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The short rest home worker stumped past me and out through the door.

“Have a seat, Mr. Oliver,” Mara offered.

There was a whitewashed wooden chair at the side of her desk. I sat there and she smiled at me. It felt peaceful in her presence. The room was arranged with lustrous wood and wool-covered furnishings, making it appear as if we were in a private residence, a single-family home somewhere on a tree-lined street.

“You know why I have always preferred men as friends, Mr. Oliver?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I like the male genitals.”

It’s a rare moment that I’m stunned into silence.

The lady smiled. “That’s why I had to ask Estelle to leave. She doesn’t like men the way I do. I mean, she’s married and loves her husband and the children he gave her. She loves her sons, adores them. But her man could never, ever take off his pants and stroll around the house with his thing out. She doesn’t want to think about that kinda thing, but I do. I like everything about manhood. All of it. What do you think about that, Joe?”

“I think that I would have loved to meet you years ago.”

“And what would have happened then?” She was staring at me intently.

“It is a rare thing, Mrs. Macintosh, but I’m a little shy to express to you how… good what you say sounds in these ears.”

“So,” she speculated, “you like women the way I like men?”

“Yes ma’am, I—I think so.”

“We aren’t all political liberationists, talking about a fair share rather than somebody who loves you, and wants you, for you, not because of some rules scrawled on a wall somewhere.”

I was enjoying her conversation. She was too.

“Do I scandalize you, Mr. Oliver who is not a doctor?”

“No, Mara. It’s a pleasure to talk about something real without being all worried about what somebody might feel.”

The fragile and wanton elder gazed at me, almost hungrily. I didn’t think she wanted sex, mainly because if she did want it, I figured that she’d say so. No. The connection we’d already made was enough for Miss Mara. What she wanted now was to luxuriate in our conversation.

I maintained eye contact with her and that was enough for the moment.

“What will you do if you find Twyla?” the lady asked.

“Tell her that her grandfather says that you are not her mother but that he is still her blood.”

Mara Macintosh was still scrutinizing me, but I had the feeling that she was no longer thinking about genitals.

“And do you believe that?” she asked.

“I’ll tell her that he’s given me no proof. That will be for her to think about.”

“And will you tell her that he wants to see her?” she asked, a hard tone to her words.

“Yes.”

“And will you try to convince her to see him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s her decision to make, not mine.”