“Why on earth would you—”

“Because your husband,” he said, “has been telling everyone in this neighborhood, and I suspect well beyond it, that you’re infertile.

That you’re the reason there are no children.”

My throat closed.

“And because,” Arthur went on, and his eyes, which had been gentle, went suddenly hard as flint, “about six months ago, I was out on my porch in the evening, and your husband was on his porch, on the phone, and he did not trouble to lower his voice, because he did not imagine the neighborhood ghost was worth lowering it for.

And I heard him say — bragging, laughing — that he had made sure every specialist you saw only ever looked at the records he wanted them to see.”