Then Rachel started to cry again and the women faced each other, crying, saw how they looked, then laughed, and the bartender and the two men at the bar shook their heads. Tom Sr. was in St. Louis, Tom and Eric were at the library, and Willa hated being alone, so they had another drink.

“Do you think things’ll be calm enough by June for us to go to the wedding?” she asked.

“You’re going, or I’m not,” Rachel said.

“Luria—”

“Fuck Luria!” The bartender looked shocked, the two drinkers sniggered.

Afterward, they walked through the quiet little town, into the Main Street Extension. April was almost over, the thin tree branches were yellow in the street light, and the air was fresh, damp, cool. They walked close together, brushing each other from time to time, both glad for the contact.

Fog rolled in from the Sound, and the night turned heavy all at once, spooky. They heard their footsteps on the pavement. As they passed the shul, Rachel saw a light in the basement, but didn’t think about it. It was eight-thirty, the boys wouldn’t be home yet, so Rachel walked the rest of the way with Willa. The afternoon paper was at the door; it had been ten days, and the only mention of the fight at the school was half a column on page ten.

“Thank God,” Willa said.

They had omelettes and brandy, and by the time Tom Jr. and Eric got home they were high all over again.

Tom Jr. stopped at the door when he saw Rachel. He still had the bruise from the fight on the right side of his face. It was yellow at the edges and a star of blood still showed in the corner of one eye.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he said. “It wasn’t me that hit him. I’m not even sure anyone did. That cafeteria’s all chrome and glass and sharp edges. He could’ve fallen from someone shoving him and gotten hurt like that.” Rachel was nodding. Tom started to cry; he was so tall, so well built, she forgot he was only seventeen. Still a boy.

“I didn’t even know who he was. It was rousting, that’s all. Just rousting. It was the white kid . . . the Brodsky kid had the knife. We wasn’t even doing real punching till he pulled that knife . . .” he sobbed. “Oh, Rachel . . . I swear, I never hurt him. He was fifteen,” Tom sobbed. “A little kid next to me. Shorter’n you. I never, never . . .”

“Michael Brodsky had a knife?” Rachel asked. Tom Jr. looked into her eyes.

“I swear it.”

No one said anything about Luria’s grandson having a knife. She’d tell Jacob; maybe he’d feel better about Tom. Maybe it would change things.