Her name was May Landower, and she lived in a cluttered, birdseed-smelling basement apartment on the East Side. Two canaries clung to a narrow perch in a cage set near a dirty window which looked out onto an interior court piled high with trash. In the middle of the room, on a round table, sat a Ouija board. A grand piano lurked in the shadows like a dark, stunned animal. May poured them each a shot of whiskey.

“No tea,” she said. “Not when I’m planning. Tea is for permanence.” She spoke grandly, waving her hands about slowly, as though her thoughts were too lofty for mere words. When she walked about the room, objects fell off tables; she picked them up, grunting, swaying, her full skirt gathering dust from the floor in its folds. She was drunk, Annie saw. In an earlier time of her life she might have been good-looking, in a pinched midwestern way, with her narrow nose and hairpin lips, the large faded blue eyes, a curling-iron frizz of henna-colored hair above her broad low forehead.

She picked up a pack of cards, holding them daintily in her thin hands. A small diamond ring on one finger glittered in the light from a rickety lamp. “What isn’t foolish?” she asked rhetorically. “A dear friend of mine chose a camp for his son by tossing a dart at the New York Times camp list page. It turned out for the very best. I tell my fortune every morning with the cards. Every evening I consult the Ouija board. Does it make any difference? Fate is fate. I have a few dollars saved, enough to purchase a secondhand automobile. There are children in Hollywood, California, waiting to learn their scales.” She gestured toward the piano. “I have even found an elderly woman to take my dear little birdies. My husband left me at the height of the Depression—of course, it was all height. No matter. I’ve made my way. He died two months ago, a lonely death. California is clear for me now, now that he is no longer there.”

“Are you interested in sculpture?” asked Annie as one of the canaries ran through a limp repertory of disheartened trills.

“Something to get through the day,” replied May. “Like you, my dear, so what are we waiting for?”

“My father, I’m expecting him back at some time. He’s just remarried—”

“No, no…if he’s not back yet, he won’t come back.”

“But you don’t know anything about it!” protested Annie.

“You’re an orphan,” said May positively. “Like me. Your aura is sickly. All orphans have sickly auras. They have to generate their own energies. It’s hard, hard…drink up! I need a traveling companion. If you can get fifty or sixty bucks together, I’ll take care of the rest. I was not meant to have children, only loyal friends.”