Even though the envelope had been addressed to me and this was the first letter I had ever received in my life, and even though its author was the one person whom I had never dared dream would write to me, I had been disquieted by it. It was not the brevity that disappointed me so much as it was the finality which was twofold in its implication: it told me that my father would never return (when I had written the word “never” to her, I had only half believed in it) and that now he was gone, she would have no further business with our household. And still, though her meaning was so clear it made my heart ache, so old and habitual were my aspirations that I did not cease to plan my life with her on Pinckney Street. And now, as I was awaiting the birth of my mother’s baby, I was so far removed from the present time and Chichester that each moment of delay was a moment of bliss. A sound recalled me: I was still in tatters, the room was the reeking shack, the March wind through the cracks of the walls had set my teeth to clattering. Someone was tapping on the window and I turned.

“Come along, child, open the door!” It was Mrs. Henderson’s sister from Marblehead who was visiting in Chichester that day. I unbolted the door and met her greedy face which nosed into mine, seeking my feelings. “Is it a girl?” I asked.

“It’s not anything yet, sweetie, but it will be one or the other in a minute and your mother wants you there.”

“I’ll wait till it happens and then I’ll come in,” I said.

“No, you come along with me now. She’s carrying on bad and wants you near.”

Indeed, I could hear her carrying on, and while my feet were wooden, I knew at the same time that something must be done to hush her, and so I followed slowly, deliberately shutting off from my mind what was taking place in the house and instead calculating the number of steps from the shop to the back door. There were thirty-seven. I had never failed to count them when I went to the shop or when I returned and I never failed to forget how many there were.

Mrs. Henderson’s sister ran her fingers through my hair as I opened the screen door for her. “How old are you?” she asked me. I told her that I was twelve. “Such pretty hair!” she said, but her face said, “To go through this and only twelve years old!”