“It’s your methods, Gilda. Breaking into corsetries and having guns waved at us by ugly little men. You’ll never get anywhere unless you buckle down.”

“My father never buckled down a day in his life. You saw that office. You remember how he died. ‘Erratic’ was too kind a word.”

“And you must be better, flicka. You must be better. Promise me, you will let this case go.”

I couldn’t give her the answer she wanted. She went downstairs. She took the cup, but she left the bottle. I took a long pull, stripped off my dress, and lay down on the dusty floor, one eye open, watching the floorboards run together toward the darkened horizon. Sleep escaped me. I relit the candle and carried it downstairs to the parlor to sift through stacks of newspapers.

The newest of them, the least yellowed, were under the windowsill. The one I wanted was right on top. I had spent two years ignoring it, certain I would never be strong enough for what it had to say. But this night I had already passed through death. What harm could an old newspaper do? I held the candle over the newsprint, and twenty-four months fell away.

September 7, 1919, was a Sunday, and the weather report testified that it was a beautiful Sunday indeed. Wilson pressed Congress to uphold his plans for peace and Congress refused. Several thousand coal miners marched across West Virginia, although no one particularly cared why. In New York, the city garbage commissioner introduced a new scheme to handle the overflow produced by the Westside refugees. A headless body washed up along the Palisades, and three sets of lovers leapt to their deaths from the center of the Manhattan Bridge.

The mayor pledged to double the number of guards along the stem by 1920. Prohibition was debated, though it seemed impossible that it would ever come to pass. The city braced for the first bite of winter. On the Eastside, balls were planned. Plays closed. Wealthy men ate steaks, gave toasts, and were cut down by strokes. On the Westside, three men, seven women, and two children of unspecified gender were reported missing. Just another day in a dying city.

Page twelve. Sports. The Yankees battered the Senators; there was tennis on Long Island; and the Giants split a doubleheader at the Polo Grounds. Here was the thing I had been afraid of—the last box score I ever saved. I squinted at its narrow columns and tried not to stain it with my tears.

First Game. Kelly, 1b. Ab: 4, R: 2, H: 2.

In that little row of crooked type, I saw High Pockets Kelly, back from the war and an idiotic stint in Pittsburgh, hulking over the first base bag. He was my ideal Giant, with a dopey grin and a nose that looked like a squashed strawberry, strong arms, and impossible grace in the field. I watched him closely that day. He played a remarkable game.