But I would not satisfy my aunt’s curiosity by opening this precious letter in her presence nor would I speak of it afterward for I could not share the small allotments of “news” of my life with anyone—there was so little of it. Instead I went away, upstairs into the room designated as my room, which had a door without a lock but which door could certainly be closed, firmly; and there I read Geraldine’s letter eagerly, tears flooding my eyes so that I could hardly make out the neat schoolgirl handwriting of my closest friend.

Dear Violet,

I miss you. I am sorry that you are so far away . . .

It would be a mystery to me how Geraldine had acquired my address in Port Oriskany. Eventually I would ask my sisters but neither Miriam nor Katie claimed to know anything about Geraldine Pyne.

My mother? This did not seem likely.

I might have asked Geraldine herself but I did not. Though I cherished her letters, of which there would be just three, and have kept them all these years moving from one place to another, I did not reply to her—not once.

I began letters to my friend but never finished them. Oh, why? Why not?

Eventually Geraldine ceased writing, and I lost her address.

Of Geraldine’s three precious letters it is the last that is the most beautiful and which I have read, reread, memorized. Often I hear Geraldine’s words, in Geraldine’s voice, in my ears; it is comforting to me as music I have heard many times.

Dear Violet,

I miss you! I wish that you would answer my letter(s).

Are you going to school there? Your desk is empty in homeroom and in all your classes and your locker is empty. Ms. Micaela has asked about you but no one knows what to say except you are “gone.”

I asked Mom if you could live with us because there is plenty of room in our house. We could share my room or you could have your own room. But Mom said she guessed that might not work out though it was a “very kind” idea. I asked why it would not work out, and Mom said, “Violet has her own family. They will want her back. They will love her again.”

I am praying for you, Violet. That this will be so.

Your friend forever,

Geraldine

Exile

IN THE FIRST YEAR OF BEING DISOWNED I SENT HOMEMADE birthday cards to my family. (I remembered all their birthdays!) The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, carefully writing out the address—388 Black Rock St., South Niagara, New York.

Even my brothers who were incarcerated at the Mid-State Correctional Facility at Marcy, New York, received cards from me. At least I sent cards. Of course, they did not answer.