“It is a bit, isn’t it? I’d forgotten it ever looked like this, full of life and smiling children, but a few weeks ago I saw it in a dream. Amazing the lies we tell ourselves in sleep.”

“And my mother and I were there?”

“Laughing like schoolgirls. Of all the strange things my cobwebbed old mind has dreamed up, few are more fantastic than Gilda Carr in a tangerine dress.”

“You never met Mary.”

“But I’ve seen pictures and things at your house. Did I do her justice?”

“I don’t know. I think so. She loved reading in the park.”

“She was much younger than that when she died?”

“She never had time to go gray.”

“Darling, darling Gilda. There’s no reason to cry.”

But there was, and I told her all about it: the massacre, the shadows, the ghouls and their city of death. I told her about my house, blown away like smoke, and Hellida trapped inside behind glass that would not yield. I don’t think she believed any of it, but she was kind enough not to tell me I was mad. How useful it is, to be friends with artists.

“Hellida was the only family I had left,” I said once I had gotten the tears under control. “And that house was the only thing I owned. I’ve nothing now.”

“You have friends. Anyway, you’ve got me, whether you want me or not. I feel guilty, you know, pushing you toward grander mysteries.”

“It turned out I hardly needed the push.”

“Still, this house is yours as long as you need it.”

“It’s hardly wide enough for one woman, much less two.”

“We’ll find space. Tiny girl like you can fit anywhere.”

I suppose she fed me, and she must have slipped some money into my purse. At some point she started painting, because Bex can’t go more than a few hours without holding a brush in her hand. I slipped out the front door and crossed the stem at Broadway. I don’t think I knew where I was walking, but I believe I entered the BRT at Canal Street. Twenty minutes later I passed through Ebbets’ ridiculous marble rotunda and took a seat along the first-base line.

I didn’t cheer when the Giants tied the game in the fifth. I didn’t flinch when Brooklyn took the lead right back. The game mattered to no one in the ballpark, and it mattered least to me, but every few pitches I glanced over my shoulder. I really expected to see him there—craning his neck in search of me, ready to wave his program when I caught his eye.

In the seventh, or perhaps the eighth, one of the Giants’ backups made a nice catch in right field. I tried to muster some applause. It didn’t come. I stared up at the featherweight blue sky.