Bernice said to Emily, pointing up, as they walked from the illegal spot where she’d left the car. Baltimore’s Washington Monument stood fifty yards away, its base like an emperor’s tomb, the high column sticking up into the soupy evening, George himself atop it dressed in a toga and holding what appeared to be a lightning rod. “That’s the father of our country. He never told a lie, and he had wooden teeth.” “If I had wooden teeth, I wouldn’t have to brush them,” said Emily. “That’s right. You just slap on another coat of paint. It’s very convenient.” “Or buy more at the store.” “Exactly.” She found his new place easily enough, although she was surprised to see it had a steep set of marble steps, since the whole point of his moving out two years ago and taking this apartment had been to get away from steps. He’d written her a letter at the time, and she remembered how formal it was—no questions about her, only the single statement, “I hope you are well.”
