Austin said, “Why won’t you just tell us what happened? What are you hiding, Grandfather?”

“I am hiding nothing!” His grandfather was deeply angry. Of course, it was not a prime moment, to have your only grandson accuse you of murder.

“That apartment should never have been rented to Wade Sibley,” said Grandmother. “It was always rented to teachers, because teachers were good tenants. The landlords talked to the new science teacher over the phone, and he sounded like any other person; they had no idea he was going to turn out to be a colored man. They were as shocked as anybody, and they apologized to us. They said they could just repaint after he moved out, buy new mattresses for the next tenant, and meanwhile we’d have to live with it.”

Austin had thought he was prepared for anything, but he was not prepared for that. “Repaint? You mean he’d rub off on the apartment? They’d paint over where he touched?” Austin felt his dinner coming back up in his throat.

Macey stared at Mrs. Fent and saw the two mommies who had been young in 1959: Monica and Leandra, with aprons and sturdy shoes and pincurls; saw them taking a casserole out of the oven, sliding spatulas under hot cookies. Heard them saying, “But not for that neighbor, of course.”

How sexist I’ve been, thought Macey. I figured this was the responsibility of the men. But that’s why my mother “of course” never took cookies to Mr. Sibley. Her mommy wouldn’t let her.

Austin thought, It’s the first of June. In one month and three days, my grandfather will turn eighty. We were going to have a joint birthday party: the USA’s and Grandfather’s, both July fourth. Fireworks and a brass quartet. Beach bonfires and all the relatives. How am I going to hug him on his eightieth birthday? How is he going to hug me?

Why did we do this? he thought, and he tried to remember, and all he could see was a small pink sneaker, square on the chest of laughing Isaiah.

“We had no involvement,” said Grandfather. “We just stood there.”

“That’s being involved,” said Macey. “That’s the worst kind of being involved.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Macey,” said Austin’s grandmother.

“Did you help Mr. Sibley, Mrs. Fent?” she demanded. “Did you offer him a place to stay?”

They offered me a place to stay, thought Austin. They are good people. But they are capable of bad things.

So this was history. A thing he and Macey could have left alone. Maybe should have left alone.

“You cannot possibly understand what it was like in those days,” his grandmother said. “We didn’t want a Negro in our house. None of it matters now.”

“All of it matters now,” said Austin. “Who set the fire? You must have wondered. You must have made a guess.”