Real nice.’ The voice was soft, a touch above middle range of pitch.

‘What happened to Vanetta’s house?’

‘She left it to my mama. Aurelia needed the money, so she sold it right away.’ He said this without emotion.

‘How is Aurelia?’

‘She passed away a year after Vanetta did.’ He was silent momentarily, then seemed to gather himself. ‘You know,’ he said, an almost imperceptible tremor to his voice, ‘I didn’t just want to see you to say hello. I also wanted to thank you.’

‘Thank me?’ Robert was nonplussed.

‘Yes,’ said Duval. ‘For all that you and your family did for Vanetta while I was away.’

Away? Duval said this as if he’d been gone on an extended business trip, seconded to some faraway city – Mexico City, say, or Rio – by his parent company.

‘I don’t know if we did anything all that special, Duval.’ He’d sent Vanetta a present every year, usually a hundred-dollar bill folded in a Christmas card. His father would have wanted to do the right thing but no more – a Christmas card, a phone call once or twice a year to say hello. And Robert couldn’t believe his stepmother had indulged in any display of largesse. Not that tight old stick.

‘Well, Vanetta said you did. Not long before she died. She came regular to see me.’

‘I know.’ She’d faithfully made the long drive as often as the rules allowed. Once a month? Something like that.

‘Why else would she tell me to come see you when I was free again?’

She had? Suddenly, for all his discomfort, Robert was content to see Duval again. I’m paying a debt to Vanetta, he told himself; it seemed the least he could do for her.

The waitress appeared, holding a Pyrex jug half-full of coffee. ‘Fill you gents up?’ she said.

They both shook their heads. ‘You want something to eat, Duval?’ asked Robert out of politeness, then saw the man hesitate. ‘Go on. I had a big lunch or I’d join you. Have a hamburger – my treat. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Actually,’ said Duval, and he looked shyly at the waitress, ‘what I’d really like is a piece of pie.’

The waitress recited. ‘Blueberry, cherry, chocolate cream, or lemon meringue.’

‘Blueberry.’

‘A la mode?’

Duval looked puzzled.

‘You want ice cream on top?’ asked Robert, and Duval nodded.

The waitress went away and Duval smiled with a little embarrassment. ‘I forgot that expression. We never got it that way.’

‘You sure that’s all you want to eat?’

He nodded. ‘I got me a sweet tooth but it’s easily satisfied.’ He laughed, then put one hand to his mouth as if he was trying to stop a cough. He put his hand down on the table and spread it; he had lengthy fingers and carefully tended nails.

Robert asked, ‘What’s Jermaine up to these days?’

‘He’s still working for R.R. Donnelley’s. He wants to retire in a couple of years.’ This was said wistfully, but then it must seem peculiar to find someone retiring when you were effectively starting out.

Mention of Jermaine eased something in Duval, like a blocked drain inexplicably cleared, for he started talking, hesitantly at first, then without self-consciousness, describing the present state of Vanetta’s vast extended family. He told Robert about Daphne, who’d just had a bypass, then Marvin (‘he passed last year’) and Rodney, who’d totalled his van on I-94 two years before but had emerged miraculously unscathed.

‘You remember Shonelle, don’t you?’ Duval asked at one point, and Robert smiled with false knowingness.

For the truth was he didn’t remember any of these people. It had all been so long ago, and he had never known most of them to begin with – they were just names mentioned by Vanetta. As Duval talked about a new generation of grandchildren and great-grandchildren – Lemar and Dennis and Kaleen and Lynette – Robert merely nodded and kept his head down, staring at Duval’s clasped hands on the table in front of him.

Suddenly noticing his gaze, Duval held up his ring finger, where he wore a slim gold band. ‘This was left me by Vanetta. It used to be Alvin’s.’

Vanetta’s younger brother; that Robert did know.