It takes me several seconds to close the page. His boy, so needy? Wow. My dad is, isn’t he? Like that night when he thought I was his dad. And what does Russ mean, he needs a pass? Like it’ll be a sin? Does he mean leaving? Is he asking for a pass in case he leaves?

I can’t wait to meet my grandfather and find out.

WHEN I WAKE up in the morning and creep into the hallway, Aisha’s door is open slightly, and I peer in. She’s asleep on her side, her right arm splayed above her head and her left one clutching a pillow to her chest. Her head rests on her lavender pillowcase that she brought in from her car. Her hair billows around it as if it has expanded overnight. Infinite fine little wisps of Aisha, curling into themselves.

I feel as if I’m seeing something gentle and elusive. Secretive. Aisha’s sleeping hair.

The floor creaks beneath me, and Aisha wakes up and sees me. “What are you doing?” she grumbles.

I don’t say anything for a few seconds. “Watching you sleep.”

“Can you stop?”

“Crabby,” I say. “Crab shack. Crab apples.”

“Not a morning person,” she says, stretching her arms up above her head. “I’m not a person of the morning.”

I laugh, because she’s repeating my words from a few days ago, back in Montana.

Just like at the Leffs, we leave with more stuff than we had when we arrived. Gareth gives me a couple of pairs of his old shorts, just in case we aren’t heading right back to Billings after meeting Mrs. Clancy. I thank him and tell him I’ll send them back, but he tells me not to worry about it. Mrs. Bailey gives Aisha another pair of shorts, which Aisha at first refuses but then gratefully accepts.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Mr. Bailey asks as Aisha loads the car. Mrs. Bailey stands next to him.

“Gonna go to Temple Square to meet this woman who knew my grandfather, I guess,” I say. “Have absolutely no idea beyond that.”

“Oh, you’ll love Temple Square!” Mrs. Bailey says.

“And if you need to stay longer, you’re welcome,” Mr. Bailey says, and I think, Really? After the dinner fiasco, you’d have us stay longer? I smile at him, and maybe that thought comes through, because he smiles back in a way that seems to say, Yeah. Even though.

The Baileys hug me, and then they face Aisha. Mr. Bailey asks, “Is it okay if I hug you?” Aisha nods, and then I get to watch the world’s most awkward good-bye hug.

“Stop by later, dude,” Gareth says. It’s seven thirty in the morning and his breath already smells like beer. This time, I really don’t want one.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, but I know we won’t. We wave good-bye, and I can tell Aisha feels extremely relieved to be out of there. I get why she feels that way, but I don’t need to feel the same way. It’s nice that we don’t have to agree on everything.

We park a block south of the Temple, and as we walk to the gate, I notice that it’s painfully clean here. The buildings are made of a sparkly white stone, maybe marble. Not just the tall and imposing Temple; all the buildings surrounding it too. Fountains of white with pristine turquoise waters spill over angels and cherubs and swans. Every few minutes someone pushes a cart along, sweeping up any litter, and as a result, the sidewalks sparkle as well.

“You could probably feed all the people in Rwanda for ten years with what it cost to build this shit,” Aisha mutters, and I nod.

We find the Tabernacle building, which is in the southern part of the square next to the main Temple. It’s a cream-white oval almost the size of a football stadium, with velvet ropes cordoning off the entrances. It makes me remember the Porcupine of Truth and the velvet ropes that separate those who die from Des Moines. I think about saying something, but I’m not sure Aisha is in the mood. Instead I say, “It’s just too clean.”

She nods. “Do Mormons even pee?”

“How would you figure that out? Feed one water and keep him in captivity?”

The front entrance isn’t clear to us, so we circle the building clockwise, keeping an eye out for Lois Clancy. As we get to the final part of our lap, I spot an elderly woman sitting on a bench under a tree. She’s wearing a beige floppy hat and a maroon jacket, and the black handbag on her lap looks too big for her small body.

I hurry over to her. “Mrs. Clancy?” I ask.

She smiles and puts her hand up in front of her mouth as if she’s shocked. “You’re Russ’s grandson.” She speaks slowly, as if her brain works at about one-fifth the speed of mine. “I didn’t get a good look at you the other night.”

“Yes.” I stand in front of her and let her look at me.

Her smile is warm and genuine. She shakes her head. “Well, you do look like him,” she says. “Isn’t that something. All these years later.”

I introduce her to Aisha, then we both sit down.

“I’m so terribly sorry about the other night,” she says.

I realize she doesn’t know that we heard her husband say that thing about black lesbians through the door. I look at Aisha, but she seems fine. “It’s okay,” I say, wanting to get past the awkward stuff and on to any information. “I hear you might have something for me?”

She nods and clutches her purse, and I get the sense that maybe I’m going too fast for her. “Your grandfather and I came here once and sat for hours. Such a pretty spot. We both loved choir music. Such a good man, that Russ.”

“What can you tell me about him? I found a letter he sent my dad last year, and I have no idea where he is. My dad is sick, and I’m trying to reunite them before —”

“Oh dear,” she says.

“So do you know where he is?”

“I don’t, dear. I must say I’m surprised —”

“What? What are you surprised about?”

She tightens her lips and looks down at her purse, which she slowly opens. She pulls out a slate-gray hardcover book. The title reads Alcoholics Anonymous.

“This is really all I have. I wanted to keep Russ’s anonymity,” she says, “but maybe in this case, it’s okay to break it.”

My heart pounds. “What? Please, tell me.”

“Your grandfather was in Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“Okay. I know about AA,” I say.

“He stayed with us for two weeks. I took him to his first meeting. I’ve been in the program now fifty-five years. We had a lot of good talks. Your grandfather was such a kind man.”

My throat catches. “Was?”

She waves it away. “Oh, I don’t mean that. I have no idea where he is. I lost touch with Russ about eighteen months after he stayed here. He didn’t answer three letters in a row, so I stopped writing.”

“Do you still have his address?”

She slowly shakes her head. “I’m sorry. That was many years ago.”

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“We wrote back and forth all the time. He was a good friend for the year I knew him.”

“Can you tell me about him?”

She is quiet for a long moment. “Hard life.”

“Could you say more about that?”

Again, it’s like we’re having an interview on TV and there’s a tape delay.

“I’m sorry, dear. I’m old-fashioned, maybe. I feel like there are things friends say to each other that shouldn’t ever get repeated.” She closes her eyes and bows her head. “Proverbs twenty-six twenty: ‘Without wood a fire goes out; without gossip a quarrel dies down.’ ”

She opens her eyes and smiles at us. I glance at Aisha and we share a look that could kill an old lady.