In fact, the dents and scratches and (even) blood-smears on the front of the Chevrolet still registered in the name of Jerome Kerrigan would be evident when it was closely examined by police investigators. Like the clothes, socks, shoes my brothers would try to launder that night.

Like the bat, that could not be scrubbed clean by my brothers for its minute cracks and indentations would harbor traces of Hadrian Johnson’s blood, unmistakably.

Burying the bat in the underbrush, near Mom’s compost—that seemed like a practical idea. I saw my brothers wrap the wetted bat in a piece of burlap and I saw them leave the garage but I could not observe them after this, only to understand that they weren’t going far, into our backyard it seemed, or a little farther, on foot.

I was mystified. I had no idea what they were doing. I guessed they might be drunk. Maybe it was some kind of joke.

I went upstairs, back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep.

AND THEN ABOUT A HALF HOUR LATER I HEARD THEM RE-ENTER the house. The kitchen. Heard the refrigerator door being (quietly) opened and shut. The sound of beer cans being opened.

Almost, I could hear voices. Soft laughter.

Jes-sus.

Fucking Chri-ist!

I was sleepless, and I was curious. I was thinking—Nothing is different tonight.

Left my room to join them. Their tomboy kid-sister, they favored over Katie and (prissy, bossy) Miriam.

It was so, I adored my big brothers and basked in the glow of even their careless attention. And they loved me, I believed. I’d always believed.

Taking note of me, sometimes. Tousling my hair as you might tousle the hair of a dog. Hey kid. How’re you doing, Vi’let Rue?

In a family there are allies, and there are adversaries. It seemed to me that my brothers and I were on our daddy’s side, and my sisters were on my mother’s side.

Wanting to think this. In my naivete.

Because, really I wasn’t a female just yet. Lean-hipped as a guy, flat-chested, hard little muscles in legs, arms, shoulders—my brothers had to be impressed, I could run as fast as most boys my age, rarely cried or complained, wasn’t fussy or squeamish like other girls. If a spider darted across a wall, or a garter snake slithered across pavement, I didn’t shriek and run like another girl.

Why was I proud of this? I was.

Walking into the kitchen as if I’d only now been wakened. Daringly said, “Hey guys! Where’ve you been so late?”

They stared at me in my pajamas as if for a shivery moment they didn’t know who the hell I was. As if they didn’t know what to do about me.