“Did I tell you? We planted yesterday. We each went around with a bowl full of seeds and dug little holes with our fingers and tucked them in one by one.”

When Carlotta arrived we could hear her for a long time before she got to the door. The stairs creaked as she came slowly up. We waited for her knock. The door opened instead. She wore a shawl around her face and pinned between her breasts. Cool air moved with her. Sam stood and took her hands. He looked up into her face.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine. How are you?”

“I changed my name in honor of our son.”

She smiled. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Aram.”

“Aram.”

I squirmed and ducked my head. Carlotta sat on the floor at Sam’s feet and rummaged in a big bag.

“I got a mimeographed diet and some iron pills.” She produced a sheet of blue paper. “I have to drink a quart of milk a day. I’m not going back to school anymore.”

“Ah!” Sam leaned back, approving.

“You mean, not even to tell them that you won’t be there anymore?” I asked.

“It’s too late in the year to get any of the money back.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Are you going to painting class?”

“I couldn’t pay proper attention. If Mr. Sing asked me where my mind was, I’d be embarrassed to say, ‘In my woman’s belly.’”

They smiled at each other. Sam raised his eyebrows slightly. A signal. Carlotta nodded. They gathered their things.

“When you come out will you bring some horsemeat?” Sam asked.

I nodded and he left.

“And some oranges?” Carlotta asked. She listened to Sam’s footsteps on the stairs and moved closer to me. “How is he?”

“He doesn’t like your giving him a choice.”

“He’ll feel better about it later, I think.” She moved out the door, pulled her shawl close under her chin.

The morning pill, bedtime pill, two o’clock in the afternoon pill

Disappointment. Bounce the word off the side of the fishbowl. Put my mouth close to the gray-green water, and mutter, “Disappointment,” in a contrived basso, until the surface is frenzied with ripples and the shining denizens sink, quivering, to the bottom. Sing, “It was disappointment, I know!” while I slink torchily to the stove with four eggs, “and it might have ended right there at the staa-aarrt!” I drop them into boiling water. One cracks immediately and spreads a white foam.

“Disappointed by life” was the phrase I had just read in one of my paperbacks. The vicar’s wife had been explaining the eccentric isolation of the no-longer-young but still beautiful widow (who is sure to be the murderer) to the inquisitive amateur detective.