“They talked for fifteen or twenty minutes. When they came out of the office, your father stood straight. They shook hands, and Papa—he looked at him with real warmth. I’d never seen that from him. It made me jealous, even angry. Your father didn’t notice, but Papa slipped some money into his pocket as he was walking out the door. It couldn’t have been much. Father was never very generous, even at Christmastime.”

I remembered that Christmas. It must have been 1910 or ’11—when he was doing everything in his power to turn the department against him. He came home late that night, singing carols, a bag of sloppily wrapped presents in his arms. Even then, I’d wondered where he’d gotten the money. A tiny mystery solved, ten years late.

“And there was another time,” she said. “He came by the office.”

“When?”

“Last summer.”

“He was dead last summer.”

“Then it must have been the year before. It was summer, though—I remember having the windows open. Your father burst through our door like an artillery shell and demanded Galen Copeland. I explained that an ill-mannered man, especially one dressed as he was, had no business with my father. I was about to throw him out when Papa opened his door and waved Virgil in.”

“Did you hear what they talked about?”

“No. But when Virgil left, Papa was the color of this whitewash.”

“You don’t, by any chance, remember the date?”

“The office was empty, so it must have been a weekend, but that’s all I know.”

“He died on a Sunday. That could have been the day.”

“I heard one word. Your father shouted it, with venom. ‘Barbarossa.’ Does it mean anything to you?”

She fixed her eyes on me. Even softened by the liquor, her look was hard enough to cut. For no reason I could think of, I decided to lie.

“No,” I said. “I don’t recognize the name.”

She handed me the bottle. I drained what little was left and hurled it into the river.

“Does it get easier,” she said, “having him gone?”

“It changes. In a year, there will be days when you don’t think of him at all.”

“Something to look forward to.”

She turned away from me, shielding her eyes against the sun, and I had the terrible sensation that she was going to cry.

“What’s your happiest memory of your father?” I asked.