“Your old house in Waugborn. Massachusetts.”

“I never had any old house in any Waugborn.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, you did. You and your husband had a little ranch. Raised ranch, might be the right term.” He gave the street address and described the neighborhood as he imagined it had been when she lived there.

“That was a new house,” Margo said, “not old.”

“Good point. These days it’s starting to show its age.”

“I hated that house. Always smelled of bananas.”

“From what I’ve read, it sounds as if you and your husband were quite happy there.” And then because he wanted to wedge the name into the conversation, he added, “Until Pauline showed up. Then I gather things got rocky.”

“Hah.” Margo knocked back the rest of whatever was in her coffee mug. “Don’t talk to me about Pauline. I’m sick of hearing about Pauline. They ought to let Pauline rot in peace.”

“I’m beginning to think I should have done just that. I’m writing a book about her. A biography. I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

Margo pressed the boxy glasses against her face and peered at him. “You’re the one. Lorna said something. I can’t remember anymore. That’s why they stuck me in the loony bin.”

“You don’t live here?”

“I’m on a day pass. Listen, who do you think’s gonna read a book like that about Pauline?”

It was a reasonable question, one his nonsenile editor had asked him years ago. “At the moment,” he said, “I’m more concerned about finishing it. There are too many questions I haven’t been able to find answers to.”

“You know what I say: don’t know the answer, make it up.”

At least there was a consensus on this point.

“Down at the loony bin,” she went on, “they ask me a question—’Did you eat your dinny-dinny tonighty-night?’ How the hell am I supposed to remember? And who gives a crap anyway? ‘Oh, yes, nursey, I ate it all up. Yummy yummy.’ “Her body shook with silent laughter.” What do you want to know? Did I eat my dinny-dinny?”

Desmond wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or performing a monologue for an imaginary audience, but he decided to give it a try—probably an indication that he was on the verge of senility. “I can’t figure out what happened after Michael died,” he said. “Pauline’s husband. I can’t figure out why she just stopped singing.”

Margo began laughing at this, so hard Desmond was afraid she might rock herself right out of her chair. When she finally quieted down a bit, she roared, “Pauline never could sing. You didn’t know? Loud and raw, that was it. All heart, no talent.”