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prostitutes choose?” I said.
    â€œSome choose,” Muriel said sadly. “And those are the ones you’re talking about on this show, am I right? The dead ones, the ones in jail, the ones somebody won’t allow to talk. You don’t have them on your radio show.”
    â€œNo,” I admitted.
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    I liked Muriel Peck. After the show she stuffed her dolls into the blue-and-green bag, and reached to shake hands. I was sorry I wouldn’t see her again. The radio series had just ended, and I drove home, pleased with myself but sad. I didn’t know who’d heard me. I didn’t know if Pekko had; he’d listened to one or two of the earlier shows. My mother admitted to hearing all but the first, and my friend Charlotte and her husband, Philip, had been carefully faithful, leaving enthusiastic phone or e-mail messages, but Pekko had said little, though I thought he’d heard at least one show. I wished I could gather my listeners into a room and look at them.
    At home I was greeted by Arthur and poured myself a glass of wine while Pekko, who had been reading the Times, watched me from the kitchen table. “Tired, sweetie?” he said, and I nodded. Our kitchen is big, and at one end there’s an old sofa, a faded greenish, comfortable thing, from the beach house where Pekko used to live. I sat down on it. “I caught part of that,” he said.
    â€œWas it all right?”
    â€œI know Muriel Peck.”
    â€œShe lives in New Haven.”
    â€œThe crafts are a sideline,” he said. “She works at Hill Health. That’s her real name.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œFor years and years,” Pekko said, “New Haven had visible hookers on Chapel and Howe. I guess they all died of AIDS.”
    â€œI remember them.”
    He gathered the newspaper sections. “Oh, Daisy.”
    â€œWhat? You hated the program?” I drank all my wine in a rush and stood up to pour some more.
    â€œI didn’t hate it. It was good. You’re funny on the radio. Your voice goes up and down. It’s nice.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œIf you were going to talk about New Haven, you couldn’t find any other topic?”
    â€œPekko, there’s nothing wrong with talking about prostitution,” I said.
    He gestured with the newspaper sections, as if they contained relevant evidence. “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you this is some picture-perfect New England village where the big event of the week is the minister’s wife baking cookies.”
    â€œThose places have prostitutes, too,” I said. The phone rang.
    â€œBut don’t you see what you’re doing? So many people are already afraid of this city.”
    â€œIt wasn’t just about New Haven. Wait a second.”
    â€œWell—”
    I picked up the phone, thinking I should tell him about the Soul Patrol and Gordon Skeetling. He hadn’t heard the show on which I mentioned it, and so far, I hadn’t told him about my newest client. “Hello?” I said, my mind on Pekko, who left the room.
    â€œI got the right number,” said a woman. “I recognize your voice. Muriel told me to listen, and I just heard the show. I called her and got your number.” I put my hand over the receiver and called to Pekko, but he’d turned on the TV. The call was the third one that mattered arising from the radio show. The first was Gordon Skeetling, the second Muriel Peck, and the third was the woman on the phone. I was too unsettled and tired to take in her name that night, but I listened when she said she wanted to put on a play.
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    H er name turned out to be Katya, and she had some sort of theater-related degree and a grant to put together community theater. Ordinary people would make up a play and produce it. “I want you,” she said. “You say what you think, and you don’t mumble.” The cast was about to meet for the