Mrs.

Halstead made a photocopy without my asking, which I’ve thought about many times since.

“Are the pearls for your mother?” she asked.

“She died in March.”

“I’m so sorry.

That was a clumsy question.”

“It’s an eighty-five-dollar question.

You’re allowed to ask it.” She laughed once through her nose and pushed the box across the felt, and I paid her with the debit card that still had my old signature on the back.