It was his silence that I took for betrayal. He wouldn’t stand up to her, not then, not ever.

In all this, I have never thought about Ron Markham. It’s always been my father’s sin of failure to stand up for me that I’ve remembered with such pain. Now here is the man, the grown-up version of the boy who almost got my virginity. Never did I imagine that he, of all people, would be the one to tell me my father had stood up for me after all.

At this point, Paul has literally shouldered us off the deck and into the empty yard. I know that the people on the deck, and by now there are several wives out there, can hear every word. I’m not raising my voice, but the evening has become foggy and the fog acts like a band shell.

Out of the fog I hear her voice.

Marriage, motherhood, divorce; reinventing myself every few years, living through 9/11 and two Iraq wars, even at that, the sight of Adele Rose Meade standing on that deck, looking down on me, scares the shit out of me. In a curious way, the deck floodlights illumine her and her only; the rest of the audience, Greek chorus now, have faded into the shadows. I feel myself shrinking.

“Justine. You need to come in.” The transformation is complete. I am ten.

“Mrs. Meade, give us a minute.” Ron doesn’t touch me, but I follow him a few steps away from the deck, deeper into the wet grass and the fog, mostly out of earshot. I wonder if this is a good idea. Not that I imagine he’ll touch me. It just looks compromising, and I have an idea that his wife—surely there is one—is not going to understand this.

“Whatever happened that night, I want you to know that I am truly sorry. A boy looks at these things differently. Not that I’m saying it was right, or acceptable, but I’m sorry.”

This is so unexpected. An apology. From Ron. But it’s not the one I wanted.

Suddenly, it hits me: The reason my father never apologized is because he had nothing to apologize for. Tears build in the corner of my eyes.

“Thank you.”

I have this strange sense of being like a creature that molts its skin; what has held me together cracks open and I feel my life slide out, fresh. Ron Markham, in clumsy fashion, has offered me closure.

“Justine?” Adele’s voice fades into the mist. A ghostly sound, meaningless.

*   *   *