"She's a trooper," Brendan said. "What was your mother like? You know, I grew up with that drawing. Whenever I saw you, I always felt the similarity."
Joe leaned back in his chair, surprised. "Well, she wasn't a trooper.
She was talented, I guess."
"Do you think of her often?"
"Hardly ever—not very good memories."
"Like?"
Joe sipped coffee. "She was always leaving me places. Once, when I was six, she left me with an old couple in New York. They were very old. They made me stay in a playpen for a week."
"A week?"
"Yeah. It was torture. I was used to having the run of the block. It was summer. The playpen was by a window where I could see the street; that was good, anyway. I remember the dust floating in the room."
"How awful," Brendan said. Memories rushed into Joe's mind as though a lock had been picked.
"I used to listen to radio shows every day at five o'clock. Sergeant
Preston of the Yukon and his Great Dog, King. On KING! AroofRoofRoof .
. . " Joe looked around the dining room and lowered his voice. "I found
a dime on the couch one afternoon and showed it to my mother.