There was also the police officer who’d grabbed me. As quickly and as deftly as Lionel had pushed me. At the Lock Street Bridge he’d grabbed me, twisted my arm up behind my back until I collapsed with pain.

  Why it was crucial to run. As fast as I could run.

  And quickly determine, wherever I was, where hiding places were. Escape routes. A deep sympathy I felt, seeing rats rummaging in Dumpsters that jumped out squeaking and scurried away in crevices to hide.

  Aunt Irma tried to comfort me. You are safe now, dear. Here with us.

  As if I could believe her! As if any of us can guarantee the safety of others.

  But Irma was anxious, too. In those days before caller ID she answered the phone hesitantly—Y-Yes? Who is calling? A knock at the door suffused her with dread.

  Recalling once how, when someone knocked at the door, a louder knock than seemed reasonable, Irma had cried to me to go upstairs, to run into the bathroom and lock the door—as if, in the exigency of the moment, she’d given in to the worst of my fears, that one of my brothers might have showed up in Port Oriskany, to murder me.

  Later I would think how foolish this fear was. No one intent upon murder would knock so loudly on a door and announce himself.

  WITHOUT MY KNOWING, THE YEARS OF WAITING HAD BEGUN.

  When you are waiting you are neither unhappy nor happy. You are waiting.

  Half-consciously assumed that I would remain twelve years old stunted and accursed yet time continued bizarrely, indifferently as if the catastrophe of my life weighed no more than a feather, that had already been blown away.

  Growing into a tall thin girl with evasive eyes. Chronic puffiness beneath the eyes.

  Sullen, sulky mouth. Pale skin, that burnt easily.

  Dark hair resembling mad scribbles of crayon. Could not get a comb through my hair and even brushing it was a chore. Yet, I often let my hair go an entire day and a night without brushing and combing, so that snarls proliferated like lice. In this way both indulging myself and punishing myself in a single gesture.

  Unlike Mom, Aunt Irma did not dare sweep into my room unbidden, snatch up a hairbrush and a comb to rid my hair of snarls no matter how I protested.

  Look at you! Look at that hair! What a sight.

  Sit still. Stop squirming. You have beautiful wavy hair—nicer than your sisters’.

  Indeed, I had my mother’s hair. So she liked to claim.

  How I hated my bossy mother!—scolding, fussing. Slapping me (lightly) to sit still.

  But when Mom finished brushing and combing my hair it did look much improved. Had to admit.

  Recalling too how Mom would casually wet her forefinger and smooth my eyebrows!—even in the presence of others. A gesture of exasperating intimacy, such as only a mother might inflict upon a child, and that child likely to be a daughter.

  But now there was no one to touch me so intimately. No one to so care about me, as if I were herself.

  Aunt Irma could not speak assertively to anyone and certainly not to me. It was rare for her to contradict her husband and if she was obliged to disagree with him, she so managed to contort herself, to speak in circumlocutions, the husband had not a clue. To me she spoke timidly even when commenting on the weather. Her requests were uttered not in a firm bossy voice but as pleas. My aunt had no hope of commanding me as my mother would have done for my aunt desperately wanted to be liked.

  This is the great weakness—wanting to be liked, loved. You give up all pride wanting to be liked, loved.

  It suffused me with contempt, that an adult woman should apologize to me rather than scold me, speak sarcastically to me. For was I not a rat, and worthless? Should I not crawl away somewhere and die?

  Instead Irma would flutter her hands—Oh Violet, excuse me . . .

  Violet, dear, wait a minute, I’m sorry . . .

  And then I would overhear my aunt on the phone talking to a friend when she didn’t think I was within earshot. I would hear my aunt not timid or hesitant but baffled, resentful—She won’t even look at us! It’s breaking our hearts! She was never like this before. She has changed. How long has it been now—six, seven months! She should be trusting us by now. But she isn’t. She’s up in her room all the time . . . Like someone on an iceberg drifting off to sea and you call after them and call after them and finally . . .

  Quickly I edged away. I did not want to hear how these indignant words would end.

  Turnip Face

  EACH MONTH, FIRST MONDAY OF THE LAST WEEK, MS. DOLORES Herne of the Children’s Protective Services came to check up on me in the beige-brick house on Erie Street, Port Oriskany.

  Because I’d been removed from my family and released into the custody of relatives, a county social worker was mandated to visit me at regular intervals.

  Brightly Ms. Herne spoke with Aunt Irma and me, and then she spoke with me alone, asking in a hushed voice—“Do you feel safe in this household, Violet? Is there anything you would like to share with me, just between the two of us?”

  Yes I felt safe with my aunt and uncle—of course.

  No I had nothing to share with a stranger.

  Consulting her notes Ms. Herne went on to ask—“Has anyone from your family in South Niagara threatened you, since last November? Your brother Lionel—”

  “Lionel is in p-prison.”

  “Well—has Lionel contacted you? Directly, or indirectly?”

  Shook my head no.

  “He has not? No?”

  No.

  “Not through a family member? Lionel has not contacted you—definitely?”

  A flurry of panic in my chest for the thought came to me, does Ms. Herne know something I don’t know? Has Lionel been threatening me without my knowing it?

  His prison sentence was seven to thirteen years, I told Ms. Herne. It had not been even a year yet . . .

  A humming sound came to my ears. It seemed that Ms. Herne was humming under her breath but in such a way, her mouth clamped shut, I could not be sure that the low vibratory sound was actually coming from her throat and not my own.

  A strange Turnip Face, confronting me.

  “And you have not visited him in prison? I assume.”

  Shook my head no. Trying not to laugh wildly.

  Impossible to imagine visiting either Lionel or Jerome. Would my parents have taken me? No.

  Could not bear to see the hatred in my brothers’ faces. Murderous rage.

  Rat bitch. Rat cunt. We’ll take your fucking head off.

  Ms. Herne was peering at her notes, frowning. Obviously she hadn’t glanced at these hand-scrawled notes since the last time she’d visited the house; she seemed to have forgotten the crucial details of my case.

  “And your older brother Jerome—had he threatened you, too?”

  Shook my head no.

  “At the time your brother Lionel attacked you—according to my report here, pushed you down ‘icy steps’—was Jerome also on the premises?”

  Coldly I told Ms. Herne no. In another minute I would jump up and run from the room, I hated this interrogation so.

  “Jerome did not participate in this attack, you believe? To the best of your knowledge?”

  Not sure how to respond. Hesitantly nodded my head yes.

  “You are not in contact with Jerome, either?”

  Shook my head no.

  (But maybe yes for I’d sent a birthday card to Jerome, as I’d sent a birthday card to Lionel, and with the card just my signature—Violet. Did that count as being in contact?)

  “And you don’t hear from your incarcerated brothers through anyone else, Violet? Anyone in the family?”

  When I only shook my head Ms. Herne persisted: “I have to ask, dear. This is crucial to know.”

  Sitting very still, staring at the floor. A sensation of great weariness came over me, a wish to lie down on the carpet, shut my eyes that were so heavy-lidded, sink into sleep as into black muck . . .

  “. . . the one who seems to have actually struck the black boy, isn’t he? ‘Jerome.’ And Lionel has refused to testify against him . . .”

  Was this true? I guessed it had to be true. Neither of my brothers had testified against the other. The other boys had been vague in their confessions. (Were they afraid of Jerome? That, someday, when they were all free, Jerome might seek them out and hurt them, if they’d ratted on him, as I had?)

  Ms. Herne had to know that I’d ratted on my brothers. That this was why I’d been exiled from my family and made a ward of Niagara County and was living now with relatives of my mother.

  Never dared ask Ms. Herne about my parents—if they had forgiven me yet? if they had asked about me?—for the questions would be so piteous, Ms. Herne would be embarrassed.

  Each day I lived in apprehension of hearing sudden, upsetting news from strangers like Ms. Herne, or one of the teachers at school, like the ninth-grade math teacher with the steel-wool eyebrows who seemed to lie in wait for me, daring to ask questions of me in a lowered voice—You’re the girl, are you? Kerrigan? Your brothers are in prison for manslaughter, beating a black boy to death, isn’t that you?

  The humming grew steadily louder. I was beginning to hear—Kerrigan, Kerrigan. Killing can, KERRIGAN.

  “Violet, it says in this report from Family Court that both your brothers’ convictions are being appealed. This was back in June. D’you have more recent news?”

  Shook my head no.

  “No?”—Ms. Herne smiled and winced at me as if she was hard of hearing.

  N-No.

  All I’d heard, vague news from Aunt Irma, was that the New York State Court of Appeals was very slow. And lawyers for my brothers were very expensive.

  I wondered if Ms. Herne knew something about the appeal that I didn’t know. That she didn’t want to share with me.

  “Violet? Are you all right, dear?”

  From a long distance the social worker was peering at me. So far away, I could not really recognize her homely turnip-face and her voice was muffled by the roaring of wind.

  “—try to open your eyes? Violet?”

  Had my eyes closed? I didn’t think so—wasn’t I looking at the woman? On a ledge she stood, slightly above me. Between us was a ravine into which (I seemed to know) I must not look for there were terrible things in it, broken, mutilated and bleeding.

  “Violet! Please wake up . . .”

  Ms. Herne was tugging at me, alarmed.

  Blindly I pushed hands away. I did not like to be touched.

  “—awake, Violet? Try to open your eyes . . .”

  My eyes were open! I wanted to curse the staring woman who would not let me alone.

  Still Ms. Herne tugged at me, and more forcibly I pushed her hands away.

  Except my hands did not seem to move. They were numb, some distance from my body. I seemed to know that they could be operated by a sort of remote control but I had not (yet) mastered this control.

  Ms. Herne had vanished, to confer with the woman whose name I had forgotten, who was meant to be a relative of mine reporting to my parents each day of my exile.

  Where were they? Around a corner? If I’d been a younger and more childish girl I would have jumped up and poked my head into the hallway to surprise them.

  Naive of them to imagine that I could not hear them when they spoke distinctly.

  “. . . suddenly fell asleep, it seemed . . . I had to catch her from falling onto the floor.”

  “. . . oh, Violet does that . . . sometimes. It doesn’t mean a, a thing . . .”

  “. . . sleep-deprived? There are shadows beneath . . .”

  “. . . oh no, oh no . . . Her eyelids are just sort of—swollen, and itchy. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “. . . examined by a doctor?”

  “. . . oh yes, yes of course. My husband and I—we have . . .”

  “. . . so sudden, I had to catch her from falling onto the floor.”

  Then, Ms. Herne had returned and was seated before me smiling insincerely. My eyes were fully opened and nothing seemed to have changed and nothing was out of place.

  In the hallway, (possibly) my aunt was eavesdropping. I could not be certain and could not betray my suspicion by jumping up and looking, for then both women would know that I was aware of their collusion.

  “You are absolutely certain, Violet, that you feel ‘safe’ in this household? That you are safe? And that neither of your brothers have contacted you to—to—threaten you . . .”

  Oh, why did this not end!

  Nodding yes. Or was it no.

  Ms. Herne concluded her visit with the usual questions about school which were, as we all know, trick questions. Gravely taking notes when I assured her that I was “adjusting”—“doing well, mostly.”

  “You are, you think, ‘adjusting’? And ‘doing well’—‘mostly’?”

  Yes.

  “Well. Goodbye, Violet! I will see you again in—is it September? But please call me at any time if you—if you have reason to call me. Do you promise?”

  No. I do not promise.

  “Yes, Ms. Harm.”

  “‘Herne’—my name is ‘Herne.’”

  “‘Ms. Herme.’”

  “‘Herne.’”

  Smiling at Turnip Face so that she would have no further reason to be suspicious of me. In the other room, if my aunt was listening she too would be deceived.

  Another time the woman said, “Goodbye, Violet!”

  “Goodbye.”

  After Ms. Herne was gone a sensation of cold swept through me. For possibly my brothers would be released from prison sooner than anyone had expected? Were already released? And no one would tell me, to alarm me?

  To warn me?

  Sisters

  KATIE—WILL YOU TELL ME? LET ME KNOW? IF—

  Hidden away in my room with the door shut writing a postcard to my sister. I wasn’t sure what to say. Which words to choose. For everyone in the family hoped that my brothers would be released from prison as soon as possible—(except me).

  Everyone seemed to think that the convictions were unjust, unfair. So many times it had been reiterated—It’s just because they are white—white boys. You would think that Hadrian Johnson had assaulted them.

  Maybe you could call me? If there is news? Here is Aunt Irma’s phone number if you need it.

  Of course, Katie already had the number. I’d made sure that she had the number. Though neither she nor Miriam had called me in the eight months I’d been here.

  If Lionel is released, and if—if he says something about me . . .

  Meaning: if Lionel threatens me with harm.

  Katie knew. And Miriam must have known. That I was terrified of Lionel and Jerome being released from prison though having to pretend that I was hoping they’d be released, like everyone else.

  . . . if he threatens me? Will you let me know?

  An appeal into a void. Like leaning over a deep well and calling down inside with your hands cupped to your mouth and waiting, waiting, waiting for the faintest echo.

  LATER IT CAME TO ME THAT SENDING A POSTCARD WAS NOT A good idea. If I sent Katie a postcard anyone in the family could read it including my mother.

  But if I sent Katie a (sealed) letter Mom would notice that too and be suspicious, and (possibly) open it . . .

  I tore up the postcard for Katie. I began a letter to Miriam, who’d moved out of the house on Black Rock Street, I had heard, and was renting an apartment downtown.

  Miriam was working as a secretary for a South Niagara accountant. She’d been eager to leave home even before the arrests of my brothers but she’d waited too long, the scandal had been too much for her fiancé who’d broken off their engagement . . .

  Hoping that Miriam didn’t blame me.

  Hours were required for me to write a letter to Miriam though it was less than a page. A sensation of dread suffused me. I had not been wanting to think how badly I missed my sisters, as I missed my mother; writing to them was like talking to them, pleading with them, and left me emotionally shaken.

  Miriam! Katie! Have you stopped loving me, too . . .

  I am so lonely. Please!

  In my letter to Miriam I included Aunt Irma’s telephone number and asked Miriam to call me; I was not prepared for Katie calling me one evening a few days later.

  “Violet? Hello! Miriam read me your letter to her. She—we—thought I should call you . . . It’s good you didn’t write to me—Mom would’ve brought in the mail and seen it. She’s out shopping now. I can’t talk long . . .”

  Katie’s voice was sharp, edgy. She seemed both anxious and embarrassed and spoke quickly to guarantee that I would not interrupt.

  “What you’re asking about, the appeals, whatever the lawyer is doing—I don’t know for sure. There’s a state ‘appeals’ court. Tommy Kerrigan is trying to help. He’s got ‘contacts’ in the justice system, he says. He’s coming out of retirement—maybe—to run for state assembly if he can get rich people to donate—he’s been interviewed a lot on local TV saying his ‘nephews’ had been hounded into prison because they are white. It’s kind of—I don’t know—kind of controversial, people are saying. There’s what they call a ‘white backlash’ here and in Buffalo too . . . Daddy has had to take out more loans. The bail bond was returned but the legal fees are almost as high. It’s just terrible what lawyers charge! But Daddy is hopeful—I guess. If the lawyers can get the sentences overturned Jerr and Lionel will be out—they won’t even have to wait for parole. Jerr has been in some fights in the facility, he’s been injured—in the prison hospital. I guess he was stabbed . . . Not sure about Lionel, he’s sort of closed off from us. He doesn’t want visitors, he says. Only Daddy, once in a while.

  “No, they don’t talk about you, Violet. Your name is never mentioned at least to me. Mostly they talk about the ‘legal case’—they call it. They are upset about Jerr and Lionel and think they were blamed because they’re ‘white’ . . . Miriam and I try to avoid the subject. I don’t know how Les and Rick feel—it’s hard to be going to school, with people still talking about Hadrian Johnson. I still have my friends, or some of them . . . It’s hard, people kind of blame you, but then other people blame them—black people. It’s like you have to be on one side or the other and people like us, with our name, have to be on the ‘white’ side. I just try to avoid it! Les isn’t doing so well, he cuts classes a lot. Hides up in his room playing those damn creepy video games. Rick is talking about joining the Marines when he gets out of school which drives Daddy crazy. Daddy is out a lot and when he’s home he’s very tired. He’s drinking more than he used to. He had bronchitis pretty bad this winter—still has it. Mom is on some medication—‘Xanax.’ It’s to help her sleep and for her nerves. I hear her crying sometimes—but I don’t go running to her. That just gets her angry at me.” Katie’s words were disjointed, aggrieved. She was speaking rapidly as if to get through our conversation, before we were discovered.