is through him, not me. You can write to her yourself as soon—as soon as you know. Her address is in that little red book on the desk—at least that was her address five years ago, when your poor father died. She didn’t come to the funeral, though she did write to me, and she may have moved since. She probably has. I think on the whole you’d better write now so that the letter will have time to follow her.”

9

Ruth did write and her aunt had not moved, for by a curious coincidence Aunt Gloria’s answer came on the very day that her mother died. At the time, concerned with her grief, Ruth didn’t read the letter very carefully, but afterward—after the funeral, and after all the innumerable details had been settled, she went back to it and read it again. She didn’t know exactly what to think of it. It filled her with doubts. Almost she persuaded herself to disregard her mother’s wish and not go to Aunt Gloria at all, but she had already told all her mother’s kind friends that that was what she would do. It gave her a logical excuse for refusing all of the offers of the well-meaning women who asked her to come and stop with them “for a few weeks at least until you are more yourself.”

Ruth realized that she had never felt so much herself as she did now—rather hopelessly alone and independent in a way that frightened her. These 10kind women were all her mother’s friends, not hers. She had none. She had always prided herself on being different from other girls and not interested in the things they cared for—boys and parties and dress. Even at the art school she had found the other students disappointingly frivolous. They had not taken their art seriously as she did. The letter was curious:

10

“My dear child,” she had written, “by all means come to me in New York if your mother dies. But why anticipate? She’ll probably live for years. I hope so. To say I hope so sounds almost like a lack of hospitality and to send you an urgent invitation to come, under the circumstances, sounds—This is getting too complicated. Come whenever you need me, I’m always at home now.”

And the letter was signed with her full name, Gloria Mayfield. She had not even called Ruth niece, or signed herself “your loving aunt,” or anything that might be reasonably expected.

Ruth might have lingered on at home, but she had refused the hospitality of her mother’s friends and the house was empty and desolate and she was dressed in black. She hadn’t wanted to dress in 

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