Listening to her old records, she was surprised at how supple her voice had once been. It was 1961 when she recorded “You Can’t Run Away from Your Heart,” which Judy Clay would later make famous for a few minutes. But most of the rest of 1961 was a life someone else had lived. The body was not her body now, the voice was something that had divorced her long ago. She understood, on some logical level, that there had been a hot New Orleans summer and a crisp fall, and that she had ridden in Lon Baxter’s convertible, and his hands had been on her back and thighs. But Lon Baxter was less memory now than fact, a fact which didn’t belong to her; he must have been someone else’s fact. And he had been, in the summers of ‘62, ‘64, and ‘65, before he headed to Mexico and got shot in the knee. And now he was on a patio in Chiapas, blind in one eye. He was listening to her old records too, and in a more sentimental galaxy, they might have read one anothers thoughts in a moment like this. But there he was, cripple, wondering if she still had that beautiful voice and did that thing with her buttocks, and he was thinking of a whole other woman, the one from 1964.