I have one battered cardboard box containing the handmade presents I’ve received over the years: a paper towel roll kaleidoscope, a collage of shirtless men that Wanda made to cheer us up when we hadn’t seen a real one in a while. I have these things but no purse, no wallet, no money, no ID except the inmate tag I’ve worn around my neck for a decade. “One thing at a time,” Jeremy told me when I pointed out that my driver’s license expired ten years ago. “You don’t need a license until you’ve got a car.” It’s overwhelming to contemplate. If I ever land a job interview how will I get to it? “First things first,” he said. “You know what you need to do.” I do. In the car I ask Marianne if she remembers Linda Sue having a cat. She startles for a moment. “A cat,” she says. “Why do you ask that?” “I thought I saw one that day when I was in her house, looking around.” I don’t need to clarify this—the day Linda Sue died. With Marianne I seem to leave as much unsaid as possible.
