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Then she emptied the other postcards out of her purse—a set of holes, a face, a bouquet, a saint, a fancy chest-of-drawers, an old dress, another face, people working out of doors, some squiggles, a stone coffin, a table covered with more faces. Eleven in all. Worth, she jotted the figures on the back of the card with the coffin—$2.75. A bit of shoplifting always cheered her up.

She decided that the bouquet, “Irises,” was the nicest and addressed it to Juan: Juan Martinez Abingden Garage 312 Perry St. New York 10014.

It wasn’t because he disliked Lottie and his offspring that he wasn’t regular with his weekly dues. It was just that Princess Cass ate up his money before he could pay it out, Princess Cass being his dream on wheels, a virginal ’15 replica of the last great muscle car, Chevy’s ’79 Vega Fascination. About the neck of his little beauty he had hung five years of sweat and tears: punched out power with all suitable goodies; a ’69 vintage Weber clutch with Jag floorbox and Jag universals; leather insides; and the shell and glory of her was seven swarthy per-spectivized overlays with a full five-inch apparent depth of field. Just touching her was an act of love. And when it moved?
Brm brm?
You came.

Princess Cass resided on the third floor of the Abingdon Garage on Perry Street, and as the monthly rent plus tax, plus tax, was more than he would have to pay at a hotel, Juan lived there with, and in, the Princess. Besides cars that were just parked or buried at the Abingdon, there were three other members of the faith: a Jap ad man in a newish Rolls Electric. “Gramps  Gardiner in a self-assembled Uglicar that wasn’t much more, poor slut, than a mobile bed; and, stranger than custom, a Hillman Minx from way back and with zero modifications, a jewel belonging to Liz Kreiner, who had inherited it from her father Max.

Juan loved Lottie. He did love Lottie, but what he felt for Princess Cass went beyond love—it was loyalty. It went beyond loyalty—it was symbiosis.

(“Symbiosis” being what it said in little gold letters on the fender of the Jap junior executive’s Rolls.) A car represented, in a way that Lottie would never understand for all her crooning and her protests, a way of life. Because if she had understood, she wouldn’t have addressed her dumb card in care of the Abingdon. A blurry mess about some dumb flower that was probably extinct!

He didn’t worry about an inspection, but the Abingdon’s owners had shit-fits when anyone used the place as an address, and he didn’t want to see the Princess sleeping on the street.

If Princess Cass was his pride, she was secretly also his shame. Since eighty per cent of his income was extra-legal, he had to buy her basic necessities—gas, oil, and glass fiber—on the black market, and there was never enough, despite his economies in every other direction. Five nights out of seven she had to stay indoors, and Juan would usually stay there with her, puttering and polishing, or reading poems, or sharpening his brains on Liz Kreiner’s chessboard, anything rather than have some smart-ass ask, “Hey. Romeo, where’s the royal lady?”

The other two nights justified any suffering. The very best and happiest times were when he met someone who could appreciate largeness and they’d set off down the turnpike. All through the night, not stopping except to fill the tank, on and on and on and on. That was colossal but it wasn’t something he could do all the time, or even with the same someone again. Inevitably they would want to know more and he couldn’t bear to admit that this was it—the Princess, himself, and those lovely white flashes coming down the center of the road. All. Once they found out, the pity started flowing, and Juan had no defenses against pity.

Lottie had never pitied him, nor had she ever been jealous of Princess Cass, and that’s why they could be, and had been, and would be, man and wife. Eight fucking years. Like Liz Kreiner’s Hillman, she’d lost the flower of youth, but the guts were still sound. When he was with her and things went right, it was like butter on toast. A melting. The edges vanished. He forgot who he was or that there was anything in particular that had to be done. He was the rain and she was a lake, and slowly, softly, effortlessly, he fell.

Who could ask for more?

Lottie might have. Sometimes he wondered why she didn’t. He knew the kids cost her more than he provided, yet the only demands she tried to make were on his time and presence. She wanted him living, at least part of the time, at 334, and not so far as he could tell for any other reason than because she wanted him near. She kept pointing out ways he’d save money and other kinds of advantages, like having all his clothes in one place instead of scattered over five boroughs.

He loved Lottie. He did love her, and needed her too, but it wasn’t possible for them to live together. It was hard to explain why. He’d grown up in a family of seven, all living in one room. It turned people into beasts living that way. Human beings need privacy. But if Lottie didn’t understand that, Juan didn’t see what else he could say. Any person had to have some privacy, and Juan just needed more than most.

While she was shuffling, Nora hatched the egg that she had so obviously been holding in reserve. “I saw that colored boy on the steps yesterday.”

“Colored boy?” Wasn’t that just like Nora, to find the worst possible way to put it? “When did you start keeping company with colored boys?”

Nora cut. “Milly’s fellow.”

Leda swam round in pillows and comforters, sheets and blankets, until she was sitting almost upright. “Oh yes,” archly, “that colored fellow.” She dealt the cards out carefully and placed the pack between them on the emptied-out cupboard that served as their table.

“I practically—” Nora arranged the cards in her hands “—had to split a gasket. Knowing that the two of them were in my room the whole while, and him wasting away for it.” She plucked out two cards and put them in the crib, which was hers this time. “The droop!”

Leda was more careful. She had a 2, a pair of 3’s, a 4, and a pair of 7’s. If she kept the double run, she had to give Nora the 7’s. But if she kept her two pairs and the starter didn’t offer additional help … She decided to risk it and put the 7’s in the crib.

Nora cut again and Leda turned up the Queen of Spades for the starter. She dissembled her satisfaction with a shake of her head, and the opinion, “Sex!”

“Do you know, Leda?” Nora laid down a 7. “I can’t even remember what that was all about.”

Leda played the 4. “I know what you mean. I wish Ab felt that way about it.”

A 6. “Seventeen. You say that, but you’re young, and you’ve got Ab.”

If she played a 3, Nora could take it to 31 with a face card. She played the 2 instead. “Nineteen. I’m not young.”

“And five makes twenty-four.”

“And three. Twenty-seven?”

“No, can’t.”

Leda laid down her last card. “And three is thirty.” She advanced a hole.

“Five,” and Nora took her hole. Then, at last, came the contradiction Leda was waiting for. “I’m fifty-four, and you’re, what? Forty-five? It makes all the difference.” She spread her cards beside the Queen. “And another crucial difference—Dwight has been dead for twenty years now. Not that I haven’t had my opportunities now and then—Let’s see, what have I got? Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a pair is six, and two runs is six, is twelve.” She jumped the second match-stick forward. “But now and then is not the same thing as a habit.”

“Are you bragging or complaining?” Leda spread her own cards.

“Bragging, absolutely.”

“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a pair is six, and two runs, it’s just the same as yours, look—twelve.”

“Sex makes people crazy. Like that poor fool on the steps. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m well out of it.”

Leda plugged her matchstick into a hole just four short of game. “That’s what Carney said about Portugal, and you know what happened then.”

“There’s more important things,” Nora maundered on, undeterred.

Here it comes, Leda thought, the theme song. “Oh, count your crib,” she said.

“There’s only the pair you gave me. Thanks.” She went ahead two holes. “The family—that’s the important thing. Keeping it together.”

“True, true. Now get on with it, my dear.”

But instead of taking the cards and shuffling, Nora picked up the cribbage board and studied it. “I thought you said you had twelve?”

“Did I make a mistake?” Sweetly.

“No, I don’t think so.” She moved Leda’s matchstick back two holes. “You cheated.”

After his initial incredulity, when he realized she really did want him to move in, he thought: Arggh! But after all, why not? Being her lodger couldn’t be much worse than living in the middle of a mother-fucking marching band the way he did now. He could trade in his meal vouchers for food stamps. As Mrs. Hanson herself had pointed out, it didn’t have to be official, though if he played his cards right he might be able to get Fulke to give him a couple credits for it as an individual field project. Fulke was always bitching at him for scanting case work. He’d have to agree. It was only a matter, really, of finding the right ribbon to tie around it. Not “Problems of Aging” again, if he didn’t want to be sucked down the drainhole of a geriatrics specialty. “Family Structures in a Modicum Environment.” Too vast, but that was the direction to aim in. Mention his institutional upbringing and how this was an opportunity to understand family dynamics from the inside. It was emotional blackmail, but how could Fulke refuse?

It never occurred to him to wonder why Mrs. Hanson had extended the invitation. He knew he was likable and was never surprised when people, accordingly, liked him. Also, as Mrs. Miller had pointed out, the old lady was upset about her son marrying and moving away. He would replace the son she had lost. It was only natural.

“Here’s the key,” and she handed Amparo the key. “No need to bring it up here, but if there’s a personal letter inside—” (But mightn’t he write to her on office stationery?) “No, if there’s anything at all, just wave your arms like this—” Mrs. Hanson waved her arms vigorously and the dewlaps went all quivery.

“I’ll be watching.”

“What are you expecting, Grummy? It must be awfully important.”

Mrs. Hanson smiled her sweetest, most Grummy-like smile. Love made her crafty. “Something from the MODICUM office, dear. And you’re right, it could be quite important—for all of us.”

Now run! she thought. Run down those stairs!

She took one of the chairs from the table in the kitchen and set it by the living room window. She sat down. She stood up. She pressed the palms of her hands against the sides of her neck as a reminder that she must control herself.

He’d promised to write whether he came that night or not, but she felt sure he’d forget his promise if he didn’t intend to come. If a letter were there, it could mean only one thing.

Amparo must have reached the mailboxes by now. Unless she’d met a friend of hers as she went down. Unless she— Would it be there? Would it? Mrs. Hanson scanned the gray sky for an omen but the clouds were too low for planes to be visible. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, willing Amparo to come round the corner of the building.

And she was there! Amparo’s arms made a V and then an X, a V, and an X. Mrs. Hanson signaled back. A deadly joy slithered across her skin and shivered through her bones. He had written! He would come!

She was out the door and at the head of the stairs before she recollected her purse. Two days ago, in anticipation, she’d taken out the credit card from where she kept it hidden in The New American Catholic Bible. She hadn’t used it since she’d bought her father’s wreath, when, two years ago? Nearer three.

Two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and even so it was the smallest he got. What the twins must have paid for theirs! It had taken over a year to pay it back, and all the while the computer kept making the most awful threats. What if the card weren’t valid now!

She had her purse and the list and the card were inside. A raincoat. Was there anything else? And the door, should she lock it? Lottie was inside asleep but Lottie could have slept through a gang bang. To be on the safe side she locked the door.

I mustn’t run, she told herself at the third landing down, that was how old Mr.—I mustn’t run, but it wasn’t running that made her heart beat so—it was love! She was alive and miraculously she was in love again. Even more miraculously, somebody loved her. Loved her. Madness.

She had to stop on the ninth-floor landing to catch her breath. A temp was sleeping in the corridor in a licensed MODICUM bag. Usually she would only have been annoyed, but this morning the sight affected her with a delicious sense of compassion and community. Give me your tired, she thought with elation, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. How it all came pouring back! Details from a lifetime ago, memories of old faces and old feelings. And now, poetry!

By the time she was on one the backs of her legs were trembling so she could barely stand up straight. There was the mailbox, and there, slantwise inside it, was Len’s letter. It had to be his. If it were anything else she would die.

The mailbox key was where Amparo always left it behind the scarecrow camera. His letter said:

“Dear Mrs. Hanson—You can set an extra plate for dinner Thursday. I’m happy to say I can accept your kind invitation. Will bring my suitcase. Love, Len.”

Love! There was no mistaking it, then: Love! She had sensed it from the first, but who would have believed—at her age, at fifty-seven! (True, with a bit of care her fifty-seven could look younger than someone like Leda Holt’s forty-six. But even so.) Love!

Impossible.

Of course, and yet always when that thought had come to her there were those words beneath the title on the cover of the book, words that, as if by accident, his finger had pointed to as he read: “The Tale of an Impossible Love.” Where there was love nothing was impossible.

She read the letter over and over. In its plainness it was more elegant than a poem: “I’m happy to say I can accept your kind invitation.” Who would have suspected, reading that, the meaning which for them was so obvious?