the window. Only people who are close to God have such a look. I understand people, you know — maybe not with my brains but with something I got from my ancestors. I have a feeling you have that something inside you, too, Betty. That’s why I find it easier to talk to you than to my daughter-in-law, my son, or even my priest.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Zagretti,” Betty says. “You’re too kind.”
The widow doesn’t answer. She hurries down the hall to the doorway. Her face lights up with a summery smile as she tightens the shawl around her head and buttons her coat. A hidden hand seems to have erased the wrinkles from her face. She clears her throat and says, “Can you imagine a person feeling close to a fly?”
“To a what?”
“A fly,” Mrs. Zagretti says. “A housefly. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so,” Betty answers. “Yes, of course I do.”
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