And there is Oscar’s clumsy humor. Attempt at humor. Looking at Irma, keeping his gaze fixed on Irma even as (almost, she can sense this) he is keenly aware of the other at the table, the girl. Fumble of a smile. Not acknowledging the girl, at the very table with them. Sick, sagging look in his face, jowls.

He’d become obsessed not with the girl, his “niece” by an accident of marriage, but with the possibilities exacted upon her by another: the notorious pervert Sandman.

The beauty of rot, phosphorescence. An unspeakable filth, beyond comprehension. Certain poisons that impress the tongue initially as sweet—irresistible.

No one knew what Sandman had done to the girl, precisely. Much was speculated but nothing known. Nor did the girl know, herself. Was this not the most delicious part of the equation, that the girl did not know, herself?

Yet it was a fact in the community, like a baptism.

And so one day Irma confronts the girl: “Violet! I have something to tell you, please don’t run away upstairs.”

“Violet, Goodbye!”

NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO SAY GOODBYE TO MY FAMILY.

Never had a chance to say goodbye to Geraldine Pyne, I’d loved like a sister.

Never to my seventh-grade teachers. Especially Ms. Micaela who’d been so kind to me.

Nor did any of these say the words I wish I’d heard and could cherish waking in the night suddenly uncertain of my surroundings—Violet, goodbye!

My mother hurrying out of the safe house to wait for Miriam in the car. Not a glance back at me, not a murmur of regret, remorse.

My father refusing to visit me in the safe house for fear (Miriam would tell me) that he would be so furious with me, in the hearing of others, he’d have been arrested on the spot.

And so, I was grateful that Aunt Irma would say Violet, goodbye!

That Aunt Irma would hug me, and weep over me—Violet, I love you.

Goodbye!

MY AUNT HAD MADE HER DIFFICULT DECISION: SHE WOULD TELL her husband Oscar to move out of the house.

Surprising me by saying that she’d spoken with a lawyer. Not to explain to the lawyer why she was asking her husband to leave, why specifically, only just that she needed to know the law on “separating”—establishing separate legal residences.

Separation? From Oscar? Divorce?

Not divorce. Irma didn’t think so. But the Church does allow legal separation.

That night, whenever he returned, she would tell him. He must move out of the house.

Why?—he’d know.

Certainly. He would know.

Though Oscar was co-owner of the house. Though Oscar supported the household. Though financially Irma and Violet, wife and (unofficially) adopted daughter, were supported by Oscar.

Better this way, Irma said bravely.

Thrumming with excitement, apprehension. If I’d touched my aunt, might’ve recoiled from a quick shock.