It would be better if she were dead, I thought.

I went to the back door, off the kitchen, or maybe the cellar way, and knocked, hoping that Baby Jane wasn’t sleeping. It took him a few minutes, but I heard his feet shuffling inside and saw a light come on in another room. When he answered the door, he was fully dressed, like always, even in shoes. His hair was mussed, down over his forehead, the longest locks down to his chin.

“Shannon,” he said, holding on to the side of the door, leaning out. “It’s late.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m—I have a situation.”

I noticed that his knuckles were white and his hand trembled. The wind blew in the yard. Behind his house was a perfect line of pines, planted more than a hundred years ago in a straight row, seven of them. The branches in the wind sounded like voices, hushing.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I saw him unclench his jaw.

“Yes,” he said. But he didn’t move.

I tipped my head. “Can I come in?” I asked. “I have a problem,” I added. “I need an adult.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, and moved then, letting me into a black-and-white kitchen with a big enamel sink and a pink counter top. I watched while he turned his head and wiped his forehead with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He had a tattoo on his forearm I had never noticed, the face of a pocket watch, with the chain wrapped around his elbow.

“I’ve never seen that,” I said, pointing.

He sniffled, and pulled at the waist of his pants, which I noticed were too big. “I have another,” he said.

“Can I see it?” I asked.

He pressed his lips into a flat line. “No,” he said. “It’s late,” he said again. “What’s wrong? What’s the problem?”

I tried to look him in the eye. His top lip was beaded with perspiration. He needed to shave.

“Did you take something?” I asked.

“Like what?” he said.

“Like a drug. Are you on something?”

“I’m not on anything,” he said, suddenly frank and sharp.

But I detected something. I knew my mother had two different kinds of sweats, one when she had just dosed and another when she needed to. I couldn’t tell what this was.

“Really?” I asked.

He laughed a hard, unjoyful laugh and turned from me to walk into the living room.

The living room was a small square. Off of it were one small bedroom, lit with a milk glass lamp, and a bathroom, tiled in pink and black. In the bedroom the bed was made and there was no detritus of living, no books on the nightstand, no socks or shoes on the floor. Nothing that wasn’t put away, dusted, straightened.

“What’s your problem?” Baby Jane asked me.

“There’s no water or electricity at my house,” I said. “And the county is auctioning it for back taxes.”

He motioned to a squared-off, avocado-green sofa. “Please,” he said. When I sat, he asked, “How much do you owe?”