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I repeated the date, though I was not quite sure why she wanted me to remember this. Later I realized that Mama was trying to give me temporal landmarks, coordinates to navigate by. “Okay.”

I sat in the back seat of our car as we drove away from the Yellow House, watching it recede through the rear window. I cupped my hand like a spyglass around it; it became tiny and then we turned a corner and it was gone. I was relieved; the Yellow House made me nervous. I hoped I wouldn’t see it again, but that was silly. It was waiting for me. I would return.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007 (Alba is 25, Oliver is 44)

Alba: I walk into the kitchen and find Oliver standing at the table reading a letter. “You look like a Vermeer,” I tell him. I look over his shoulder; it is addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. “Hey,” I say. “That’s not for you.” He smiles and gives it to me. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Read your own letters,” I mutter, then clap my hand over my mouth, realizing what I’ve said. Oliver has no parents to write letters to him; they died back in China, while he was still a teenager. “It’s okay,” Oliver says. “But I am very envious.” He begins to make coffee. I read the letter: Dear Alba, We were here, all is well. Would you like me to tend the house at all? Or leave it be? If you have any instructions just let me know. Things are okay. If you see your dad, give him my love. And of course lots of love to you, Mom. PS: Whose clothes are in the other bedroom?

I watch Oliver grind coffee and carefully shake it into the filter. “Have you ever met my mom?” I ask him.

“Hmm, not to meet her; that is, I’ve seen her here and there, but we haven’t been introduced.” Oliver likes to watch people, I’ve known him to hover around certain people for days. He is surprisingly inconspicuous, for a tall man with very long hair. Perhaps it’s his air of polite abstraction; he often seems not-quite-there.

I ask him, “Are you going to meet her?”

He looks pained. “You’ve told me I shouldn’t. Are you now saying you don’t mind?”

I stand there in a rictus of indecision. “I have to think about it.”

Oliver collects two mugs from the cabinet and places them by the coffeemaker. “Whenever you think about it, you always decide that it’s safer not to introduce us,” he says. “I once helped her disengage a grocery cart that was stuck together with another grocery cart. She said thank you and wheeled the cart inside and got on with her shopping. That’s the most complicated interaction I’ve had with your mum.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. That couldn’t mess anything up, could it?”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Oliver says gravely. “Everything is serene. Although the milk’s gone sour, no milk for the coffee today.” He hesitates. “Alba. You know I won’t interfere unless you ask me to, but eventually I do meet your family. I’ve never met your dad, but Beck and I spend a fair amount of time together.”

“Beck? Why?”

“Oh, you know. Reasons.” Oliver presses the button, and stares blankly at the coffeemaker until coffee streams into the carafe. “You take Beck for granted a bit, I think.”

I love Beck. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, hotly.

“No? Okay.” Oliver gives me a look. “A word to the wise, that’s all.”

We leave it at that, but he’s got me thinking.

Coming Attractions

Thursday, November 19, 1964 (Alba is 24, Oliver is 36)

Alba: I’m standing in the taxi line outside the Lyric Opera. It’s chilly and raining. All of us are huddled into our coats. An amazing number of those coats are furs, at least on the women, and most of the men are smoking. Ah, the ’60s. The elderly couple in front of me lean together, whispering. She has a blue fox stole; he is wearing a cashmere overcoat. They must be immensely old, they both have freakishly enormous ears. Now they have reached the front of the line. The taxi line man opens the door for the lady.

Someone is yelling my name. I turn and there’s a naked man running down Wacker Drive. A taxi swings into place before me and the door opens. I stand holding it, waiting, my heart pounding. I haven’t seen my dad in years. “Alba!” He is sluicing through the icy sleet, running so fast he’s a blur. I step back and he dives into the back seat of the taxi. I hop in after him, shut the door and lean forward and before I can say anything the naked man beside me says, “Please drive, go, go, go!”

This man is not my father. He is Chinese. He has a British accent and waist-length black hair. There is a naked stranger sitting next to me, twisting around to look out the rear window. Two men are running toward us. I can hear the crowd in the taxi line yelling.

The driver says, “Ma’am? Are you sure?”

“Yes!” I say, though I am not sure of anything. “Please, drive! As fast as possible! It’s okay! Just go!”

The driver peels out of the line and turns west onto Madison. “Where to?”

The naked man gives him the address of the Yellow House. I look at him, horrified. He, in turn, looks surprised. “Did you want to go somewhere else? I need to pick up some clothes.”

And then I begin to understand. Since the early 1950s there has been a steadily increasing collection of men’s clothes in one of the bedroom closets in the Yellow House. Beautiful wool trousers, perfectly ironed button-down shirts. A dresser appeared in that bedroom in 1960, and on it there are cuff links, a comb, a wallet, a wedding ring, a campaign button for JFK, a bottle of Old Spice, a shaving brush and shaving soap, a safety razor. The cuff links are monogrammed: OTY. In the dresser are carefully folded boxer shorts, soft blue cotton pajamas with white buttons and a breast pocket, black socks, and handkerchiefs, which are also monogrammed. I have been pondering this stuff for years. Who is this guy? What are his things doing in my house? His ties are skinny and neatly hung on a tie rack. His highly polished shoes have shoe trees, and a soft brush rests beside them. Nothing could be more different from Zach’s clothes, crammed indifferently into drawers and stuffed willy-nilly into his closet. Zach doesn’t know about the Yellow House. I have a feeling I’m not going to tell him about this guy, either.

The driver says, “So are we going to Ravenswood?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.” I take off my coat and give it to the man, who gratefully wraps himself in it. “Could you please turn up the heat?”