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And never again did I reach for him in bed, as I had that night; my desire had been quenched, along with the flames.

“Charles, I’m taking the train down to New York to see Mr. Bleeker,” I told him one morning in July. “Would you like to join me? I’m sure it would do him good to see you.”

“No, no.” My husband waved a plump hand in the air, as if brushing the very notion away.

“Charles, why won’t you see him?” I sat in one of our little chairs; we had moved what pieces of our miniature furniture that we didn’t sell into this house when we let out our own. It looked as if there were whole families of furniture living together, mother and father chairs spawning baby chairs.

“I just—I just can’t, Vinnie. That’s all.” Charles, who was seated upon the floor, paging through an old scrapbook, looked up at me; even that small effort seemed to tax him. His breathing was so rapid, I could hear it across the room.

“You don’t blame him for the fire, do you?” This suspicion had crossed my mind, as Charles refused to even write a sympathy letter to his old friend.

“No,” Charles said, too quickly.

“That’s absurd. Mr. Bleeker tried to come to our aid—remember, I told you? But for pity’s sake, Charles, he had his own life to save, and that of his wife! We were not Mr. Bleeker’s responsibility, you know. Why can’t you be glad that we’re alive?” Suddenly furious with him—as I was so often these days; I suppose he was not the only one changed by the tragedy—I ran to him and took his hands in mine. “We must get out of this house—we must get back to work! If we don’t, we’ll—we’ll—we’ll simply rot! We don’t know any other life, the two of us. It’s all we have.”

“Vinnie, I just can’t. I can’t face anyone.” Charles pulled his hands away; he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I sighed. There was only one other thing I could think of to try; there was only one person I could think of who might be able to talk some sense into him.

“I might stop in Bridgeport on the way back,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “To see Mr. Barnum. Wouldn’t you like to come with me, then?”

Charles hesitated; I could see the struggle in his once-merry eyes. But then he shook his head violently. “No.”

“Well, why don’t I stop to see if he would like to come to you, then? It’s been such a long time since he’s been to Middleborough.”

Again, that hesitation; again, his negative response. “No, no—why won’t you leave me alone, Vinnie? For pity’s sake, that’s all I want—to be left alone, finally! All my life I’ve been surrounded by people! Leave me in peace, for once!”

I sighed, then rose—stiffly, my right hip uncooperative. “Well, maybe I’ll just stop in on my own!”

“Do whatever you want.” Charles shrugged. “Take your time. Enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll give Mr. Bleeker your love. And Mr. Barnum, too—that is, if I do decide to stop in Bridgeport. I haven’t made up my mind.”

I turned to go, but Charles abruptly cried, “Vinnie!” before I could leave.

“What? What is it?” I spun around in alarm. He had jumped up, his arm full of clippings, a morose figure in his dressing gown and worn slippers. The shades were drawn, but I could still see the stumps of cigars in every ashtray, the papers and photographs and citations and ribbons and, above all, memories; remnants of memories, threadbare, worn almost to shreds from a lifetime of use, lying in tatters at his feet. The room smelled like sadness, like stale breath and cheap cigars and musty papers that hadn’t seen light in decades. It reminded me of a deserted, desolate circus tent long after the crowd had gone.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He looked so pathetic, his soft brown eyes almost quivering with tears.

How easy it would be to tell him I was not—I considered it, for a tempting moment. My approval was the one thing left that I could bestow upon him without guilt. But then I realized that approval would do him no good this time; indeed, it would probably harm him. He needed to be shocked out of his torpor. He needed to be reminded that he was lucky he wasn’t dead, so that he could get back to living.

“Yes, yes,