The woman repeats her question asking if you are from the people Mrs. Johnson worked for and this time you understand: your white skin signals that you are looking for an employee of your family, a cleaning woman perhaps.

Not a friend, an employee. You feel a wave of shame, the woman has judged you by the color of your skin.

Of course it’s a reasonable assumption. You understand.

You tell the woman no, you are not from that family. You thank her and tell her that you will come back another time to see Mrs. Johnson. N Nothing important, just—wanting to say hello.

Return to your car, you’ve left the key in the ignition and the motor running. Not thinking clearly. Take care, you can have an accident easily in such a state.

Behind you on the sidewalk the woman remains, watching as you drive away. She has been more curious about you than suspicious. She has not been unfriendly—exactly. In the rear view mirror you see her figure retreating until it has vanished in the darkness of Howard Street and you’ve returned to Delahunt where there are tall street lights and you can breathe more deeply.

Next time you are in South Niagara you will do better, you promise yourself. You will knock on Ethel Johnson’s door in the daylight, and you will introduce yourself.

Just hello.

Home

IN THE HONDA CIVIC, HEADED EAST TOWARD THE THRUWAY. Buoyed by waves of relief so intense it feels like happiness.

At last headed back to Mohawk. Home.

Night isn’t an ideal time to be starting off on a drive of several hours by yourself but you are eager to escape South Niagara. The air feels oppressive here, difficult to breathe. So close you’d come to being murdered in this place, kicked into insensibility. And maybe, as a parting gesture, your brother would have set his foot upon your exposed throat as you lay helpless on the ground, pressing down, grinding down, exactly as someone had done to him.

The joy of silencing another, forever!—you have never felt such joy but you have come to understand it, in others.

Is it true, as you’ve promised your sister, that you will return to South Niagara, soon? To see your mother, and to see Katie? To see where your father is buried in the hilly cemetery behind St. Matthew’s Church?

No. You will never return.

But—yes. Maybe.

Never say never. A frequent remark of your father’s, of the nature of What goes around comes around. An old boxing adage, you think.

You do want to see Katie again. You do want to see your mother . . . You are not so certain about visiting the cemetery, in fact. He never forgave you, he was not ever going to forgive you, that was his prerogative.

But yes, you would like to drive along Howard Street, in daylight.