Myra called to ask if I was all right. She said Walter would be over as soon as the snow stopped, to dig me out.

“Don’t be silly, Myra,” I said. “I’m quite capable of digging myself out.” (A lie—I had no intention of lifting a finger. I was well supplied with peanut butter, I could wait it out. But I felt like company, and threats of action on my part usually speeded up the arrival of Walter.)

“Don’t you touch that shovel!” said Myra. “Hundreds of old—of people your age die of heart attacks from snow shovelling every year! And if the electricity goes off, watch where you put the candles!”

“I’m not senile,” I snapped. “If I burn the house down it will be on purpose.”

Walter appeared, Walter shovelled. He’d brought a paper sack of doughnut holes; we ate them at the kitchen table, me cautiously, Walter wholesale, but contemplatively. He’s a man for whom chewing is a form of thinking.

What came back to me then was the sign that used to be in the window of the Downyflake Doughnut stand, at the Sunnyside Amusement Park, in—what was it?—the summer of 1935:

A paradox, the doughnut hole. Empty space, once, but now they’ve learned to market even that. A minus quantity; nothing, rendered edible. I wondered if they might be used—metaphorically, of course—to demonstrate the existence of God. Does naming a sphere of nothingness transmute it into being?

The next day I ventured out, among the cold, splendid dunes. Folly, but I wanted to participate—snow is so attractive, until it gets porous and sooty. My front lawn was a lustrous avalanche, with an Alpine tunnel cut through it. I made it out to the sidewalk, so far so good, but a few houses farther north of me the neighbours had not been so assiduous as Walter about their shovelling, and I got trapped in a drift, and floundered, slipped, and fell. Nothing was broken or sprained—I didn’t think it was—but I couldn’t get up. I lay there in the snow, pawing with my arms and legs, like a turtle on its back. Children do that, but deliberately—flapping like birds, making angels. For them it’s joy.

I was beginning to fret about hypothermia when two strange men levered me up and carted me back to my door. I hobbled into the front room and collapsed onto the sofa, my overshoes and coat still on. Scenting disaster from afar as is her habit, Myra arrived, bearing half-a-dozen turgid cupcakes left over from some family starch-fest. She made me a hot-water bottle and some tea, and the doctor was summoned, and both of them fussed around, giving out a stream of helpful advice and hearty, hectoring tut-tuts, and mightily pleased with themselves.

Now I’m grounded. Also enraged at myself. Or not at myself—at this bad turn my body has done me. After having imposed itself on us like the egomaniac it is, clamouring about its own needs, foisting upon us its own sordid and perilous desires, the body’s final trick is simply to absent itself. Just when you need it, just when you could use an arm or a leg, suddenly the body has other things to do. It falters, it buckles under you; it melts away as if made of snow, leaving nothing much. Two lumps of coal, an old hat, a grin made of pebbles. The bones dry sticks, easily broken.

It’s an affront, all of that. Weak knees, arthritic knuckles, varicose veins, infirmities, indignities—they aren’t ours, we never wanted or claimed them. Inside our heads we carry ourselves perfected—ourselves at the best age, and in the best light as well: never caught awkwardly, one leg out of a car, one still in, or picking our teeth, or slouching, or scratching our noses or bums. If naked, seen gracefully reclining through a gauzy mist, which is where movie stars come in: they assume such poses for us. They are our younger selves as they recede from us, glow, turn mythical.

As a child, Laura would say: In Heaven, what age will I be?

Laura was standing on the front steps of Avilion, between the two stone urns where no flowers had been planted, waiting for us. Despite her tallness, she looked very young, very fragile and alone. Also peasant-like, pauperish. She was wearing a pale-blue housedress printed with faded mauve butterflies—mine, three summers before—and no shoes whatsoever. (Was this some new mortification of the flesh, or was it simple eccentricity, or had she simply forgotten?) Her hair was in a single braid, coming down over her shoulder, like the stone nymph’s at our lily pool.

God knows how long she’d been there. We hadn’t been able to say exactly when we’d arrive, because we’d come down by car, which was possible at that time of year: the roads were not flooded or axle-deep in mud, and some were even paved by then.

I say we, because Richard came with me. He said he wouldn’t think of sending me off to face such a thing alone, not at a time like this. He was more than solicitous.

He drove us himself, in his blue coupe—one of his newest toys. In the trunk behind us were our two suitcases, the small ones, just for overnight—his maroon leather, mine lemon-sherbet yellow. I was wearing an eggshell linen suit—frivolous to mention it, no doubt, but it was from Paris and I was very keen on it—and I knew it would be wrinkled at the back once we arrived. Linen shoes, with stiff fabric bows and peek-a-boo toes. My matching eggshell hat rode on my knees like a delicate gift box.

Richard was a jumpy driver. He didn’t like to be interrupted—he said it ruined his concentration—and so we made the trip in silence, more or less. The trip took over four hours, which now takes less than two. The sky was clear, and bright and depthless as metal; the sun poured down like lava. The heat wavered up off the asphalt; the small towns were closed against the sun, their curtains drawn. I remember their singed lawns and white-pillared porches, and the lone gas stations, the pumps like cylindrical one-armed robots, their glass tops like brimless bowler hats, and the cemeteries that looked as if no one else would ever be buried in them. Once in a while we’d hit a lake, with a smell of dead minnows and warm waterweed coming off it.

As we drove up, Laura did not wave. She stood waiting while Richard brought the car to a stop and clambered out and walked around to open the door on my side. I was swinging my legs sideways, both knees together as I’d been taught, and reaching for Richard’s proffered hand, when Laura suddenly came to life. She ran down the steps and took hold of my other arm and hauled me out of the car, ignoring Richard completely, and threw her arms around me and clutched on to me as if she were drowning. No tears, just that spine-cracking embrace.

My eggshell hat fell out onto the gravel and Laura stepped on it. There was a crackling sound, an intake of breath from Richard. I said nothing. In that instant I no longer cared about the hat.

Arms around each other’s waists, Laura and I went up the steps into the house. Reenie loomed in the kitchen door at the far end of the hall, but she knew enough to leave us alone right then. I expect she turned her attention to Richard—distracted him with a drink or something. Well, he would have wanted to look over the premises and have a stroll around the grounds, now that he’d effectively inherited them.

We went straight up to Laura’s room and sat down on her bed. We held on tightly to each other’s hands—left in right, right in left. Laura wasn’t weeping, as on the telephone. Instead she was calm as wood.

“He was in the turret,” said Laura. “He’d locked himself in.”

“He always did that,” I said.

“But this time he didn’t come out. Reenie left the trays with his meals on them outside the door as usual, but he wasn’t eating anything, or drinking anything either—or not that we could tell. So then we had to kick down the door.”