Rosie was already impatient to get on with it. “You no writing.”

“You haven’t said anything yet. I’m getting myself set.”

“I’m wait.”

“Is this like a regional specialty?”

“Absolutely. Is whatever you say. Years I’m working on my recipe and is finally perfect.”

“What did you say it was?”

“Kocsonya? Is jell . . . how you say it . . .”

“Jellied pig feet,” William supplied.

Wincing, I lifted my pen from the paper. “Uh, you know, Rosie, I’m really not much of a cook.”

“I’m telling you wot to do. Exactly wot I say. Okay so you puts in one pig ear, one tail, and one jowl. Plus one fresh pig’s knuckle cut in half, plus one pig’s foot. I sometimes put two. Slowly bring boil and keep over low fire one hour. Then is adding . . .”

She was going on. I could see her mouth move, but I was wholly distracted by the picture she’d painted of pig parts—not even the good ones—simmering in water. She stopped midsentence and pointed at my paper.

“Put down about froth,” she said.

“Frost?”

“Froth. Is skimming froth like gray fat scum. No wonder you can’t cook. You no listen.”

By the time she finished telling me how tender the feet should be when I put them in a serving dish, my eyes were beginning to cross. When she went on to describe the side dish she was serving—pasta filled with calf’s lung—I thought I’d have to put my head down between my knees. Meanwhile, William had backed away from us and he was now busy behind the bar.

Rosie excused herself and returned to the kitchen. This was the only chance I’d have to get away. As I reached for my shoulder bag, she burst back into the bar with a dish of cold jellied pork and a soup bowl filled with what looked like ravioli filled with dark clots. She put the two dishes down in front of me and wiggled in place, hands clasped under her apron. The ravioli was surrounded by a clear broth, and the steam coming off the surface smelled like burning hair.

I stared. “I’m at a loss for words.”

“You try. I’m seeing how you like.”

What was I to do? I retrieved a modest spoonful of broth. I raised it to my lips and made a slurping sound, saying, “Oh, boy. It’s perfect with this wine.”

She might have pressed me for more since she favors detailed compliments that abound in adjectives. Happily, a number of patrons had drifted in and Rosie had responsibilities in the kitchen. As soon as the swinging door closed behind her, I picked up my shoulder bag and rescued my wallet from the depths. I left a generous sum of money on the table and eased out the door. Later I’d think of a compelling story to cover my hasty exit. I didn’t think imminent upchucking would be considered a compliment. For now, it was enough that I escaped without having to eat anything.

On the street again, I had to control the urge to break into a run. It wasn’t fully dark, but the neighborhood was gloomy under trees just beginning to leaf out. I paused at the curb and waited for a car to pass. The car windows were down and the driver had the music turned up so loudly, the car seemed to pulsate. I crossed at the corner and continued the half block to my apartment, walking on the opposite side of the street. A pale blue sedan was idling in Henry’s driveway, and as I watched, two men emerged from the backyard and got in, one into the backseat and the other, the passenger-side seat. The driver backed into the street and drove away. The car turned at the corner onto Bay and disappeared.

What were two strangers doing in Henry’s backyard? His station wagon was in the drive where I’d parked it. His house lights were on. The lights in my studio were out. I hesitated, heart thumping. When I’d left for supper the sky was still light, but I’d realized I’d be returning home after dark so I’d turned on the desk lamp. I retraced my steps and returned to the intersection where Rosie’s Tavern sits. This time, I kept to the side street and continued as far as the alleyway that runs along Henry’s rear property line. On more than one occasion, I’d used this approach, which allowed me to slip through the shrubs that envelop the fence behind his garage. By pushing the chicken wire away from the support post, I could slip into the backyard unseen.

I stood in the shadows and watched my back door. The porch light was off. There was no sign of anyone on or near the darkened patio. Henry’s kitchen light was off, as it should have been. There was enough ambient glow from the streetlights out front that I could identify the various dark patches in the yard: patio furniture, hose reel, Henry’s potted ferns, and a few young trees planted along the walk.