He stopped in front of the door of the house and told himself he should go back to Brooklyn until Rachel Levy couldn’t wait anymore and went home and forgot about him. But his hands shook as he put the key in the lock and he knew it was because he couldn’t wait to see her. He opened the door and stood in the hall listening. He heard murmuring, but couldn’t identify the voices and, with his heart pounding, he went to the living room and stood in the doorway.

His mother sat in her wing chair, a little white girl was sleeping on the couch, and Rachel Levy sat next to her, holding a cup and saucer and watching the door. Her hand jerked when she saw him, the cup rattled as she put it down, and she stood up quickly and came across the room to him. He couldn’t do anything but wait for her to reach him. She looked older than he remembered, and very, very tired, but it was still the best face he’d ever seen. She got to him, and put her arms around him. Her face touched his, her cheek felt hot on his skin, and he could smell her hair. He couldn’t hear the TV anymore, or see the shocked look on his mother’s face. He raised his arms stiffly like a man in a space suit, and with the feeling that he was finishing something he’d started a long time ago, he put them around her.

She wanted to talk to him alone and he took her into the dining room and closed the sliding double doors his father had built. He could see how nervous she was and he tried to get her to drink some brandy, or more tea, but she didn’t want any. He sat down across from her and waited for her to explain why she was there. She was so shaky he thought she’d have trouble getting it out. But she took a breath and, almost as if she were challenging him, said, “They killed a family in Laurel last night.”

He didn’t have ask who they were and he kept quiet and let her talk.

They were beaten to death, she told him, like the boys in Brooklyn . . .