Dear Lord, Pat was a man with a list of flaws, but he cared for Bill and me, when he was here with us and even after he left us. He cared for Mr. Watkin too, who would do anything for him.

I’d felt a cold hand on my shoulder.

I asked God to forgive Pat for being an unbeliever and to admit him into the Kingdom of Heaven. I prayed that in Heaven there were many books and that when Pat tired of reading them he could look through the clouds down to the blue of the Ionian Sea. May you allow Pat to rest in peace. Amen.

It didn’t occur to me that I should have said a prayer for “Lafcadio.” If I’d said that name aloud, there would have been a feather along the length of my spine, because that man was alive and breathing.

No, I don’t know why Mr. Watkin would tell a falsehood, Miss.

Maybe Mr. Watkin didn’t know that it was a lie when he said it. Or, more likely, Pat had asked him to say it. Maybe Pat wanted to go on with the rest of his days freed of his thoughts of me, and he wished the same for me.

With Pat’s passing, it was understandable that Mr. Watkin’s and my friendship would fade, I thought. Once his wife passed and he returned to Cincinnati, he saw more of Bill than me. Mr. Watkin and Bill still had books to bring them together, and soon they would have the same trade. Mr. Watkin and I, we had nothing in common but one man, whom we knew by different names, whom we’d never even seen in each other’s company.

No, I don’t know why Pat had kept Mr. Watkin and me from meeting, Miss.

Pat could have, with little fuss, invited Mr. Watkin home for supper. We had a chair waiting for him. We had a dish and a bowl, a matching cup and saucer too. I didn’t like the first answer that came into my head—Pat was ashamed of me—or the second—Pat was ashamed of himself. So I’ll share with you the third.

Mr. Watkin and I, we didn’t know the same man. Pat and Lafcadio were twins who looked the same, but they told different stories, used different words, ate different foods, knew different streets, found companionship in different people, and forgot each other’s lies.

Lafcadio had asked Mr. Watkin to fib about his death. Years later, in a moment of longing, maybe with a whiskey or two in him, he forgot and wrote me a letter.