yard in Connecticut. Heâd tried to instill this in her, often inviting her to join him in his work. Now, when she spent a day
sweeping and vacuuming, she thought of him. Or didnât think of him, exactly, for the fact of not thinking accounted for a good deal of the pleasure those days provided. But her unthinking self, her brute body at work, felt close to her father then, and she liked the work for this reason.
She didnât care much for washing dishes, though. It kept you fixed in one place and didnât have the feel of true labor. On the rare occasions when Tom was home in time for dinner, Sophie made him clean up afterward. But now the warm water comforted her hands. The one dishtowel was dirtier than most of the dishes, but there was soap and a dish rack, and she had enough to make do. Once sheâd finished, she took her glass into the living room. There too, she tidied up. When she handled Craneâs folders, the urge was great to look through them. But Sophie resisted, sensing where that would lead, the entanglement that such interest would bring. She straightened them into piles neat enough to suggest at least the possibility of order. She thought she might buy cleaning supplies while at the drugstore, so she could do a proper job when she got back.
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It occurred to her to check on Crane before going to fill his prescriptions, but she wanted to let him sleep. She was there and back before she realized that she hadnât taken a key. She buzzed his apartment twice, knowing that he would sleep through it, before moving on to others. A voice with a heavy Spanish accent came over the intercom.
âHello?â
âOh, Iâm sorry,â Sophie said. âIâm running an errand for the man on the fourth floor, and Iâve been locked out.â
The intercom went dead, and a woman emerged from a first-floor apartment and trundled down the hall.
âYouâre running errands for Mr. Crane?â the woman asked, holding the buildingâs front door open a few unwelcoming inches. She was short and overstuffed, in her fifties perhaps, with black hair and questioning eyes.
âI just stepped out for a moment, but I forgot the key.â
âMr. Crane doesnât get visitors. We live here both ten years, and he never get a visitor.â
âIâm his daughter,â she said, which seemed near enough to true and likely to carry some force.
âHe never mentioned having children. Youâre his daughter, and you donât visit all these years?â
âIâm sorry,â Sophie said, unsure for what. Then she showed the woman the bag from the pharmacy, pointing to the prescription label. âSee here, William Crane, it says.â
Perhaps this suggested something official, for the woman now spoke with deference.âIâm Lucia Ortiz.â
âNice to meet you, Ms. Ortiz. Iâm Sophie.â
âMr. Crane is sick? I live with him a very long time. Heâs a very nice man. Heâs quiet, but very nice.â
Sophie felt the introduction of this woman into her story as an act of providenceâas, in truth, she was inclined to treat all such introductionsâand she saw at once how she was meant to make use of it.
âYes, Iâm afraid heâs quite sick.â She gestured at the bag of pill bottles, now in Luciaâs hands. âDo you think you could bring those to him later, so I donât have to disturb him while he sleeps?â
âThatâs no problem,â said Lucia Ortiz, obviously relieved not to have to let Sophie into the building.
âAnother thing.â Sophie hesitated. âIf you have a chance, could you just check in on him once in a while? Iâm going to try to see him soon, but itâs hard for me. Iâll leave a number you can call if anything happens.â
Sophie wrote her name and her cell phone number on a piece of paper she found in her purse. She took out a