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telephone call and hurriedly leave a message saying that she was fine but wanted to be alone for a while; or, she would send a flurry of e-mails saying the same thing.
    Alone alone alone, she wanted to be alone . Except for Joseph Mattia.
    Another time making a purchase from her musician-friend Zeke. And another time. And each time the price was escalating.
    The third time, Agnes asked Zeke about this: the price of a Ziploc bag of “joints.” And with a shrug Zeke said, “It’s the market, Agnes. Supply and demand.”
    The reply was indifferent, even rude. Zeke did not seem to care about her .
    She was hurt. She was offended. Didn’t he respect Professor Krauss any longer? The way Agnes had rolled off his tongue, and not Professor Krauss .
    She would find someone else to supply her! Nonetheless, on this occasion, she paid.
    * * *
    Her first drive to Trumbel Street, Trenton. Five months, three weeks, and two days after the call had come from the hospital summoning her, belatedly.
    Getting high gave her the courage. Strength flowing through her veins!
    In her expansive floating mood she knew to drive slowly—carefully. She smiled to think how embarrassing it would be, to be arrested by police for a DUI—at her age.
    In the car she laughed aloud, thinking of this.
    The car radio was tuned now to the Trenton AM station. Blasting rap music, rock, high-decibel advertisements. Fat Joe. Young Jeezy. Ne-Yo. Tyga. Cash Out . She understood how such sound assailing her ears was an infusion of strength, courage.
    Such deafening sound, and little room for fear, caution. Little room for thought .
    It was thought that was the enemy, Agnes understood. Getting high meant rising above thought .
    She exited Route 1 for the state capitol buildings. Through a circuitous route involving a number of one-way streets and streets barricaded for no evident reason, she made her way to Trumbel Street which was only two blocks from State Street and from the Delaware River. This was a neighborhood of decaying row houses and brownstones—boarded-up and abandoned stores. It was tricky—treacherous!—to drive here, for the narrow streets were made narrower by parked vehicles.
    Very few “white” faces here. Agnes was feeling washed-out, anemic.
    It was a neighborhood of very dark-skinned African Americans and others who were light-skinned, possibly African American and/or Hispanic. Eagerly she looked for him .
    Turning onto 7th Street and State Street, which was a major thoroughfare in Trenton, she saw more “white” faces—and many pedestrians, waiting for buses.
    Why did race matter so much? The color of skin .
    She could love anyone, Agnes thought. Skin color did not mean anything to her, only the soul within.
    Mattia’s liquid-dark eyes. Fixed upon her.
    Ms. Agnes, I feel like — more hopeful now .
    A half-hour, forty minutes Agnes drove slowly along the streets of downtown Trenton. Trumbel to West State Street and West State Street to Portage; Portage to Hammond, and Grinnell Park; right turn, and back to Trumbel which was, for a number of blocks, a commercial street of small stores—Korean food market, beauty salon, nail salon, wig shop, diner, tavern. And a number of boarded-up, graffiti-marked stores. Trenton was not an easy city to navigate since most of the streets were one-way. And some were barricaded—under repair. (Except there appeared to be no workers repairing the streets, just abandoned-looking heavy equipment.) She saw men on the street who might have been Joseph Mattia but were not. Yet she felt that she was drawing closer to him.
    She told herself, I have nothing else to do. This is my only hope .
    Her husband would be dismayed! She could hardly bring herself to think of him, how he would feel about her behavior now; how concerned he would be. He’d promised to “protect” her—as a young husband he’d promised many things—but of course he had not been able to protect her from his own mortality. She’d been a