We left dejected. The only thing that had helped me make it through the day was the thought that at least part of the mystery of what happened to Mama might be cleared up. Waiting a week—possibly two—seemed absolutely intolerable. “What about the library?” said Pearl. I mopped my eyes with my scarf, though that did little to stop the flow of tears. The wetter I got, the colder I got, which made me shiver through each sob. “They don’t have death certificates there.” “No, but they do have newspapers. They would’ve published information about her murder, right?” In the days after Mama’s death, I couldn’t recall seeing a newspaper, not that that was so unusual. It was Pop who helped develop my interest in current events. Before then, newspapers were things street vendors wrapped food in. The Seward Park Branch of the New York Public Library was on East Broadway, across from the park that gave it its name and only about five minutes from where we were. We rushed in that direction, uncertain what time the library closed.
