The Nobodies Album by Carolyn Parkhurst

possible that we find ourselves in this situation? And, did he kill Bettina? And, will I ever lay eyes on him again without a screen of television glass between us?
    “Well, whatever you want to tell me, I guess. How was he before all this happened? Just anything. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”
    “Before this,” Joe says. He sounds almost wistful, as if he’s forgotten such a time existed. “He was okay, I guess. He was … I don’t know. He’s, you know … Milo.”
    I look down at the paper cup in my hands, the cardboard sleeve around its middle. I feel suddenly that I might cry. Of course. He’s just Milo.
    “What was Bettina like?” I ask. What I really mean is, what was Milo like when he was with her, but that seems to veer too closely to danger territory.
    He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Honestly, I was never crazy about her,” he says. “God, that sounds awful after all this.”
    I shrug. “You don’t have to start liking someone just because they’re dead. What didn’t you like about her?”
    “She was just annoying. She was kind of childish, always throwing tantrums when she didn’t get her way. And she was very possessive of Milo. Not that he minded—he was way too into her, and I could never really figure out why.”
    He stops talking. I think he thinks he’s gone too far. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but I’d give any amount of money to know his definition of “way too into her.”
    “So how’s the writing going?” he asks. He wants to talk about something else.
    “Okay,” I say. I feel like I’m sitting in a cloud of anxiety as it is, and I don’t want to think about The Nobodies Album waiting in my editor’s inbox. I wonder instead if the publishing company will be sending me a sympathy fruit basket or something. I wonder if I’ll be staying here long enough for it to molder on the porch before I get home. “Fine.”
    “I read one of your books a couple of summers ago,” he says, livening a little. “The one … the ghost story, if you can call it that. The one about the guy who had been on the Titanic when he was a kid.”
    “Carpathia,” I say.
    “Right. It was really good.”
    “Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad you liked it.”
    “It was crazy, though—just having it in my house was all cloak-and-dagger. I had to hide it every time Milo came over, to make sure he didn’t see it.” He laughs, as if it’s cute that my son can’t even stand to lay eyes on something I’ve written.
    I drink the last of my coffee and set the cup on the table. Casting about for a new topic, I ask if he has a girlfriend. He does, which I already knew—a woman named Chloe, who has a young daughter from a previous relationship. She designs jewelry and sells it online. And we’re back to silence.
    I’m about to ask if his parents’ cockatoo is still alive, but at the same moment Joe says, “I have something for you.”
    He picks up his messenger bag from where he’s dropped it under the table. When he opens it, I can see the edge of a laptop, a coiled cord, some papers, two CDs. And a square white gift box, which he pulls out and hands to me.
    “You’re kidding,” I say. “Really?”
    “Yup,” he says. He smiles for the first time since he sat down. “Just a little something.”
    I open the box and find a porcelain sugar bowl painted with yellow roses. My mother’s pattern.
    “Oh, Joe,” I say. A thread of warmth snakes through me. I’m truly touched. “This is lovely. I can’t believe you did this.”
    “Yeah, well,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I always felt bad about breaking it. I actually thought right away that I wanted to get you a new one. I saved a little piece of the one that broke—I put it in my pocket while we were cleaning it up, so I’d have something with the pattern on it. But I never did anything about it. And then, after the band started making money, I was buying presents like crazy—it was a little