aunt Myra was my father's older sister and had always been a shadowy nakedkombat of the Belsons'. I had not met her before that summer of my thirteenth year. Myra had clearly been around. I knew she'd gone to Duke with President Garvey, had played bridge with Kronstadt the demon poet, had written the lyrics for an operetta, wa rumored to have had a baby by her chauffeur, and had been the mistress of three different milionaires. The last of these had left her a small fortune in cash and an apartment hotel in the East Eighties. She had lost the cash in the depression of 2004.