The wooden blinds drawn before the amber streetlight outside her bedroom window, “The last memory,” projected a thin row of horizontal shadows across the bed, “of seeing my father alive,” onto the wall behind them, “was when I was sitting on the edge of his bed watching Nadia Comaneci,” and a portion of the ceiling, “on the parallel bars during the summer Olympics.” They were lying naked beneath a thick down comforter with their arms and legs entwined. Earlier, Janet had been able to appease James with earnest reassurances that his insecurities about any potential infidelities were unfounded and finally convince him that she had no interest in renewing her relationship with Cindy by describing how rapidly that affair had disintegrated. He cleared his throat before asking, “What summer was this?” The resolve in her tone while relating this memory, “the summer of,” countered her mounting suspicions, “July of Seventy-Six,” that the events she had been prompted to relate would be coolly deconstructed and fictionalized in his yet to be written first novel. “That was four years before I was born.” The warmth in her tone, “well,” and the bottle of champagne they had shared while sitting on the couch, “I was seventeen that summer,” fused with the clarity drawn from their intimacy, “and this city was another world then,” had led to his repeated proclamations of love. A pair of headlights slowly crossed the ceiling while he waited for her to continue speaking. Janet looked out the window as the cab she was sitting in sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. “I knew that…” she began again in a dry whisper, “I knew that something was wrong,” and the skyscrapers in mid-town were brown silhouettes in the smog filled distance. He caressed the nape of her neck, “How so?” The humid air blowing through the wide-open rear windows smelled of tar and diesel fumes. “He was really out of it after his last operation,” she cleared her throat, “and was having trouble walking,” while recalling the emptiness that had filled her chest, “and I was really reluctant,” as the cab gradually descended the ramp leading to the northbound lanes of the FDR drive. Cupping his palms over her breasts, “Where was this?” A car horn was muffled by the closed windows and then silence ensued as she placed her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes, “in Turtle Bay.” “Where is that?” A tug pushing a gray barge filled with garbage down the East River moved slowly against the incoming tide while a large flock of seagulls trailed above it. “It’s the neighborhood by the U.N.” The sun broke through a gap in the clouds as a passenger helicopter took off from the roof of the Pan-Am building. “That’s where I grew up.” The cab driver had asked if she’d been following the news about that busload of children that had been kidnapped in Northern California. “Why is it called that?” Janet shook her head before saying that she had only read the headlines and that it sounded really terrible. “There was once a creek there and the Dutch had a turtle farm… I think they make silly pets.” The driver nodded before activating the blinker and merging into the exit lane. “Why is that?” Janet removed the cigarettes from her purse and tapped one out of the pack while claiming that she had enough to worry about and then placed it between her lips with trembling fingers. “You can’t cuddle with a turtle.” The driver watched her in the rearview mirror, as she finally lit the cigarette with a small green disposable lighter, before asking if she was okay. “Not like cats at least,” James kissed her on the forehead before asking, “Where’s Esther?” She exhaled a thin cloud of smoke before saying that she wasn’t sure and then looked away from the reflection of his watery blue eyes as the cab slowly pulled through the intersection. “She is probably sleeping on the couch.” The Saturday afternoon traffic was sparse and they arrived in front of the apartment building before Janet had smoked half of the cigarette. “I’ve never eaten turtle before.” She paid the driver and thanked him for his concern while getting out of the cab. “I hear they taste just like chicken.” She stood on the sidewalk and finished her cigarette. “Why were you reluctant?” The marble lobby, “I had a premonition,” was as cold as a walk-in refrigerator. “I really can’t imagine what New York was like then.” She chewed on her lower lip while waiting for the elevator as the gooseflesh rose on her forearms. “It was a good time to be young.” The doorman behind the desk glanced up from his comic book and nodded hello. “Do you ever feel guilty about being reluctant?” When the elevator finally arrived, “At times I do,” she stepped into it, “although we were never very close,” and pressed ten before taking the black plastic band out of the front pocket of her blue jeans. The ceiling fan circulated stale air in the narrow mirrored mahogany space. “Why is that?” She ran her fingers through her long brown hair, “My father had always been unavailable,” pulled it back into a pony tail, “even when I was very young,” then tied it back with the elastic band. “Do you want to fuck again,” when the elevator stopped on ten she considered taking it back to the lobby as the doors slowly opened, “Or do you want to talk?” Her silent footfalls, “Do you not want to do this anymore,” moved slowly along the carpeted hallway. She removed the keys from her purse, “I never talk,” and unlocked the door, “about this anymore.” Turning the cold knob in her right hand. “So he was alone after the surgery?” She entered the apartment, “He had fired his nurse,” and soon discovered the wide blood stain, “the day before he did it,” on the damp beige carpet, “and that was the day before I found him,” in front of the bathroom door, “when the neighbors downstairs called me at my aunt’s in Brooklyn Heights.” She pushed open the door and stood there. “You know that we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” Janet recalled the memories that followed, “my father had been in a lot of pain,” and arranged them in sequence once more, “and he had been very depressed about their separation,” like playing a familiar hand of worn cards. She walked to the phone in the living room and called the police. “Where was your mother?” The conversation with the female dispatcher, “in Rome with her new boyfriend,” who kept her on the line until the two police officers arrived, “the way people couldn’t look at me then…”and they just stood there with their backs to the bookshelves and asked a lot of aggressive questions, “like at the wake when my father’s partners talked about how honest he was,” until the ambulance finally arrived. “Had they heard anything?” The coroner got there an hour later. “Who?” They removed her father from the tub and placed him in a black body bag. “The downstairs neighbors.” And when they finally wheeled it out of the bathroom on a gurney, “He slit his wrists in the bathtub,” she fainted, “there wasn’t anything to hear.” “What did you do?” She came to on the couch, “I called the police,” and discovered her aunt standing above her sobbing uncontrollably, “and then I really don’t remember what happened next.” The wind was pressing on the windows as it pushed through the bare trees. She opened her eyes, “I think I’ve blocked it out,” removed her head from his shoulder, “well,” and quietly sighed, “now you know.” James looked closely at her face, “you said that the neighbors called you,” in the faint amber light, “that’s why I asked if they might have heard something.” Janet blinked twice, “they were very close to my parents.” He nodded, “so that’s why.” She turned over on her back, “they used to play bridge together every Wednesday night,” and rested her head on a pillow, “and when he didn’t answer the door they got concerned.” “Did your mother remarry?” She nodded, “twice,” with a smile in her voice.