How many ways can a cook prepare a five-cent piece, I’d thought, laughing to myself. Roasted, boiled, fried, stewed, souped, pickled, jellied? What’s the proper garnish for a five-cent piece, Pat or Lafcadio, a lemon slice or a sprig of parsley?

A nickel, the letter writer explained, was to be the price of every dish on the menu. But before the doors opened, the place was renamed The Hard Times, which to my mind was an even worse name. No one wants to be reminded of their sad lot when they’re having a meal, even if it was cheap but wholesome.

I’m not surprised that you hadn’t heard of the place, Miss. I don’t know who came up with the scheme, but I’m guessing it was Pat, who came to Cincinnati with nothing, who shoveled dirt and dung for his suppers, and who never forgot how much he had to pay for so little on his plate.

Yes, he did send me another letter, Miss.

Its pages also went into the stove. I didn’t even show them to Bill first.

When Mrs. Haslam handed me this second envelope, she said that Mr. Hearn of yours wasn’t in France anymore.

I was tempted to correct her, but then I thought why.

He’s somewhere called Cuba now, she said.

Yes, I burned those letters for a reason, Miss.

They were proof that I had married a man who was alive and well. When their pages reached my hands, I, at two tens and six, was also another man’s wife.

I knew what needed to be done, but I needed time. I didn’t want those letters, their pages sitting in some pocket or tin, to take that time away from me. That second envelope looked as if it had been opened and resealed. If by Mrs. Haslam, then she knew me, as most people did then, as Mrs. Kleintank.

His full name is John Kleintank, Miss, and yes, he’s a Negro. If he were living in Louisiana and if his father were not German, I suppose you could call him a Creole of color.

Mr. Anderson says that it’s iconic that my marriage to Mr. Kleintank is the one that I’ve the license and the certificate for. No, that wasn’t his word. Mr. Anderson says that it’s ironic that the marriage, for which I’ve paper proof, was never legal in the eyes of the law.

Because Pat and I had never divorced, Miss.

Patrick Hearn was my lawful husband until the day that he passed, and I, Alethea Foley, was his wife.

Let me stop so that you can write that down, Miss.