The elders of the house—parents and The Wolf and grandaunts—attended her fi nal rites in starched whites. Spotless, clean, bright whites, reserved for funerals and prayers.

I asked my mother if I could go along, and she said, ‘Oh no, honey, not at all. You don’t have to. Just go ahead with your day as planned and we’ll see you in the evening.’

‘Well I won’t be home for dinner. Going to Blue China with Button and Cookie.’

‘Wow, sounds good. I’m jealous!’

‘Do you want to come along?’

‘No, no, you kids enjoy yourselves. Is Polo going with you?’

‘Maybe. I’ll ask.’

‘Take the new driver, okay? He needs to learn your routes.’

‘Cool, see you.’

On the way to pick Button up, I listened to music and mentally debated between Singing Chicken and Schezwan Pork. The radio repeated that song, sung in a dripping, garbled voice, several times a day. Leggoyah ha, leggoyah hey. I bopped my head and sang along. It was a good song. An old song. But someone at Power 107.8 FM loved it, played it all the time. This and some cheesy Bon Jovi tune that I wouldn’t want to be caught dead listening to by Asher or Jane, but keep secretly stashed on my iPod for Midwestern days when I can only think about the smell of rain-dampened earth cooked by city smoke.

Dinner was delicious. The Schezwan Pork was excellent.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I played that sepia reel in my head again, almost voluntarily. Finally, I scribbled a few silly lines on a piece of my favourite stationery (scratchy handmade paper) and, creaking open his bedroom door, woke up an irate Polo. ‘Hey, can you fold this into a plane, please?’

‘Wha—?’

‘Here, this paper, fold it into a plane na, please.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘What?’

‘Did you seriously just wake me up to make a paper plane for you?’

‘Shit, sorry. Sorry!’

‘You’re a fucking bitch.’

‘Please? I’ll owe you big time.’

‘Here, take it. And get out.’

‘Thanks, dude.’ I kissed the top of his head and ran out as he roared a disgusted death threat.

I went to the terrace, taking the scary way up, climbing the reel of wrought iron winding around an edge of the five-storeyed house, because the doors along the central tube of landings and stairs had been locked up for the night, their keys hanging from a knot in the trusted housekeeper’s sari.

Even the hot summer air cooled down a little, up on the windswept terrace. Feeling like a song by The Shins, I launched the paper plane at the neighbour’s dead roof, two storeys below mine. The thick air made a heavy production of it—lobbed it around, eddied it between the buildings, made it dance an elaborate dance in fluid little jerks.