A squirrel cleaned its paws upon a lower branch, in profile, its beady eye fixed judgmentally.

“There’s a hawk who’d love to meet you,” I said in passing.

June Pruitt greeted me at ten A.M. before I could knock twice. My above-average haircut, very posh suit, and affable demeanor were insufficiently charming. She didn’t offer to shake. Her mouth crimped, like she was biting down on pain. Four years may as well be yesterday for a bereaved mother.

Hardwood floors squeaked underfoot as she led me to the living room. I sat in the center of a couch on a macramé spread. She remained aloof near the window—whether an act of unconscious bias or by deliberate stratagem, I couldn’t say. In her teaching role she probably maintained a measure of authority by standing over her students. Piano to her left, a barrel-shaped floor lamp to her right. The chipped lamp base was decorated with faded illustrations of Native American eroticism. She wore red gemstone beads over a black sweater. No fur or feathers meant no dogs or cats and an empty home. I maintain that long sojourns in empty homes are precursors to madness. Her long skirt was black and also her shoes. Her hair was steel gray. I searched for the resemblance to her brother, Badja, and wouldn’t have seen any if I hadn’t known they were siblings. Badja Adeyemi radiated wickedness. June Pruitt projected cynicism, the by-product of barely modulated grief.

We exchanged pleasantries. How was I finding the Southern Tier? I smiled instead of confessing my disquiet.

“Did Badja mention that Senator Redlick was born in Horseheads?” She spoke with a slight Northeastern drawl.

“I’m aware the senator is almost seventy and still brags about his senior class winning state when he gets on CNN. What else is necessary to know?”

“He’s an avowed UFO nut. He claims SETI and the Voyager probe are terrible ideas.”

“Really? He never mentioned it during his campaign interviews.”

“The people who write his speeches edit out that sort of thing. Badja says the guy gets a few drinks under his belt and rants that our attempts to contact alien civilizations are tantamount to ringing the dinner bell—with humanity as the main course.”

“Anything else?”

“The Redlicks regard this valley as their fiefdom and the senator is their king. Some claim he’s embarrassed by his accent. He retains an elocutionist, a retired actor from the Shakespeare Theatre Company.”

“The rain in Spain . . .” I said.

“I’m serious.” She looked it.

I cleared my throat.

“The senator hasn’t resided here since 1979. He was Mr. Gerald Redlick in those days.”

“Doesn’t discourage him from shooting campaign ads in the old neighborhood with the blessings of the chamber of commerce.”

“Your valley didn’t become the site of the Jeffers Project by chance. Royalty hath its privileges.”

“The Redlick family makes all things possible.” The fire of her cynicism brightened the room.

“There are those who fight, those who pray, and those who work.” Thus, I demonstrated roughly half of the knowledge I retained from my Western Civ classes. “You work, though you could retire. I admire your dedication. High school English isn’t for the weak.”