In bars entertaining men with tales of my family. My lost life. Easy to enthrall men if they are slightly older than you are. Never do I tell them that two of my brothers were incarcerated for the murder of a black high school boy. Never do I tell them my last name. If I tell them a last name it is not Kerrigan but Allyn. But usually, I tell no one a last name and usually, no one asks.

Valentine

EACH FEBRUARY I SEND A VALENTINE TO THE FAMILY OF Hadrian Johnson who continue to live at 29 Howard Street, South Niagara. It is a ceremonial gesture, I suppose. The money included is never much.

I am not a worthless person, am I? This is proof.

No one knows. There is no one in my life to know. Nor do the Johnsons know who sends the valentine since it is signed only Your Friend.

However many small-denomination bills I have been able to put away in a drawer for the past twelve months, I include neatly folded inside the card for the Johnsons.

Might be thirty dollars. Might be sixty-five dollars. This year ninety-two dollars. I am looking ahead to a time when it might be a thousand dollars. Five thousand!

But that will not be for a while, I think.

It is Hadrian Johnson’s mother Ethel who is listed in the South Niagara phone directory as the resident at 29 Howard Street. Probably other family members live with Mrs. Johnson, possibly the sisters who were named in the obituary, possibly one or more of the brothers. Could be a grandparent. Grandparents. Of course, I have no way of knowing. The obituary did not speak of a father.

It is Ethel Johnson I envision, as I prepare the valentine. Hadrian’s mother I had seen on TV. Why would anyone want to hurt Hadrian who was so kind to everyone? Hadrian, who loved so many people . . .

Shut my eyes and I see Ethel Johnson’s face stricken with grief. I see Hadrian Johnson’s young face.

It is more of an effort to summon the faces of my brothers Jerome Jr. and Lionel than to summon these faces, of persons I’d never known. More of an effort to summon my own face that has grown hazy in memory.

Is it a futile gesture, to send money to the Johnson family? Is it foolish, vain, self-deluding? Desperate?

All these years since leaving home I’ve brought the obituary from the South Niagara Union Journal with me. I have no need to reread it for I’ve memorized it entirely. (Including the misspelling of Hadrian’s name.) I have memorized the face of the boy Hadrian Johnson, seventeen in the photograph.

The clipping has become yellowed, torn. Though I keep it neatly folded and in an envelope.

No other newspaper clippings. Nothing to remind me of that time!