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cursed at the same time, hoping it was indicative of his good fortune and not some girl's bad luck in the future. He waited until it drove onto the ramp before walking to the other side of Jenny's car. When he got in, he looked over at her; she had her head back against the headrest with her eyes closed. He leaned across her to grasp her seat belt, taking care not to let their bodies touch again. As he struggled with the buckle, he watched her face, wondering if she had fallen asleep. And then he saw it. A tear. Just one, in the outer corner of her eye, pooled in the space between her upper and lower eyelids, caught heavy in flight by her black lashes.
     
    Jenny lived in one of the rehabbed Victorian duplexes on Lafayette Square that lined the streets around the park. The taxi was already parked outside, waiting for him, when they arrived. He touched her to wake her.
    "I'll be right back," he said to the driver before helping her up the front stoop. The taxi driver nodded in understanding, as if he had watched the same scene unfold numerous times before. Jack fumbled with Jenny's keys, trying a few to determine which opened the door. One finally fit, and he shoved the door open with one hand while balancing her with the other. They were greeted by a Siamese cat; it mewed insistently as it wound its body first between her legs and then his. He pushed it gently out of the way with his foot and kicked the door closed.
    It was dark inside, and he felt for a light switch on the wall. He debated whether to try to get her upstairs and into her bed, but thought better of it and steered her to the couch. She immediately rolled onto her side, drew her legs up, and grasped the throw pillow under her head with both hands. He went upstairs, forgoing the interior lights this time in favor of the soft, dim glow of the street lights below. He stopped in the doorway to her bedroom, startled by the imposing mahogany four-poster bed in front of him. He remembered there had been no bed when he and his son, Michael, had helped her move; she'd lived with Alex, of course, before moving here. Now, she'd dressed the bed to rival any linen catalog. And pillows. There had to be at least seven or eight pillows at the head, and a white scarf was draped from post to post. His eyes were drawn to the room's tall windows, which were framed by long white sheers that matched the bed scarf. He smiled a little, amused by the evidence of the difference in their disposable income; he and Claire still slept on the old bedroom set handed down from her parents. And after five years in their house, the bedroom windows were still covered by roller shades.
 
    He walked around the end of the bed and looked at the items on her dresser. He picked up a picture, one he'd seen in a box when they'd helped her move. It was an old photo—of Jenny, he presumed—taken when she was a little girl. Despite the difference in age and the lighter hair color, the lips on the little girl in the picture were unmistakably hers. She must have been playing dress-up. She wore a billowy, oversized dress shirt—her father's, perhaps—gathered at the waist by a skinny belt. She had adorned herself with a pillbox hat with a large, glorious bow in the front, and jewelry everywhere. She wore black high-heeled pumps with sharp, pointed toes that, because of the camera angle, actually seemed to fit her tiny feet. What struck Jack most, however, as he studied the picture, was the makeup. This little girl, who looked to be no more than five or six, had on the makeup of a grown woman.
    He continued to study the picture. The little girl stared back at him, cocky and self-assured even then. Everything was the same but the hair; he couldn't figure out the hair. He knew hair became darker as one grew older, but from amber to black? He was sure she didn't dye it. He set the picture back down, puzzled.
    At the end of the dresser, on the floor, a discarded bra and pair of panties lay carelessly at the edge