IT WOULD TAKE NEARLY A MONTH BEFORE THE IMPLICATIONS of Mrs. Wilson’s agreement to help Mrs. Takahashi were fully understood, namely that her own culpability was more central to the narrative than at first appeared. She herself was unaware—and would be unaware for all her life—just how much she was to blame, but at that time we were grateful for any sense of guidance. Mrs. Wilson had been there in the county in 1945 and had seen Ray—had seen him, we still thought, only at a distance in Auburn—and so was the first point of contact we had with any kind of tangible information. Mrs. Wilson had agreed to help Mrs. Takahashi, after all, and even told her she would meet her there at my grandmother’s whenever Mrs. Takahashi wanted to make the drive up from San Jose, which she did six times over the next five weeks. Each time, Mrs. Wilson would appear at my grandmother’s soon after Mrs. Takahashi’s arrival and my grandmother would offer them tea, then they would both take their seats in Mrs. Wilson’s Pontiac: Mrs. Takahashi in the back, Mrs. Wilson in the passenger seat, and I the driver. (I made some excuse to the filling station’s owner on these afternoons, telling him that I had to help drive an elderly relative about for some appointments and did not entirely know when such an errand would end. Mr. ­Borton, for his part, was irritated only to the extent that my absence meant he would need to be at the filling station office in my stead. By the end of the intrigues with Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Takahashi, I determined that my life was better spent elsewhere and convinced Mr. Borton to reduce my employment to part-time so I might take advantage of the G.I. Bill at the local community college. It took me eight years to complete my college and university education, but I graduated at last with a master’s degree in 1977, having published the first of several novels.)