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didn’t make upthat canary business, either. It’s a quote from an article in a magazine for pet shop operators: “Think of those kittens as the canary in your gold mine.” Is that unbelievable? I mean, is that how you think about
your
cat? It’s probably not even how you think about your
canary
, for God’s sake.
    “Seven weeks old,” Betty said. “Honest to God. I would really like to strangle these people.”

5

    Enid Sievers lived in one of those late-Victorian houses a few blocks off upper Mass. Ave. in North Cambridge on the Somerville line. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue—or sin—of being painted an unspeakably intense shade of raspberry. Because of that god-awful color, it was the kind of house that makes people gasp, titter, and return with friends who just have to see it and simply won’t believe it when they do. But they do believe it, of course—its undiluted reality is undeniable—and ask one another whether that ultraraspberry was the embarrassing result of some unimaginable misunderstanding with the house painter or whether, God forbid, it was chosen deliberately.
    Thus the stunned queasiness on my face must have been the expression Enid Sievers saw whenever she opened her front door to anyone, and in case you’ve ever wandered by there and wondered the inevitable, the answer is, no, that raspberry was no accident, as I guessed the second Enid Sievers opened her door. Transpose that screaming raspberry into a violent electric green, and you’ll see the color of the garment she wore, a silky pantsuit or polyester evening costume or possibly a pair of nineteen-thirties Hollywood-movie lounging pajamas minus the feather boa. Exactly what the outfit
was
didn’t actually matter, I thought: Anyone willing to wear it at all would probably be willing to wear it anywhere.
    The woman herself was in her late fifties, I guessed. She was very slim and had what my grandmother always refers to as “good posture,” meaning that she held her shoulders back as if in perpetual defiance of imminent osteoporosis. Her most striking feature was exceptionally sparse black hair that had been cut, gelled, curled, fluffed, and sprayed to create the illusion of thick tresses, but a prominent part down the side revealed a good half inch of white scalp. Delicate, fragile, heavily moisturized skin stretched across the fine bones of her face. Thick glasses magnified the lines and pouches under her darting hazel eyes, which seemed to focus on a fascinating series of objects that didn’t exist. I had the immediate impression that Enid Sievers believed something extraordinary: that alien beings had subjected her to grueling medical tests aboard their spaceship, or that Elvis regularly returned to earth to offer her spiritual counsel and tips on the lottery.
    But her welcome was perfectly ordinary, even gracious. As soon as she introduced herself and made sure that I was, in fact, Holly Winter, she invited me in, saying proudly and confidently, “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?”
    “No,” I said, half embarrassed. “Not at all. I spotted it right away.” I was sorry I’d worn old jeans.
    “No one ever has trouble finding us,” Mrs. Sievers assured me as she led me through a little foyer and into a living room. “Edgar liked
cheerful
colors,” she went on to explain. Her voice was high and wispy, as if amplified from a great distance, for example, Mars or Saturn. “Edgar always said that vision is a great blessing and that we should use it to the best of our ability and not just waste it.”
    She swept a bony green-swathed arm around to direct my attention to the room’s furnishings, of which there were hundreds, maybe even thousands, and I’mnot exaggerating. The windows were not so much curtained as red-velvet-barricaded against light, and above each window hung great swathes of the same red velvet augmented with heavy gold braid and thick tassels. Elaborately upholstered in