Seeing in their faces that flicker of recognition—Is that her? The girl who ratted on her brothers and sent them to prison.

Not that they would have been cruel to me, but even their kindness and sympathy would be painful. And their pity.

And even if this were not true, it would seem true to me. Like an indelible stain that has in fact been removed, yet its imprint will always remain in the memory, a shadow of a stain.

Half-consciously then I avoided the area of the campus where I’d seen the dark-skinned man with the briefcase. In the sandstone building were the departments of economics, political science, statistics and I was taking none of these courses.

A few days later I saw him again walking on campus, carrying his briefcase. Amid undergraduates wearing the most casual attire—T-shirts, shorts, jeans—he looked almost comically dignified in sport coat, white shirt, tie. I wished that someone would greet him so that his masklike face might break into a smile.

That uncanny sensation of trying to recall a dream! Even as the dream fades.

On the walkway I stood staring after him. Almost, I could remember him—but he’d been younger then. If only he would turn, and see me, and not always be running away as if he wished to avoid me, too.

First Aid

ON HIS SHORT LEGS BRINDLE WAS STRUGGLING TO BRING ME something gripped in his jaws. At first it seemed that he’d managed to kill a creature smaller than himself but no, turned out to be the denim bag I carried instead of a purse, and inside the denim bag a small first aid kit.

No idea where I’d acquired this first aid kit whose contents I examined with mounting excitement: Band-Aids, a roll of gauze, small bottle of disinfectant, small scissors, also nail clippers, (white) adhesive tape. Box of cough drops, lozenges, tube of sunscreen, lip gloss. Asthma inhaler, red plastic. Small bottle of ibuprofen. Toothbrush, very small tube of toothpaste.

How strange this was! Yet my reaction was curiosity rather than alarm. Discovering deeper in the bag a Swiss army knife, an eight-ounce aerosol container of pesticide (to be employed like Mace in the event of an emergency), a wad of blood-stiffened Kleenex and a single seashell earring which I did not recognize as my own.

Had to laugh, this treasure trove was utterly baffling.

Demanding of the little bulldog—Where’d you get these crazy things?

Impudently Brindle stood on his hind legs and began licking my face. My hands, my arms were paralyzed at first, I could not push him away . . .

And then I was wakened rudely, abruptly. Of course it was the little dog energetically licking my face with his soft slovenly tongue.

Above me the mashed-in brown face loomed like a moon in shadow. Bug-eyes so wide-set they shone like the eyes of a lunatic. And the damned tongue, the panting slithery tongue, making me shiver, shudder, laugh—“Brindle, stop! No.”