She placed her teacup on a low, glass coffee table, waddled to a maple bureau, opened a top drawer, and said, “I’m pretty sure I put them in here.”

Jeremy looked around the flat. The walls were painted green- a hospital green- and the furniture was newish and blond and inexpensive. A couple of prints- framed seascapes clipped from calendars- were the sole art pieces. No bric-a-brac, no mementos. None of the family history you’d expect for an old woman.

But that was a foolish assumption, a romanticized version of family life. Things fell apart. Or never took off.

What would he have to show when he was old?

Ramona Purveyance opened drawers, closed them, repeated the process, said, “Hmm.” The living room opened to a small, spotless kitchen. If the woman cooked, her cuisine left no scent.

“Ah, here we go,” she said. In her hand was a sheaf of postcards bound by a wide red rubber band. Without hesitation, she handed them to Jeremy.

The first dozen or so were from overseas. London, Paris, Constantinople, Stockholm, Munich. The Canal Zone- Arthur revisiting his old military haunts?- Brazil, Argentina. The next batch were all American: Oregon’s Crater Lake, New York City, St. Louis, Los Angeles, Bryce Canyon, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Beautiful pictures of familiar landmarks on one side, the same message on the other, in a familiar hand:

Dear Mrs. P-

Traveling and learning. A.C.

Ramona Purveyance said, “He’s a dear to remember.”

“Since I’ve known him, he’s lived here,” Jeremy lied. “Must be…”

“Ten years,” she said. “Five years after I arrived. It’s a quiet place, for some city people the adjustment is hard. Not for the professor. He sold his big house and its contents and fit in quite beautifully.”

“The house in Queen’s Arms.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ramona. “He showed me pictures. A big old thing- Victorian.”

Something right! Finally!

“Must’ve been a lovely place to live in,” she went on. “Fine old furniture, those pretty leaded glass windows. But far too spacious for one person. The professor told me he’d knocked around there far too long. Well after… he should have.” She flinched. “Are you a pathologist, as well, Dr. Carrier?”

“Psychologist. After he should have, Mrs. Purveyance?”

The chocolate eyes remained steady. “After he realized how ill suited such a big place was for a person living alone.”

“Being alone can be an adjustment.”

“Have you ever lived alone, Doctor?”

“Always.”

Ramona Purveyance knitted her fingers and studied him. “A psychologist. That must be quite interesting.”

Smiling, but something in her tone told Jeremy she couldn’t have cared less. He said, “Professor Chess and I discuss interesting clinical issues from time to time. He’s deeply interested in psychosocial topics.”

“Of course he is,” she said. “The man’s as curious as a child. Sometimes I see him out there.” She motioned out the window to the endless grass. Ravens had congregated near the horizon, small and black as flyspecks. “He walks and explores, kneels and peels back the grass, looks for insects and whatnot. Sometimes he brings his metal detector and just goes clicking around. Sometimes he brings a garden spade and digs around.”

“Has he ever found anything?”

“Oh, absolutely. Arrowheads, old coins, bottles. Once he found a pearl necklace that he gave to me. Small baroque pearls, some were pitted, but overall still lovely. I gave the necklace to my granddaughter Lucy- she’s just old enough to appreciate things of beauty. The world’s a treasure trove if you know where to look.” She eyed the door. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks. I’d better be going.”

“Dr. Carrier,” she said, “that term you used-’psychosocial.’ What exactly does that mean?” She canted her head to one side, a parody of coyness. “I do like to work on my vocabulary.”

“The interaction between psychology and social issues. Issues that confront society. Poverty, crime, violence. Professor Chess is especially interested in criminal violence.”

Ramona Purveyance looked down at her hands. “I see… well, I’ve got laundry to do. Shall I tell him you were by?”

“Sure, thanks,” said Jeremy. “I guess we have no idea when he’s coming back- did he pack a large suitcase?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” said Ramona, retrieving her teacup. The contents must’ve been cold, but she sipped slowly. Over the rim of the cup, the dark eyes studied him.

“No idea?” said Jeremy.

“He slipped a note under my door asking me to look after his mail last night. He must’ve done it late because I was up until eleven. When I woke up at six, he was gone.”

The teacup lowered. Ramona Purveyance’s expression was bland, but her eyes were guarded. Jeremy smiled. “That’s Professor Chess. Driving off on another adventure in that beautiful Lincoln.”

“It is a lovely car, isn’t it? He maintains it like a clock- washing, polishing, vacuuming every week, but, no, I wouldn’t think he’d take it. When he travels he generally has a cab pick him up. Or he drives his other car and leaves it at the airport.”

“His other car?”

“His van,” she said. “He’s got a Ford van, an old one, but in perfect shape. He told me he bought it at a city auction. Used to belong to the Coroner’s Office, isn’t that a bit delicious?” The old woman hugged herself. “Professor Chess assured me it had been cleaned out thoroughly. They always are.”

“They?” said Jeremy.

“Morgue things.” Another giggle. “Death things.”

Halfway back to the city, the storm hit. Jeremy fishtailed for miles, drove with a misted windshield, felt his brakes lose confidence, was nearly part of a seven-car pileup. Toward the end, he gave himself over to the Fates. Miraculously, he arrived home in one piece and had a dinner of canned soup and toast and black coffee.

The following night, he and Angela finally stole away from the hospital, and he took her to a higher grade of restaurant than ever before; off Hale Boulevard, on the North End. Because of the weather, they rode in a taxi, and Jeremy supplied umbrellas for both of them.

A lesson from Arthur.

The place was green suede walls, granite banquettes, starched linens the color of fresh butter. On the way to their rear booth, Jeremy and Angela passed an iced case of fish so fresh the creatures’ eyes stared back reproachfully, another containing fat-marbled prime cuts of beef and pork. Pugnacious lobsters, their pincers bound, clawed the spotless sides of a ten-foot aquarium.

The savagery of good living.

Jeremy had made a reservation two days before and gotten another resident to cover for Angela. A guy who’d rotated through Psych as an intern and sat in on a couple of Jeremy’s lectures.

The ambience, the food, all that was great. The planning was what impressed Angela to the point of moist eyes.

She sat right up against him, their thighs laminating.

“After this, how am I going to go back to resident’s fare?”

“Ease into it,” said Jeremy. “Avoid undue sensory shock.”

“This is pretty shocking,” she said. “Being treated like this.”

“I’ll bet you’re no stranger to that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Only daughter in a professional family. Something tells me you’ve experienced the finer things in life.”

“You’re right,” she said. “They raised me with love, gave me what I wanted, always told me I could achieve anything I put my mind to. By all accounts, I should never lose confidence, right? But I do. Nearly every day. This job, all those people, depending on me. What if I misplace a decimal place on an order? Or fail to catch it when someone else does- that actually happened to me when I was an intern. Some puffed-up attending more concerned about billing than taking care of his patients dashed off an insulin scrip for a diabetic. A hundred times too much. We would’ve had a sudden death, and everyone would’ve been puzzled.”