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going to get his special, magical sword that protects him against the Forces of Darkness. Lou was the only one on my side at this point. Miguel, after carrying my bags into the house, had disappeared.
    So I got Lou down and told him he was a good boy, and of course the first thing he did was run around and pee against a flowerpot near the house, which got Hildy yapping again. (I was going to stick with calling her Hildy. I couldn’t call a dog that size
Brunhilda
.) I thought that we might both be arrested for defacing the property, but my grandmother didn’t seem to mind.
    â€œWhat’s his name?” She looked down from her great height, her face a bit softer. “Some kind of hound, is he?”
    â€œLou,” I answered. “He was a rescue dog, so we’re not sure, but he seems to have some Lab, maybe mixed with bloodhound.”
    Hildy was still yapping so my grandmother said, “Hush, Brunhilda!” sternly. “This is Lou, and he will be your guest for the next month or two, so you’re going to have to learn to get along.” She let Hildy out of her arms so the two dogs could do their dog thing together, sniffing and circling and checking each other out.
    â€œLou will get used to the peacocks,” she assured me. “Everyone does, after a while.” There were maybe twenty birds wandering around on the ground near us, and four or five pacing alongthe roof above her head, looking nervous, like people waiting for a dentist appointment. A few others called out from the tops of the trees—a high, sad sound, like grief.
    â€œCome in, Ella,” my grandmother said at last. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying.” She opened the screen door, and in I went to the House of Mud.
    We came in to a dim, cool entryway. In the clutter I saw a tall umbrella stand holding a bouquet of peacock feathers; a metal tin the size of a barrel filled with cashew nuts; heaps of magazines on the floor; a broad table crowded with stone creatures (polar bears, penguins, seals); and two white wicker chairs that faced each other across a kind of gangway. Straight ahead was a wide screen that gave out onto a courtyard with flower bushes, more birds and one pretty, silver-barked tree. Around the corner was a packed bookcase, with every kind of magazine and catalog scattered across its top.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind a few papers and books here and there,” my grandmother said—which was like Niagara Falls asking if you minded getting sprayed by a drop or two of water. “I like to read.”
    I nodded. “Me too.”
    â€œGood.” A positive word from Mrs. Von Stern, at last! “This way,” she called over her shoulder like an expedition leader. She opened the door into a dark, cavelike chamber. “We go through the Haitian Room first.”
    It was hard for my eyes to adjust in the Haitian Room, as the only light came from a tiny half-curtained window, buteventually I could see acid-yellow walls almost entirely covered by colorful paintings: of beaches and marketplaces, cars and mopeds, wagons piled high with fruit. Hanging separately, in the corner, was a pencil drawing of a cute, round-eyed little boy.
    â€œI’ve collected these paintings from various travels over the years,” my grandmother explained in a bored tone. “And that”—she waved at the penciled boy—“is Walter, of course.”
    I stared. I would never have recognized that kid as my dad. I had hardly ever thought about him being a kid; it was hard enough to get a handle on him as a grown-up. No one ever got the idea to show me pictures of young “Walter.” I had seen photos of Mom, in albums at the house of my other grandma, in Los Angeles—the one who really
was
a grandma, when she was alive, the kind who sent Christmas presents and baked brownies. My favorite picture from one of those albums was of small, blond Amy at a table with