her study, where she had left her purse.
She wasn’t as much of a churchgoer as maybe she ought to be, but Twyla was a believer, raised in a house with a well-read Bible, where they prayed every evening before dinner and again at bedtime. In the small town where she was brought up, as in her immediate family, most people lived as best they could with the conviction that this life was preparation for another. When her daddy, Winston, died in the coal-cracker explosion, lots of people at his funeral said, “He’s in a better place now,” and meant it. There was this world and the world after, and Twyla once wrote a song about the need for humility in the light of our mortality and another about the mystery of grace, both hits.
Whatever the next world might be like, however, she knew for certain that the walls of Heaven weren’t crumbling and stained and greasy and crawling with black mold, like the wall that changed in Winny’s bedroom. If television existed in Heaven—which was about as likely as cancer wards existing in Heaven—there wouldn’t be either spyware that made every TV a surveillance device or deadpan computer voices ordering people exterminated. That didn’t even sound like Hell, but more like a hell on earth, maybe North Korea or Iran or some other place run by madmen.
In the study, as she snatched her purse from the piano bench and turned to leave, her attention was drawn to the windows by a flash of lightning, and she remembered the brief illusion that the storm and the rain-washed panes had earlier presented to her: the city gone, replaced by an empty landscape, a sea of grass, strange trees —craggy and black—clawing at the sky.
The knot of fear in her breast tightened.
As acutely perceptive as ever, Winny said, “What? What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s crazy. Come on, sweetie. You go ahead of me, I don’t want you out of my sight. We need coats, umbrellas.”
Theirs was the largest apartment on the second floor, twice the size of the next biggest, and the only one with two entrances. The front doors opened into a short length of hallway, near the north elevator, and the service door opened near the south elevator. Their winter coats and rain gear were in a closet in the laundry room, near the back door.
As they crossed the kitchen, Twyla said, “Winny, wait a sec,” and snatched the handset from the wall phone. She pressed O, which in the Pendleton’s customized telecom system would ring the phones in both the concierge’s office and at the lobby reception counter.
A woman said, “Operator,” which wasn’t the standard greeting, and she didn’t sound like Padmini Bahrati, who was the only female concierge on the staff.
Confused, Twyla said, “Is this the concierge?”
“The what? Excuse me. No, ma’am. This is the operator.”
Perhaps she was some new employee who didn’t know the protocols.
“This is Twyla Trahern in 2-A. Will you please have my Escalade brought around from the garage right away?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ve dialed the operator. If you’ve got a number for this concierge person, I’ll be happy to place the call for you.”
Watching his mother, Winny raised his eyebrows.
To the operator, Twyla said, “Aren’t you at the front desk?”
“No ma’am. I’m at City Bell, the central exchange. Whom do you wish to call?”
Twyla had never heard of City Bell. She said, “I’m trying to reach the front desk of the Pendleton.”
“The Pendletons? Is that a residence? Just a moment, please.” She returned after a silence: “We have no Pendletons listed anymore. By any chance … do you mean Belle Vista?”
Twyla was aware of just enough of the building’s history to know that when it was a single-family residence, it had been called Belle Vista. But that hadn’t been since sometime in the 1970s.
The operator said, “That would be Mr. Gifford Ostock and family. But I’m afraid that’s a private number.”
“Gifford Ostock?” The name meant nothing to Twyla.
“Yes, ma’am. Since Mr. Pendleton … passed away … well, Mr. Ostock has lived at Belle Vista.”
Andrew Pendleton had died more than a century earlier.
“This Ostock doesn’t live there now,” Twyla said.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s lived there at least thirty years.”
Twyla had never known an operator as chatty and patient as this. As nice as the woman sounded, it was nonetheless tempting to think that her unprecedented forbearance must be a subtle mockery if not something more sinister.
Although she did not realize why she was asking the question until the last word fell from her lips, Twyla said, “I’m sorry. I was confused for a moment. Could you please give me the number of the Paramount Theater?”
The Paramount, an Art Deco movie palace from the 1930s, stood at the base of Shadow Hill, walking distance from the Pendleton.
The operator didn’t tell Twyla to dial 411 for directory assistance. Instead, after a pause, she said, “Yes, ma’am. That number is Deerfield 227.”
“DE-227. That’s only five numbers.”
“May I connect you, ma’am?”
