At night they would gather at the dinner table, his mother plump and sweating, cooking by the stove, his brother, Joe, talking away, his hair and skin smelling from seawater. Joe had become a good swimmer, and his summer work was at the Ruby Pier pool. Joe talked about all the people he saw there, their swimsuits, their money. Eddie’s father was not impressed. Once Eddie overheard him talking to his mother about Joe. “That one,” he said, “ain’t tough enough for anything but water.”

Still, Eddie envied the way his brother looked in the evenings, so tanned and clean. Eddie’s fingernails, like his father’s, were stained with grease, and at the dinner table Eddie would flick them with his thumbnail, trying to get the dirt out. He caught his father watching him once and the old man grinned.

“Shows you did a hard day’s work,” he said, and he held up his own dirty fingernails, before wrapping them around a glass of beer.

By this point—already a strapping teenager—Eddie only nodded back. Unbeknownst to him, he had begun the ritual of semaphore with his father, forsaking words or physical affection. It was all to be done internally. “You were just supposed to know it, that’s all. Denial of affection. The damage done.

And then, one night, the speaking stopped altogether. This was after the war, when Eddie had been released from the hospital and the cast had been removed from his leg and he had moved back into the family apartment on Beachwood Avenue. His father had been drinking at the nearby pub and he came home late to find Eddie asleep on the couch. The darkness of combat had left Eddie changed. He stayed indoors. He rarely spoke, even to Marguerite. He spent hours staring out the kitchen window, watching the carousel ride, rubbing his bad knee. His mother whispered that he “just needed time,” but his father grew more agitated each day. He didn’t understand depression. To him it was weakness.

“Get up,” he yelled now, his words slurring, “and get a job.”

Eddie stirred. His father yelled again.

“Get up … and get a job!”

The old man was wobbling, but he came toward Eddie and pushed him. “Get up and get a job! Get up and get a job! Get up … and … GET A JOB!”

Eddie rose to his elbows.

“Get up and get a job! Get up and—“

“ENOUGH!” Eddie yelled, surging to his feet, ignoring the burst of pain in his knee. He glared at his father, his face just inches away. He could smell the bad breath of alcohol and cigarettes.

The old man glanced at Eddie’s leg. His voice lowered to a growl. “See? You … ain’t … so … hurt.”

He reeled back to throw a punch, but Eddie moved on instinct and grabbed his father’s arm mid-swing. The old man’s eyes widened. This was the first time Eddie had ever defended himself, the first time he had ever done anything besides receive a beating as if he deserved it. His father looked at his own clenched fist, short of its mark, and his nostrils flared and his teeth gritted and he staggered backward and yanked his arm free. He stared at Eddie with the eyes of a man watching a train pull away.

He never spoke to his son again.

This was the final handprint on Eddie’s glass. Silence. It haunted their remaining years. His father was silent when Eddie moved into his own apartment, silent when Eddie took a cab-driving job, silent at Eddie’s wedding, silent when Eddie came to visit his mother. She begged and wept and beseeched her husband to change his mind, to let it go, but Eddie’s father would only say to her, through a clenched jaw, what he said to others who made the same request: “That boy raised a hand to me.” And that was the end of the conversation.

All parents damage their children. This was their life together. Neglect. Violence. Silence. And now, someplace beyond death, Eddie slumped against a stainless steel wall and dropped into a snowbank, stung again by the denial of a man whose love, almost inexplicably, he still coveted, a man ignoring him, even in heaven. His father. The damage done.

Don’t be angry,” a woman’s voice said. “He can’t hear you.”

Eddie jerked his head up. An old woman stood before him in the snow. Her face was gaunt, with sagging cheeks, rose-colored lipstick, and tightly pulled-back white hair, thin enough in parts to reveal the pink scalp beneath it. She wore wire-rimmed spectacles over narrow blue eyes.

Eddie could not recall her. Her clothes were before his time, a dress made of silk and chiffon, with a bib-like bodice stitched with white beads and topped with a velvet bow just below her neck. Her skirt had a rhinestone buckle and there were snaps and hooks up the side. She stood with elegant posture, holding a parasol with both hands. Eddie guessed she’d been rich.

“Not always rich,” she said, grinning as if she’d heard him. “I was raised much like you were, in the back end of the city, forced to leave school when I was fourteen. I was a working girl. So were my sisters. We gave every nickel back to the family—“

Eddie interrupted. He didn’t want another story. “Why can’t my father hear me?” he demanded.

She smiled. “Because his spirit—safe and sound—is part of my eternity. But he is not really here. You are.”

“Why does my father have to be safe for you?”

She paused.

“Come,” she said.

Suddenly they were at the bottom of the mountain. The light from the diner was now just a speck, like a star that had fallen into a crevice.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the old woman said. Eddie followed her eyes. There was something about her, as if he’d seen her photograph somewhere.

“Are you … my third person?”

“I am at that,” she said.

Eddie rubbed his head. Who was this woman? At least with the Blue Man, at least with the Captain, he had some recollection of their place in his life. Why a stranger? Why now? Eddie had once hoped death would mean a reunion with those who went before him. He had attended so many funerals, polishing his black dress shoes, finding his hat, standing in a cemetery with the same despairing question: Why are they gone and I’m still here? His mother. His brother. His aunts and uncles. His buddy Noel. Marguerite. “One day,” the priest would say, “we will all be together in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Where were they, then, if this was heaven? Eddie studied this strange older woman. He felt more alone than ever.

“Can I see Earth?” he whispered.

She shook her head no.

“Can I talk to God?”

“You can always do that.”

He hesitated before asking the next question.

“Can I go back?”

She squinted. “Back?”

“Yeah, back,” Eddie said. “To my life. To that last day. Is there something I can do? Can I promise to be good? Can I promise to go to church all the time? Something?”

“Why?” She seemed amused.

“Why?” Eddie repeated. He swiped at the snow that had no cold, with the bare hand that felt no moisture. “Why? Because this place don’t make no sense to me. Because I don’t feel like no angel, if that’s what I’m supposed to feel like. Because I don’t feel like I got it all figured out. I can’t even remember my own death. I can’t remember the accident. All I remember are these two little hands—this little girl I was trying to save, see? I was pulling her out of the way and I must’ve grabbed her hands and that’s when I …”

He shrugged.

“Died?” the old woman said, smiling. “Passed away? Moved on? Met your Maker?”

“Died,” he said, exhaling. “And that’s all I remember. Then you, the others, all this. Ain’t you supposed to have peace when you die?”

“You have peace,” the old woman said, “when you make it with yourself.”

“Nah,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “Nah, you don’t.” He thought about telling her the agitation he’d felt every day since the war, the bad dreams, the inability to get excited about much of anything, the times he went to the docks alone and watched the fish pulled in by the wide rope nets, embarrassed because he saw himself in those helpless, flopping creatures, snared and beyond escape.