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their exodus, they leave a good five feet of empty space around Thomasina and Noah, who stand just where they were, like two human statues on a square of marble lawn.
    â€œThomasina—” I touch her arm.
    â€œIt’s fine, Pirio. I can handle this,” she says in a firm voice.
    Her eyes are fixed on the door. Beyond it, there’ll be a gauntlet of stone stairs she must walk down. Followed by a crowded sidewalk and a corner at which small groups of people will be talking. Stares, whispers, smirks. Then the car ride home with a bereaved, repudiated ten-year-old. But, yes, she’ll handle it. Walk through the crowd without showing any emotion. Make up something vague and almost believable to tell Noah about what just happened.
It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Your grandparents don’t like me very much
.
Silly, isn’t it?
Nobody could meet this challenge better than Thomasina. She’ll even make it look easy. But tonight when she’s alone she’ll reach for the Stolichnaya again, instead of her usual wine. Polish off a fifth with a vengeance and pass out on the couch, where Noah will find her in the morning and briefly have to wonder if she’s still alive.
    She inhales deeply, firmly grasps Noah’s hand; he glances at me in fearful confusion, and I nod encouragement. So they go, backs erect, eyes straight ahead. A man holds the door for them, but looks away when they pass. Perhaps in cowardice, or simple pain, I linger in the foyer until it’s empty. When I finally go outside, there’s no sign of Thomasina and Noah or Phyllis and her family.
    It’s just dusk. The air has a muted violet tone. A fat white pigeon waddles toward me, tottering from side to side as if on legs of differing heights. In this light, its feathers appear luminescent. On an impulse I squat down, and the pigeon approaches my outstretched palm. It pecks at my fingers for a bit, and walks unhurriedly away.
    This is the second strange thing that’s happened to me recently. Last night I heard bagpipes in the middle of the night. I opened the window and leaned out. It was a peaceful song I’d never heard. I listened for a long time, and when I went back to bed, the music was still playing. I felt like the bagpipes were singing me back to sleep.
    My pigeon flies to the top of the building across the street and disappears over its roof. A man is standing on the sidewalk just below that point. He’s looking at me in troubled concentration. He’s in his thirties, medium height, with a wide face, heavy black glasses, and curly brown hair that almost reaches his shoulders. He’s got one hand in his pocket. There’s a sense of decorum, of strength being reined in, words held back by pursed lips.
    He crosses the street, ascends the steps briskly, sticks out his hand. “Larry Wozniak, old friend of Ned’s.”
    I shake his hand—it’s warm and dry. I realize I’m shaking his left hand with my left hand.
    â€œTerrible, isn’t it? He was so young.” He seems to know he’s mouthing platitudes.
    I agree vaguely and proceed down the steps. It’s been a long funeral, and I’m not in the mood for small talk.
    â€œYou were on the boat, right?” he hastily adds, following me. “I recognized you from the newspaper photo. I, uh . . . I wanted to know if . . . Were you and Ned, uh . . . ? How well did you know him?” He’s flushed and floundering.
    â€œIf you’re asking whether we were lovers, the answer is no. Friends, yes. But only to a point.”
    â€œReally?” He says this as though my answer were a lot more interesting than it was, and adjusts his steps to match mine. “What do you mean ‘to a point’?”
    â€œI mean that I’m friends with his ex-girlfriend and godmother to his kid. I went out on his lobster boat because he needed the help. It was a new boat, he was