Leaning over, his hand resting on a shoulder. His breath at the nape of a neck. A warm hand. A comforting hand. Lightly on a shoulder, or at the small of a back.

“Very good, dear! Now turn the paper over, and see if you can replicate the problem from memory.”

Sometimes, Mr. Sandman swore us to secrecy: we were given “rehearsal tutorials” during which we worked out problems that would appear on the next day’s quiz or test in Mr. Sandman’s class.

Of course, we were eager to swear not to tell.

We were privileged, and we were grateful. Maybe, we were afraid of our math teacher.

Eventually, the other girls disappeared from the tutorials. Only Violet Rue remained.

EACH DAY CAME THE HOPE—DADDY WILL COME GET ME TODAY.

Or, more possibly—Daddy will call. Today.

Running home expecting to see my aunt awaiting me just inside the door, a wounded expression on her face—“There’s been a call for you, Violet. From home.”

At once, I would know what this meant.

Even Irma understood that home, for me, did not mean the tidy beige-brick house on Erie Street.

And so, each day hurrying home. But even as I approached Erie Street a wave of apprehension swept over me, my mouth went dry with anxiety . . .

For there would be no Daddy waiting for me. There’d been no telephone call.

In the meantime reciting multiplication tables to myself. Multiplying three-digit numbers. Long division in my head. Puzzling over algebra problems that uncurled themselves in my brain like miniature dreams.

Such happiness in the Pythagorean theorem! Always and forever it is a fact, clutched-at like a life jacket in churning water—the sum of the areas of two small squares equals the area of the large one.

No need to ask why. When something just is.

Math had become strange to me. “Pre-algebra”—this was our ninth-grade curriculum. Like a foreign language, fearful and yet fascinating.

“Equations”—numerals, letters—a, b, c. Sometimes my hand trembled, gripping a pencil. Hours I would work on algebra problems, in my room with the door shut. It seemed to me that each problem solved brought me a step closer to being summoned back home to South Niagara and so I worked tirelessly until my eyes misted over and my head swam.

Downstairs Aunt Irma watched TV. Festive voices and laughter lifted through the floorboards. My aunt often invited me to watch with her, when I was finished with my homework for the night. But I was never finished with my homework.

On her way to bed Aunt Irma would pause at my door to call out in her sweet, sad voice, “Good night, Violet!” Then, “Turn off your light now, dear, and go to sleep.”