“Someone mentioned it.”

“He should’ve known better than to drink while he was taking all those pills, but that’s what he did. I miss him.”

“When did you see him last?”

She downed the last of her margarita, set that glass aside, and picked up the second, from which she took a sip. There was nothing in her manner that suggested she was wasted, but I could feel sorrow rising through her bones. “In jail, before they moved him to Soledad. Mom didn’t want us to go. She said he’d be embarrassed. Ethan and Anna didn’t really want to see him anyway, but I did. I knew once he left here he’d be too far away, and how would I get there? I’d just turned fifteen and I didn’t have my driver’s license. I knew I couldn’t count on her. She wouldn’t even discuss taking me.”

“How did you manage it?”

“I looked up his attorney in the yellow pages. I called and asked if he’d get me in. I don’t know how he did it. There must be rules about how old you have to be.”

“Attorneys are good at sweet talk.”

“This one was. Daddy had the shakes. He was on the wagon because he didn’t have much choice. You hear all the time that inmates have access to anything they want . . . alcohol and dope . . . but Daddy kept his distance from the other guys. He was afraid of them. Mom told us at Soledad, he got all the alcohol he wanted. I don’t know how he managed it, but that’s her claim.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“Nothing. Stupid stuff. Whatever you say when you’re fifteen and your dad’s been convicted of murdering a girl the same age as you. I wasn’t allowed to stay long.”

“That must have been hard on you. All of it.”

“You know what? In my own mind, I was sure he was innocent. Even back then when everybody else thought he was guilty as sin.”

“Good you had a chance to see him sober.”

“He felt good about himself. He quit on his own . . . no help from anyone. Okay, so maybe he drank at Soledad, but who wouldn’t? And then once he got out, he probably had a drink to celebrate.”

“If it’s any comfort, his friends said he went into a program and at least made a pass at straightening up his act. Maybe he didn’t do it soon enough. It’s hard to know.”

“Was he alone when he died?”

“He was alone when he was found, so I’d say so, yes.”

For a moment, she was quiet, and I had no idea what was going on in her head.

Finally, she said, “You may not know this, but Daddy was a big guy. Six feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds before the booze got to him. In jail, it was like he shrank. The whole time I was there, I could see his hands shake. I wish I hadn’t seen that. He acted like it was the DTs, but it wasn’t. He was scared to death and his nerves were shot.”

“Jail’s a scary place if you’re not used to it.”

“Hank told me this story once. He said when he was growing up, the family had this big old Great Dane. He said Rupert was really smart, but he had the soul of a little dog and never understood how big he was. When they’d take him to the vet, Rupert would just be shaking from head to toe, convinced the vet was going to put him down. All these routine appointments and Rupert would be cowering. Big old hulking dog, quaking in his boots. Hank said it was comical. They tried not to laugh, but they couldn’t help themselves because the dog was self-conscious. You know what I mean? Like he was ashamed. Like he knew something was ridiculous and he wasn’t sure if it was him. They never could convince him he was safe. Then when he was twelve he got sick and sure enough they took him to the vet and sure enough the vet said he’d have to put him down. Hank said what was so odd was the dog made this crooning sound, like the thing he dreaded all these years was right there and it wasn’t so bad. Because instead of laughing at him, everyone was hugging and kissing him, saying how much they loved him, and that’s when he closed his eyes.” She was silent for a moment. “If I’d been there, I could have held Daddy’s hand.”

•   •   •

I ended up in the other room watching Anna play pool. With her in her red leather miniskirt and her red sequined tank top, most of the spectators were more interested in her butt than her bank shots. Her opponent might as well have been her twin, a woman roughly the same age and the same build. Her coloring was different. Where Anna was dark, this girl had red hair in a long braid that was wrapped around her head like a crown. She wore a snug black dress, cut midthigh, with a low square neckline. I’d seen her come in, arriving with a guy who looked like a biker: overweight, balding, with a thick handlebar mustache and a tiny gold ring in one ear. The judgment was unfounded and probably inaccurate. I’m sure there are countless slim, handsome bikers rumbling down our highways. For all I knew, this man was a renowned neurosurgeon for whom buxom redheads were a means of relaxation after countless hours in an operating theater. She played with a single-mindedness I admired and eventually Anna went down in defeat. By then, she’d switched from martinis to Champagne, which probably affected her coordination, as she drained each flute like it was apple juice. The beefy guy took her place and she and I ended up on the sidelines, idly looking on while play continued.