Dave is lying awake in his bed. He is recalling his conversation with Rosemary Hart Benson. She did not seem surprised by his phone call. She was even kind. It was evident that she had no illusions about her brother. “Do you have anything that belongs to him?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t know exactly what you’re referring to.”
“What happened to all his things, when he was sent to prison?”
“I have all of his things in boxes—in my attic.”
“How many boxes?”
“Quite a few. Ten or twelve boxes, I’d say. And a couple of suitcases.”
“What’s in them?”
“I’ve never looked.”
“If I went there, could I go through his things?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “and will you take his belongings out of my house?”
He is recalling the conversation. He knows she never looked because she did not want to know. He does not blame her. She wants to be free of his things. She was pleading with him, will you take his belongings, she wants to be free of him, her brother. He gets up from his bed and walks into his home office. He pours himself a Grand Marnier over ice—his favorite nighttime drink. He lets the orange liqueur coat his tongue, then burn down his throat. He lights a cigarette.
Grace is at home, making a list of all her material possessions. She is taking stock of her life. But she knows that making a list of what to give to whom when you die is not the same thing as taking stock. She does not know how to measure her life. When Sam was alive, she measured it through his love. She had always measured herself through the look in his eyes. She is afraid of admitting that to herself.
Liz and Mister are lying in bed. They are talking to each other. They are talking about Vicente. They are talking about the Rubios. They are talking about the coffee shop. They are talking about Grace. They are talking and talking and talking. And finally, they fall asleep in the middle of their talk.