In my sister’s voice was distress, dismay. I did not want to think, dislike.

Katie had asked me not to call her at my parents’ number. But I had no other number for her, just yet.

“Christ! Let me take this into another room . . . .”

In the background were voices not distinct enough to be identified. I could imagine Katie slipping away from the others with the cordless phone clutched behind her back, hoping no one would notice.

Not a good time to call. I knew this. The very day of a death in the family. The household would be in an upheaval. Relatives of the deceased man would be dropping by—there were many in South Niagara alone. As usual Mom would be in charge. Mom would be preparing food for visitors. And Daddy would be in an excitable and unpredictable mood.

Soon, Katie would be moving out of the house on Black Rock Street. She was taking courses at the community college and working part-time.

Wanting badly (she’d said) to leave South Niagara where everyone knew about Jerome Jr. and Lionel in prison but she couldn’t abandon Mom, as Miriam had.

Yes, everyone still talked about it. Hadrian Johnson.

Seemed like South Niagara was divided almost in two: those who believed that four white boys had killed a black boy by beating him to death with a baseball bat, and those who believed, or professed to believe, that the white boys had been unfairly blamed, “railroaded” into pleading guilty and unjustly sent to prison.

The subject was so painful, I did not ask Katie about it any longer. Everything there was to be said had been said many times. White racists, black racists were accusations freely flung about.

Especially, I didn’t want to know how Katie herself felt.

Problem was, Katie was telling me frankly: Daddy would be really pissed with her if he knew that she and I spoke often on the phone.

As if we spoke often!

I was hurt, and I was resentful. But I knew not to betray sarcasm for Katie would soon hang up.

At first Katie was as evasive as Aunt Irma had been about the time of Grandpa’s funeral, then she relented: Thursday morning, 10:00 A.M. at St. Matthew’s.

This was good news! Two days from now.

Quickly I told her that Aunt Irma wanted to come to the funeral. A plausible lie: Mom had asked Katie to come help her in the emergency.

“. . . could drive there, if we left early Thursday morning. We could stay with . . . Well, that would be up to Mom. I guess lots of Grandpa’s relatives are coming, from Niagara Falls?”

At the other end of the line Katie was startled, silent. What was Violet saying!

Blithely I repeated that Irma intended to come to South Niagara, to help Mom. And I could drive Irma’s car some of the way, I had a driver’s permit now.