“When she was sixteen . . .”

“Sixteen! I don’t think so, Violet.”

“But—Mom told me . . .”

“That’s ridiculous! None of us were—cleaning-women, maids . . . We were not that poor.”

“But—”

Irma was shaking her head, frowning as if she found the subject distasteful.

In any case the decision seemed to be made: I would leave, and Oscar would remain.

This was only right, and just: the Allyns would remain together.

Only as I was preparing to leave I felt a sudden flood of emotion for the tidy beige-brick house on Erie Street, Port Oriskany. A longing for what I was giving up. And for my aunt Irma who hugged me tightly, wetting me with her tears.

“Violet, goodbye! I love you, honey. I will miss you so. But you are right, it is time for you to move away.”

III

The Scar

YOU’VE BEEN STARING AT THE SCAR ON MY FOREHEAD. I see you.

Not clear if it is actually a scar, or a birthmark, or some sort of exotic tattoo.

Of course, you won’t ask. Not until we know each other better and even then you might be shy, you might hesitate, guessing that I am a moody individual, that I might bite.

You can touch the scar, if you wish. It is soft to the fingertips like something other than human skin. An unborn skin, you might think.

Very soft, fascinating. Just slightly repulsive.

Here, let me take your hand!—I know that you are curious.

Your touching the scar makes me shiver, shudder. It is very erotic.

Often without being aware of what I am doing, I touch the scar myself. My fingertips find their unerring way to the ultra-soft starburst tissue at my hairline, just to touch, stroke. Confirm.

Yes. It is real. All that has happened to me is real.

A sensation like flame rushes through me. Breasts, groin. My breath comes quickly, there is a flush to my face.

All, all is real.

How did it happen, you are eager to know.

A visible scar is the way to the secret scar between the female thighs with their terrible muscular power to clamp shut.

There, the secret scar for which you are yearning, I see in your eyes.

The most secret place. Fiery-moist, the deep throbbing pulse.

A man sees such a luscious scar, his first thought is—Let me taste that with my tongue. Let me make that deeper. Let me make that bleed again.

It is to your advantage to allow him to think—Only I know how.

The Burrow

SHE’D NEVER BEGGED, I DON’T THINK SO. THAT WAY OF SAYING Help me, will you? C’mon.

Pursing her lips for a kiss.

So almost you’d think it was a game, you could play with Mommy just the two of you. The hell with the others, Mommy laughed so you’d know she wasn’t hurt.