When her mother came down, she had washed her face. She stood at the bottom of the stairs in her stocking feet holding the Walkman, the little foam headphones around her neck like a strand of pearls.
"Fifty-five years old," she said. "Pills. A Coke from the machine." She shook her head, slowly. "Stubborn, stupid, beautiful man."
"Ma."
"Sit down with me a minute, Lena."
They sat on the couch in the living room under the tree. Rosemary held the Walkman in both hands on her knee.
"He came," she said. "In January. Danny."
Lena stared at her.