AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE THRUWAY YOU STOP TO CALL TYRELL Jones on your cell phone.

Clutch of panic, the phone might have lost its power. Or, worse—there is no such number.

Your relationship with Tyrell Jones is so mysterious to you, so forged in inexpressible yearning, silences and ellipses—in uncertain moments you wonder if it is real, and not a dream. You wonder if, away from you, Tyrell Jones feels the same way.

The need you have of him. The hunger.

As the damned little dog has of you. Might as well admit it.

Hearing the phone ring at the other end. Biting your lower lip in anguish, that the might not be answered . . .

He will see your caller I.D. It is the man’s prerogative, to answer, or not answer.

Then, you hear Tyrell’s voice. For an instant you are unable to speak, there is a tight band around your chest.

“Violet? Hey. H’llo.”

“Hello . . .”

“Where are you? What has happened?”—Tyrell’s voice is clear and assertive. It is always a surprise to you, to hear this adult voice over the phone, so different from your own, hesitant voice.

You tell Tyrell that your visit home has not gone so well as you’d hoped, and you are returning to Mohawk early. Quickly you speak, briskly enough, so that Tyrell doesn’t ask why.

You have not told Tyrell much about your background. All that he knows of the Kerrigans has little to do with you. He has never asked you about your family. He has never asked you about your (notorious) brothers. He could have no idea that one of them had been released from prison, still less that this brother might be living with your mother, and that there was a likelihood of your encountering him.

Tyrell asks when you estimate you will be home and you tell him—you hope before midnight.

He will wait up for you of course. He is bringing take-out Chinese food home, he will make sure there is enough for you.

Close to the edge. Close to tears. You feel your throat ache, as if someone had kicked you there. I love you. Forgive me. All of us—forgive us.

Such a declaration would only embarrass Tyrell. No possible way he could reply to it.

Seeing how he looks at you sometimes, with what bemused affection, you wonder if Tyrell understands you as you have never dared to suppose another person might understand you. As if you stood before him naked, in the illusion of being fully clothed.