Sewell never leaves her rooms?” We were stopped at the corner of Park and Seventy-Second, the early evening well dark. The night had been stealing in a few minutes at a time, a day at a time, and now we found ourselves in this blackened sea of glowing streetlamps at a time when, just a few weeks prior, the kids would still have been playing stickball in the street. Ma had her face deep in her purse, rifling for a peppermint. Chef had loaded the day’s chicken stew with garlic, which always provoked Ma’s dyspepsia. (The stew actually was quite tasty, despite having the word “cocoa” in its name.) “And what do you expect me to say to that, Dr. Freud?” she muttered as she stifled a burp. “Yes, I think it’s the height of normalcy to barricade yourself in a room?” “What I mean is, do you think she needs help of some kind?” The light turned green, but Ma stayed put, letting her purse drop back to the end of her arm and turning back to look at me.
