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dabber.
    “Hey, you still speak-a Italiano?” she said.
    The words, long unused, floated up like a dog. “ Dove la fermata dell’ autobus? ” he said. She started to laugh, but it made her cry again. “I went there last year,” she said when she recovered. “On vacation.”
    “To Ladispoli?” he asked. He had come to think of it as a place that had ceased to exist afterthe Gelmans departed.
    “No. Firenze, Venezia. It was pretty. Personally, though? You could fly to Vegas for, like, half the money and half the time.”
    “Vegas?” he said.
    “The Bellagio?” she said. “The Venetian? I mean, it’s like a guy in one of those boats, and he’s pushing you, and he can sing if you pay him. Exactly like in Venice. In Italian or English, whichever language you prefer. Why do you need Venice? It stinks there, by the way.”
    “I see,” he said.
    “I get a little crazy when I go to Vegas,” she said, dabbing again at the corners of her eyes. “Hella fun. You go?”
    Recently, Slava had fished out of the Las Vegas Sun an item for “The Hoot,” the humor column that was his official responsibility at Century , but he didn’t think he could explain all that to Vera. He shook his head.
    “You got to go,” she summed up. “I have to go clean up, I can’t stand in front of you like this. But listen: You have to come over.”
    He blinked. “Why?”
    “This fight they’re having?” She pointed at the living room. “It’s crazy. How many years now?”
    “So how come you came tonight?” Slava said.
    “Because my grandpa said he’s going, he don’t give a bleep what my mom says. So she said I have to go with him, because it looks bad if he goes alone, like nobody loves him. But she said not to talk to anyone. Be, like, quiet and pissed off. It’s nice to see you, though, Slava.”
    “It’s nice to see you, too,” he said.
    “The children have to fix it, like always. You come over for dinner, and little by little. You know?”
    “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “It’s their business.” He didn’t want to get involved with their argument. But with Vera?
    She shrugged. “There’s not many of us here. We have to stick together.”
    She stepped forward and placed her lips, full and soft, on his cheek. He felt the rasp of his cheeks prick whatever she had applied to her own. When she pulled back, the beige powder scattered finely between them. Then she walked out of the kitchen.
    When he heard the bathroom door close, he wandered into the hallway separating it from the kitchen and stood there, not eavesdropping. She was humming. Then she flushed and the water slithered down the pipes. He sprang back just before the door opened. Her face had returned to its prior immobility. She winked at him and walked past.
    The bathroom swam with the subtle sugar of Vera’s perfume. Berta had lined the wall with guest towels, hers and Grandfather’s concealed from foreign hands. Slava looked at the mirror.How many times had Grandmother’s withered face appeared in the exact spot where he now held his own? Slava knew that mirrors were covered after a Jewish death to prevent vanity. But what kind of mourning was it if you had to trick yourself into it? And was it so wrong to leave the mirror uncovered if it made Slava think of her? Wasn’t that the point? He lifted a towel from one of the hooks and slipped it over the mirror, fastening its edges with two containers of Berta’s face cream. He waited for this to have some effect, but he didn’t feel anything. He flushed the toilet in case someone was waiting. Despite himself, he hoped to find Vera standing outside the bathroom.
    Instead, he found Grandfather, looking lost. “Slavchik,” Grandfather said drowsily. His hands hung at his sides like a soldier’s, only that his shoulders sagged.
    “People are leaving?” Slava said.
    “No, no,” Grandfather said.
    “You got lucky with Berta,” Slava said.
    “She’s good,” Grandfather said