The kitchen was from another era. I remember once watching a rerun of a black-and-white TV show called The Honeymooners with my dad. I didn’t really think it was very funny. A lot of the humor seemed to come from Ralph threatening to physically abuse his wife, Alice. Ralph and Alice had a refrigerator-if that’s what this was-like this one. Bat Lady’s linoleum floor was the dirty yellow of a smoker’s teeth. A cuckoo clock was stopped on the wrong time, the bird out of his little brown house. The cuckoo looked cold.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”

Not a sound.

I should just leave. Really. What was I looking for?

Your father isn’t dead. He is very much alive.

On the one hand, I knew better. I had been in that car with my father. I saw him die. On the other hand… you just don’t say a thing like that and not expect a son to demand an explanation.

I tiptoed across the peeling tiles. I passed a checkerboard tablecloth like something you’d see at a pizza joint. There were salt and pepper shakers stuck to it, the contents hardened. I stepped out of the kitchen and stopped in front of a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor.

Where, no doubt, Bat Lady’s bedroom was.

“Hello?”

No reply.

I put one foot on the first step. Then those images-the ones of Bat Lady maybe getting dressed or showering-filled my head. I put my foot back down on the first floor. Uh-uh. I wasn’t going up. At least, not right now.

I entered the living room. It was dark. The key color: brown. Very little illumination made it through the dirt and wood covering the windows. There was a tall grandfather clock, also not working. I spotted an old-fashioned cabinet stereo. A hi-fi, I think they called it. It had a turntable on top. Vinyl albums were stacked to the side. I spotted Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys, the Beatles walking across Abbey Road, and My Generation by the Who.