Hmmmm, I smiled.  Ghosties in high spirits.  I kept that to myself not knowing for sure if Milly was keen on wry humor.   “I don’t know what to tell you, girl.  My kind of work didn’t lend itself to this sort of situation.”

“There’s one other thing.  One morning this jacket was left on the back of one of the chairs.”  She handed me a denim coat.

I held it a minute, then returned it and said, “That’s Sven Johannsen’s jacket.”

“You’re crazy,” she shouted, causing Dolly to turn around. ” Sven’s been dead since before I was born.”

“Don’t care,” I answered.  “When I was a boy too young to play I would kibitz and when one of the old farmers got ready to leave he’d say ‘Kenny, go git my coat, will ye,?’ and there’d be 12 or 14 identical denim jackets hanging on nails and I’d pick the right one every time just by smell.  This is Sven’s.  He’s the only one who rolled Carter Hall pipe tobacco.  Here, you can still smell it.”

She agreed there was a tobacco odor on the coat.

“I’ll tell you something else.  Sven doesn’t come in here alone.  There are two others.  You see, Sven only knew how to play pinochle.  Only two other men in town knew how to play pinochle–the postmaster and the insurance man–all long since passed away.  They always played three-handed pinochle and that’s the trio who takes chairs down and drinks your  sherry.”

Millie was wringing her hands.   “What are we goin’ to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do that I know of,” I advised, “except always keep a good supply of cooking sherry on hand.”  I laughed.  She did not.

It wasn’t long till I could see the old home town grow ever smaller in my rear view mirror and I knew that would be the last time I would ever see it.  That is, unless I come back 40 or 50 years from now to play some cards.  There is a vacant seat.  Naw.  I forgot.  I don’t know how to play pinochle.