange student attempt to use French to describe his life in Kenya, and Mrs. Kmiec shows up at the door of the classroom and knocks.

“Oui?” Mlle. O’Shea says to her.