With angry irritation she swiped a few times at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face, and Raj now began to imitate this.

“You are a nasty creature,” she said.

“You are a nasty creature.” He echoed her shrill voice.

“How dare you.”

“How dare you.” He was flaring his nostrils and furrowing his brow just as she did.

She took hold of his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. He didn’t move or say anything, just continued to stare at her as she pinched harder and harder. A trickle of blood ran down to his jaw. She snatched her hand away, clearly horrified by what she had done, but then Raj, with an utterly expressionless face, took a ballet-dancer figurine from the mantelpiece and dropped it into the fireplace, where it smashed.

Instantly, her fury flared. “Go on,” she said, “break whatever you want, you little”—she hesitated but, leaning in close, whispered it through her gritted teeth—“black bastard.”

Calmly, he walked over to the display case and opened it. One by one he took out the heirloom china plates and dropped them on the floor. Brenna just stared at him, her hands holding the edge of the mantelpiece as if for support. As he took out the gravy boat, the front door opened. Brenna and Raj froze, staring toward the sitting room entrance as if they had been caught in some illicit intimacy, as Cecilia walked in.

“What on earth’s going on?” she said.

“He’s been suspended from school for the most insulting behavior and, as you can see, he’s gone quite mad. He’s smashing everything.”

“Raj”—Cecilia walked over to him—“what are you doing?”

He didn’t respond.

She took hold of his arms. “Go up to your room this instant.”

“Go up to your room this instant,” he mocked.

“What happened to your cheek?”

“Go up to your room. Go up to your room this instant!” he repeated.

Again the sound of the front door. Haig entered. Putting down his briefcase, he examined the mess with an expression of profound exhaustion.

“Look what he’s doing,” Brenna said. “He’s gone quite mad.”

“Rajiv, why are you doing this?” Haig asked.

“He won’t answer,” Brenna said.

“Rajiv, why are you doing this?”

“He won’t—”

“Rajiv,” he said more firmly, “why are you doing this?”

Raj remained silent and empty-faced in front of Cecilia, still holding the gravy boat.

Sighing, Haig turned to his wife. “The boy is twelve years old.” Picking up his briefcase, he turned around and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

As Brenna began to cry, Cecilia hurried over to comfort her. Looking back at Raj, she screamed, “This is our house. Why don’t you just get out!”

May 2, 1954

Dear Haig,

Gerard is as Gerard does, as we both know. A friend forwarded your letter. I’ve been in the Midwest for two years now—Missouri. I met a woman, Ruth, who is perfect for me. We are kind and intimate strangers, which suits us both, I think. She lives on a farm just outside a town called Pisgah, which consists of a half-dozen streets and a few stores: Celli’s Grocery, Neef’s Religious Bookstore and Gunsmiths, Suggs Hardware, Snyder’s Drug Sundries and Soda Fountain, the Gay Frock Shop, Novus Shoes, Pisgah Ice and Storage, and Burger’s Mill and Grain. That’s pretty much it. It’s a beautiful place, though, surrounded by cornfields and woods full of deer, and populated, for the most part, by solid northern Europeans.