“Why do you know that?” she asks.

The woman looks at her levelly. “I’ve been inside it,” she says.

Judy flushes. Then looks down, scribbling.

“And your name is?” she says.

“I’d prefer not to give it,” says the woman. “If that’s all right.” She looks down. Looks up again at Judy.

“I don’t know these people well,” she says. “A friend of mine told me to come. Some girl I met in New York City while I was auditioning for a play. I thought it sounded fun. The land here is beautiful, but the people are—terrible. I can’t wait to go back to Los Angeles.”

Judy nods.

“Or Rome,” says the woman. “Maybe I should just go back to Rome. I had steady work there. Here, not so much.”

And then, as if catching herself, she smiles at Judy, and Judy—against her will—blushes.

“What’s your name, darling?”

“Judyta,” says Judy. Not Investigator Luptack. Not Judy. Not Joo-DEE-tah, as most Americans say when forced to pronounce her given name. Instead she pronounces it just as her mother does—Yoo-DIT-ah—and the Italian woman sighs, as if hearing a poem, and tells her it’s beautiful.

Louise

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One

There’s a state police satellite station in Wells, New York, and this is where Louise is driven by Denny Hayes, who on the way regales her with the story of his life, describes the two children he’s had with a woman he loves. He tells her their hobbies, describes the minor trouble they’ve caused as of late—nothing serious.

He waits, perhaps expecting a response. An acknowledgment, at least. Louise gives none, and at last he goes quiet.

•   •   •

The Wells station is tiny and austere, a concrete building whose only ornament is a pay phone on the wall.

There’s one trooper sitting at one desk. Otherwise, the building seems completely unoccupied.

“Got a nickel?” Denny asks her. When she shakes her head, he fumbles in his own pocket and produces one for her, then gestures to the phone.

“Go ahead,” he says, and then he retreats to a different corner, respectfully lowers his head, pretending that doing so will prevent him from overhearing everything she says.

She puts a finger to the dial. Hesitates. She does not want to call her mother, but she has no one else to call.

At last, reluctantly, she dials the number to her childhood home, closing her eyes against the memories that the act invokes: being forgotten one too many times at a friend’s house; calling home from the nurse’s office, sweaty with fever, knowing that no one would answer the phone. Now, like then, it rings many times in a row; but then there comes a little voice on the other end that catches Louise off guard.

“Hello?”

“Jesse?” says Louise. “Jesse?”

He doesn’t ever answer the phone. He’s timid to the point of incapacity: a trait bemoaned by their mother at every opportunity.

“Jesse, are you all right?”

“Louise,” says Jesse. “Mom’s sick.”

“What kind of sick?” Louise asks.

“She’s in bed.”

“Is she awake?” Louise says. “Is she breathing? Jesse?”

Across the room, Denny Hayes raises his head.

“She’s okay,” says Jesse. “Just hasn’t left her room for a while.”

Louise closes her eyes.

“Have you eaten today?” she asks him, quietly. She wishes for privacy. Angles her back toward Denny.

On the other end of the line, she hears a quick shuddering intake of breath: this is Jesse trying not to cry. She pictures him, the corners of his mouth tucked down.

“Listen,” Louise says. “Listen. Go to Shattuck’s. Get a few things and put it on my account. Not Mom’s,” she says. “Mine.”

“Aw, Lou,” says Jesse, and she can almost hear his face reddening at the thought. To interact with any adult outside the family is almost unthinkable to Jesse.

“Do it,” says Louise. “Jesse, I need you to try to do it. You can’t go hungry.”

Jesse hesitates. Behind her, Louise can hear Denny clearing his throat.

“What should I get?” Jesse says at last.

Suddenly, a different voice: the operator, requesting more change. Louise has none.

“Cheap stuff that’ll fill you up,” says Louise, with urgency. “Bread and cheese. The kind of cheese that comes in a jar. Get whatever cooked meat you can find on sale. Whatever they’ve got.”

“Okay,” says Jesse, tearfully. “I’ll try.”

A moment passes in silence. And then he speaks again: “Louise? Why did you call?”

But there is a click on the line—time’s up—and the operator ends their conversation abruptly.

•   •   •

She stands there with the phone in her hand for some time, gathering the strength to turn back toward Denny—who has clearly heard everything. Who remembers her mother, who no doubt witnessed her mother at her worst. He might pity her, thinks Louise. If there is anything Louise despises, it’s the feeling of being pitied—especially by someone like Denny Hayes, who is himself pitiable in ways too numerous to count.

And sure enough, when she hangs up the phone and steels herself to face him, he is looking at her with a somber expression on his face, his lips a straight line of compassion, feigned or real. Louise stares back at him defiantly.

“What?” she says.

“You all right?” he says. He’s holding something in his hands. It’s a paper cup of coffee. He holds it out to her. She doesn’t take it.