Afterwards, Hugh went back to sleep but I was marooned awake. In the silent boredom of three in the morning, I reran the events of the day, remembering what had happened earlier with the crooked bedside lamp and what he said about it. Waking to his touch was the same thing. Unlike him, I had not been delighted by what I didn’t know. On the contrary: unexpectedly caressed by my lover in the middle of the night, I had come awake swinging. Unable to stop the line of thought, I scrolled through other memories, realizing I could apply this dismal insight all over the way I had lived. I lay there feeling as stiff and inflexible as an old woman’s neck.

On the sidewalk in front of our house, I remembered this. What would Hugh have said? What would he have done if he’d been in my shoes the last few days? I didn’t know anything about what was going on in my life anymore. He was dead and that same crooked lamp sat by our bed upstairs. Such a nice house too—square and solid like a dependable aunt. With a porch that was perfect for a hammock and small talk, iced tea in the summer, a battered bicycle leaning against the wall. A porch for children to play on. If I closed my eyes I could hear kids chasing each other across the wooden floor. Be careful! Slow down! How many children would we have had? How many bikes would have been leaning against the wall, sleds?

I took a step toward the house, hesitated, then took another. Finally I took big fast strides. A car horn honked nearby. I jerked my head but raced up the stair. At the top I avoided looking in the windows. What if there had been something inside, something new that would deter me from going in again?

Jamming my hand into my back pocket, I pulled out the New York Mets key ring Clayton Blanchard had given me when I worked for him. Just thinking his name calmed me some. If there was still Clayton, then there was still New York and old books, some kind of order that existed, hot coffee and cold soda, a place where you could step and not fall off the edge of the suddenly flat earth. Love was in that place, sanity too. I needed to get back there both for myself and our child. Memories and this baby were Hugh’s legacy to me. Neither could function in the strange reality I had been shoved into.

I put the key in the lock and turned. Or tried. Because the key would not turn. Could not turn. I tried again with no success. I twisted the doorknob. It would not turn but it was warm. As if someone had been holding it just before I touched it. I shook it, pushed in and out, tried the key again, tried turning the knob. Nothing.

Leaving the key in the lock, I stepped over to one of the windows and looked in. Nothing. Inside, the house was dark. I could just make out the shadowy shapes of our furniture in the living room: Hugh’s new chair, the couch. Without warning I felt a sheer need to be inside the house, no matter what waited in there. I went back to the door and tried everything again, this time with the fury and strength of impatience—the lock, the knob, push, shake. Nothing.

“Temper, temper! What are you doing, trying to kill the door?”

Both hands on the knob, I looked over my shoulder. McCabe stood on the sidewalk with his arms crossed. He slipped a hand into a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had to stay… back there.”

“I did what was necessary. You tell what you saw; they fill out their forms.… Only so much you can do. I was worried about you, so I thought I’d come by and see if you were all right before I went down to the station.”

“Thanks for your concern! Listen, did you know the people in that accident?”

“The Salvatos? Sure. She and the kid were sweet, but Al’s no loss to mankind.”

“Salvato? That was the name? They’re from Crane’s View?”

“Yeah. Al owned a couple of stores downtown. Green Light Al Salvato. We grew up together. Why?”

“I… don’t know. When I looked in the wreck, I thought I knew the people.”

McCabe took a deep breath and let it out quickly, his cheeks puffed out. “That’s a tough moment for anyone. Especially if it’s your first time. I never get used to it. I guess you were confused.”

I knew full well it was Hugh and his family in the silver car. There was no doubt about it.

“I saw you fiddling with the key. Is there a problem?”

Gesturing toward the door, I gave a defeated laugh. “I can’t get into my house. Something’s wrong with the lock. The key won’t turn and neither will the doorknob.”

“Can I try?” Flicking his half-smoked cigarette away, he climbed the stairs to the porch, took the key, and tried it himself. Once. Nothing. It was a small gesture but I liked him for it. He didn’t try to be a man about it by fooling with the key for five minutes until the lock submitted and he had shown me up. He tried once, failed, handed back the key.

“You got two choices, then. We call a locksmith for, like, fifty bucks even though I know a guy who’ll give you a discount. Or you can pretend you don’t see this.…” He brought something out of his pocket and showed it to me. A lock pick—I recognized it from a hundred TV shows. “You want to give it a shot?”

“I’m happy to save fifty dollars.”

“Well, let’s see.”

He slipped the awl-like thing into the lock and wiggled it around a couple of times. He stopped, made one more small movement with his hand, and there was an audible click. He turned the knob and the door opened.

“Cha-cha-cha.” Standing back, he made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Open sez me.”

I started in but stopped. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got a million other things to do. But would you mind coming in with me just for a few minutes? I’d feel so much better if I had company in there awhile.”

He looked at his beautiful watch. “Sure, I got time. We’ll give the place a once-over.” Without waiting he walked in. A moment’s hesitation and then I followed.

“Uh-oh, did you leave something on the stove?”

“No.”

“We better look in your kitchen first.” He went right toward it. For a second that confused me until I remembered McCabe had often been in the house when Frances lived here.

As if reading my mind, he said, “This house used to be full of weird smells. You never knew what would hit you when you came in. Sometimes ambrosia, sometimes Perth Amboy. Frances ever make you pecan pie? Sometimes great, other times absolute dog food. You’d be cleaning your teeth for three days. She was the damndest cook. Great soups, terrible meat. Never let her cook you meat! Once for my birthday—” He shoved the kitchen door but nothing happened.

“You lock this?”

“No.”

We stared at each other.

“Interesting.” He pushed again, but nothing happened. Under his breath he began whistling the Beach Boys song “Help Me, Rhonda.” He slid his hands into his pockets and immediately took them out again. He gave the bottom of the door a small kick that sounded way too loud in the silent house. He whistled some more. “This is interesting. Maybe it explains why you couldn’t get in from outside.” Taking a magenta credit card out of his pocket, he slipped it in the crack between the door and the frame and slid it upward. There came a small metallic clink on the other side.

“There you go! I remember there’s a hook and eye on this one because I put it in for Frances years ago.” He pushed the door open.

First came the smell, then the smoke. Not much of it but enough to stiffen the neck and make you scared. Brave McCabe walked straight into the room. Seconds later there was a metallic scraping, a crash, and he fell down right in front of me.

“What the fuck –“

Pieces of metal covered the kitchen floor; glass too. Some were whole, others broken or in jagged fragments. Many were blackened, others actually smoking. The largest was immediately recognizable—a silver trunk lid from an automobile with the BMW insignia emblazoned on it. There were more silver pieces among the others—the silver of Hugh’s wrecked car.