“So there are good ways to die,” Walter said, “and far less desirable ways. Die as a hero or suffocate in a hospital bed.”

Honey looked past him toward the cathedral, cleared of churchgoers now. Walter asked if he could drive her home. Honey said she lived only a few blocks north, in Highland Park, and liked to walk. She could tell he wanted to keep talking to her, saying what an advantage it was to be born in the year 1900.

“You know exactly how old you were when important historical events took place. I know I was twenty-three when Adolf Hitler first came into prominence. You say you read, you must know about the famous Beer Hall Putsch in Munich. I was twenty-five when Mein Kampf was published and I read it, a little later, from cover to cover.”

Honey said, “Did you like it?”

It stopped him. “Did I like it...?”

“All these important historical events you remember happened in Germany?”

“I was thirty-two when Roosevelt was first elected your president.”

“Isn’t he your president too?”

Honey believed she could have fun with Walter. She liked to argue, especially with people who were serious about weird ideas they swore were true. Like the ones who read Social Justice, written by a priest she’d heard on the radio, Father Charles Coughlin, with a voice like syrup, but talked about a conspiracy of Jews being international bankers or atheistic Communists, either way out to get us.

“Yes, unfortunately he is the president,” Walter said, sounding like he was about to start in on Roosevelt, Honey’s choice in the ’36 election to beat that boring Republican Alf Landon. She looked at her watch.

“I’m sorry, Walter, but I have to scoot. I’m going downtown to the show with a friend of mine.” Her favorite place to get into discussions was in a bar over a rye and ginger and smoking cigarettes, not standing in front of a church.