Crouching behind a car, panting. Hands and knees on the icy pavement. Desperate for a place to hide trying car doors one after another until I found one that was unlocked. Climbed inside, into the backseat, on the floor making myself small as a wounded animal might. On the rear seat was a man’s jacket, I pulled over myself. Meant to hide for only a few minutes until the braying boys were gone but so tired!—fell asleep instead. Wakened by someone tugging at my ankle.

  Mr. Sandman’s dark face. Steel-wool eyebrows above his creased eyes. “Vi-o-let Rue! Is that you?”

  His voice was almost a song. Surprise, delight.

  “What are you doing here, Vio-let? Has someone been hounding you?”

  Of course, Mr. Sandman knew. All of the teachers knew. Though I had not ever told.

  How much worse it would be for me, if I told.

  I was not sure of the names of my tormenters. It was a matter of shame to me, there were so many.

  “Well! You don’t have to tell me who the vermin are just yet, dear. You have already been upset enough.” A pause. A stained-teeth smile. “I will drive you home.”

  Invited me to sit in the passenger’s seat beside him. Astonishing to me, the math teacher famous for his sarcasm was behaving in a kindly manner. Smiling!

  Though glancing about, to see if anyone was watching.

  It was late afternoon, early winter. Already the sky was dim, fading.

  In my confusion, waking from sleep, I seemed not to know exactly where I was, or why.

  Mr. Sandman advised me, I might just “hunch down” in the seat. In case some “nosy individual” happened to be watching.

  “One of my teacher-colleagues. Eager for gossip, you bet.”

  Quickly I hunched down in the seat. Shut my eyes and hugged my knees. I did not want to be seen by anyone in Mr. Sandman’s car.

  Mr. Sandman’s car was a large heavy pewter-colored four-door sedan. Not a compact vehicle like most vehicles in the faculty parking lot. Its interior was very cold and smelled of something slightly rancid like spilled milk.

  “You live on the east side, I believe? Is it—Ontario Street?”

  This was astonishing to me: How did Mr. Sandman have any idea where I lived?

  “Not Ontario? But nearby?”

  “Erie . . .”

  “You are wondering how I know where you live, Violet? And how I know with whom you live? Well!”

  Mr. Sandman chuckled. It was part of his comic style to pose a question but not answer it.

  When I was allowed to sit up a few minutes later and peer out the car window it did not appear that Mr. Sandman was driving in the direction of Erie Street. The thought came to me—He is taking another route. He knows another, better route.

  And when it became evident that Mr. Sandman was not driving me home at all I sat silently, staring out the window. I did not know what to say for I feared offending Mr. Sandman.

  In homeroom and in math class Mr. Sandman was easily “offended”—“deeply offended”—by a foolish answer to a question, or a foolish question. Often he simply glared, wriggling his dense eyebrows in a way comical to behold, unless you were the object of his ire.

  However, Mr. Sandman was in a very good mood now. Almost, Mr. Sandman was humming under his breath.

  “You know, Violet, it has been a pleasant and unexpected surprise—to discover that you are an impressively good student. Quite a surprise!”

  Mr. Sandman mused aloud as he drove. There was no expectation that I should answer him.

  “And also, a pleasant and unexpected surprise, to discover such an impressively good student in my automobile, hiding under a garment like Sleeping Beauty.”

  We were ascending hilly Craigmont Avenue. Still we were moving in a direction opposite to my aunt and uncle’s house on Erie Street and still I could not bring myself to protest.

  “. . . indeed there are some surprises more ‘unexpected’ than others. And discovering that Violet Rue Kerrigan is one of my better students has been one of these.”

  Violet Rue Kerrigan. The name suggested wonder, in Mr. Sandman’s voice. As if referring to someone, or something, apart from me of a significance unknown to me.

  Upper Craigmont Avenue was a residential neighborhood of older, large houses. Tall plane trees with bark peeling from them, like flayed skin. Storm debris lay scattered on expanses of cracked sidewalk and broad front lawns. If there had not been (dim) lights in the windows of houses we passed I might have thought that Mr. Sandman was driving me into an abandoned part of the city.

  At last Mr. Sandman turned into the driveway of a stone house, bulbous gray stone, cobblestone?—with dark shutters, and a ponderous slate roof overhead.

  Crabgrass stubbled the front lawn. A plane tree lay in ruins as if it had been struck by lightning. The long asphalt drive was riddled with cracks. My father would have sneered at such a derelict driveway though he would have been impressed by the size of Mr. Sandman’s house. And Craigmont Avenue looked to be a neighborhood of expensive properties, or properties that had once been expensive. “I am the ‘last scion’ in the Sandman family,” Mr. Sandman said, chuckling. “Since my elderly infirm parents passed away years ago my life is idyllic.”

  Idyllic was not a word with which I was familiar. I might have thought that it had something to do with idle.

  As Mr. Sandman parked the large heavy car at the top of the driveway, some distance from the street, I managed to stammer, “I—I want to go home, Mr. Sandman. Please.” But my voice was disappointingly weak, Mr. Sandman seemed scarcely to hear.

  (By this time I needed to use a bathroom, badly. But this I could not tell Mr. Sandman out of embarrassment.)

  “Well, dear! Why are you cowering there like a kicked puppy? Get out, please. We’ll have just a little visit—this time. Just a few minutes, I promise. And then I will drive you home to—did you say Ontario Street?”

  “Erie . . .”

  “Erie! Of course.”

  A subtle tone of condescension in Mr. Sandman’s voice. For the east side of Port Oriskany was not nearly so affluent as the west side nearer Lake Ontario.

  My legs moved numbly. Slowly I got out of Mr. Sandman’s car. It did not occur to me that I could run away—very easily, I could run out to the street.

  At the same time thinking—Mr. Sandman is my teacher. He would not hurt me.

  “We’ll have just a little ‘tutorial.’ In private.”

  Badly wanting to explain to Mr. Sandman—(now nudging me forward, hand on my back, to a side entrance of the darkened house)—that I was concerned that Aunt Irma would wonder where I was for she often worried about me when I was late returning home from school . . . And this afternoon I’d lost time, might’ve been a half hour, forty minutes or more, in my stuporous sleep in a car I had not realized was Mr. Sandman’s . . . But I could not speak.

  Inside, Mr. Sandman switched on a light. We were in a long hallway, my heart was pounding so rapidly I could not see clearly.

  And now, in a kitchen—an old-fashioned kitchen with a high ceiling, the largest kitchen I’d ever seen, long counters, rows of cupboards, a large refrigerator, an enormous gas stove, a triple row of burners and none very clean . . .

  “I was thinking—hot chocolate, dear? At this time of day when the spirit flags, as the blood-sugar level plummets, I’ve found that hot chocolate restores the soul.”

  In the center of the room was an old, enamel-topped table with solid legs. On it were scattered magazines, books. A single page from the Port Oriskany Herald containing the daily crossword puzzle, which someone had completed in pencil.

  Shyly I agreed to Mr. Sandman’s offer of hot chocolate. I could not imagine declining.

  Daring to add that I needed to use a bathroom, please . . .

  Mr. Sandman chuckled as if the request was endearing to him. “Why, of course, Sleeping Beauty. It has been a while since you have peed—eh?”

  So embarrassed, I could not even nod yes.

  “Even Sleeping Beauty is required, sometime, against all expectations, to pee. Yes.”

  Humming under his breath Mr. Sandman escorted me to a bathroom at the end of a dim-lit corridor, fingers on my back. He reached inside the door to switch on the light, and allowed me to close it—just barely.

  My heart was pounding rapidly. There was no lock on the door.

  It seemed to me, possibly Mr. Sandman was close outside the door. Leaning against it. The side of his head against it, listening?

  Trying to use the toilet as silently as possible. An old, rusted toilet, with a seat made of dark wood. Stained yellowed porcelain at which I did not want to look closely.

  Was Mr. Sandman outside the bathroom? Listening? I was stricken with embarrassment.

  And then, flushing the toilet. A loud gushing sound that could have been heard through the house.

  Washing my hands was a relief. Though the water was only lukewarm I enjoyed scrubbing my hands. Several times a day I washed my hands, took care that my fingernails were reasonably clean.

  Noticing now that there were books in the bathroom, on the windowsill. Crossword Puzzles for Whizzes. Favorite Math Puzzles. Favorite Math Puzzles II. Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. The books were small paperbacks with cartoon covers, that looked as if they’d been much used.

  When I left the bathroom it was a relief to see that Mr. Sandman was not hovering outside the door after all.

  In the kitchen he awaited me with his wide, wet smile that made you think of meat. He’d placed two large coffee mugs on a counter and was preparing hot chocolate on the stove, shaking powdered, dark chocolate out of a container and into simmering water.

  “You know, Violet—your family is cruel to disown you. Don’t look surprised, dear—I know all about it.”

  Mr. Sandman’s expression was grave, kindly. He was not scowling as he did in the classroom. His eyes that usually shone with malice were bracketed now with smile-creases.

  I did not know how to reply. It was not surprising to me that Mr. Sandman knew about my family for it seemed to me that everyone must know of my humiliation and shame.

  Her family kicked her out. Rat!

  “It is particularly cruel, dear—labeling you a ‘rat.’ Yes, yes—I know, I’ve heard! Always makes me wince.”

  Mildly and smugly Mr. Sandman smiled. Basking in the power to read my thoughts.

  “And what is there about ‘rats,’ suggesting that an entire species is prone to informing on one another? And that there is something contemptible about this? It seems to me more likely that a dog would inform on other dogs, in its zeal to impress its master, than a rat would inform on other rats. Just my opinion!”

  How Mr. Sandman enjoyed this. In a trance I stood staring at him speechless.

  “Don’t worry, dear. I will protect you. I have nothing against ‘rats’—in fact, I am sure that they are maligned in the popular, debased mind. Your white skin has made you an enemy in some quarters. If not a ‘double enemy’—a traitor to your race.”

  Enemy. Traitor. Was this the meaning of their taunts? I had known I’d been a traitor by betraying my brothers . . .

  “No, no, dear Violet! Don’t look so frightened. Nothing will happen to you that you do not wish to happen.”

  Was this consoling? I wanted to think so.

  In my hands the mug of steaming hot chocolate was consoling. Shyly I lifted it to my lips since Mr. Sandman expected me to drink it; he would observe closely, to see that I did.

  The liquid chocolate was thick, slightly bitter. Almost, I’d have thought there was coffee mixed with it. But I was weak with hunger, and with relief that Mr. Sandman had not followed me into the bathroom. And now that I had used the bathroom and washed my hands I could see that Mr. Sandman meant to be kind.

  “Would you like to borrow these, Violet? Of course.”

  Mr. Sandman was leafing through Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. Many of the problems had been solved, in pencil. On some pages there were enthusiastic red asterisks and stars.

  “See here, Violet. This section isn’t too difficult for you. Shall we do these together?”

  Mr. Sandman sat me at the kitchen table. Gave me a pencil. I puzzled over the (comical, far-fetched) cartoon problems as he leaned over my shoulder breathing onto my neck. My head began to swim. “Careful, Violet! Let me take that cup from you.”

  Could not keep my eyes open. Would’ve fallen from the chair except Mr. Sandman caught me.

  Light was fading. Small spent waves lapped at my feet. Whispers, laughter at a distance. My eyelids were so heavy, I could not force them open . . .

  Waking then, sometime later. Groggy. Confused. Not in the kitchen but in another room, and on a sofa. Lying beneath a knitted quilt that smelled of mothballs, my sneakers removed. (By Mr. Sandman?) Across the room, in a leather easy chair, Mr. Sandman sat briskly grading papers by lamplight.

  “Ah! At last Sleeping Beauty is waking up. You’ve had a delicious little nap, eh?” Mr. Sandman laughed heartily, indulgently.

  My neck was aching. One of my legs was partially numb, I’d been lying on my side. Still very sleepy. A dull headache behind my eyes.

  “Dear, it’s late—after six P.M. Your aunt will be worried about you, I will drive you home immediately.”

  How long had I been asleep? My brain could not calculate—an hour? Two hours?

  Mr. Sandman set aside his papers. He seemed anxious now. His breath smelled pleasantly of something sweet and dark, like wine.

  When I stumbled getting up Mr. Sandman gripped me beneath the arms, hard. “Oops! Enough of ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ You need to wake up, immediately.”

  Walked me into the kitchen, turned on a faucet and splashed cold water onto my face, slapped my cheeks—lightly!—but enough to make them smart. Bundled me into my jacket and walked me outside into the fresh cold air. My knee had begun to ache, I was limping slightly. Quietly Mr. Sandman told me in the car, “This is our secret, dear. That your math teacher has given you—lent you—the Lewis Carroll puzzle book. For others would be jealous, you know.”

  And, “Including adults. Especially adults. They would assuredly not understand and so you may tell them ‘Math Club.’ It’s quite an honor to be selected.”

  Cautiously Mr. Sandman drove along Erie Street. When I pointed out my aunt and uncle’s house he drove past it and parked at the curb several houses away.

  “Good night, my dear! Remember our secret.”

  Lights were on at the house. An outside porch light. I feared that Aunt Irma would be looking out the window. That she’d seen the headlights of Mr. Sandman’s car pass slowly by.

  But when I went inside Aunt Irma was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She asked where on earth I’d been and I told her without a stammer—“Math Club.”

  “Math Club! Is there such a thing?”

  “I’m the only girl who has been elected to it.”

  If Aunt Irma had been about to scold me this declaration intimidated her. “They’d never have let me in any math club, when I was in school.”

  And, “Oh, Violet! Did you go out this morning with your shirt buttoned crooked? Look at you . . .”

  I did. Cast my gaze down on myself, seeing that indeed my shirt was buttoned crookedly. Shame.

  BUT WHY WOULD YOU GO BACK WITH HIM AGAIN, VIOLET? WHY—willingly?

  SOON THEN, ANNOUNCING TO AUNT IRMA THAT I’D BEEN NOT only selected for Math Club but also elected secretary.

  Which was why I was often late returning home after school. In winter months, after dark.

  (And it was true. True in some way. From his several classes Mr. Sandman had “elected” eight students to comprise Math Club. Six boys, two girls. Boys were president and vice president and I was secretary.)

  Uncle Oscar seemed impressed, too. When I showed him Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems he leafed through the little paperback with a wistful expression.

  “. . . once, I could probably figure these out. I kind of liked math. Now, I don’t know . . .”

  Later I would find the little book on the kitchen counter where he’d left it.

  Living with adults you live with the husks of their old, lost lives. Like snakes’ husks, or the husks of locusts underfoot. The fiction between you that you must not allow them to know.

  How many times did Mr. Sandman drive me after school to the stone house on Craigmont Avenue? Over a period of seven months it must have been many times and yet when I was asked by shocked and disapproving individuals intent upon establishing criminal charges against Mr. Sandman I would say truly I did not know, could not remember for always it was the first time and not ever did I seem to know beforehand what would happen nor even, in retrospect, what had happened.

  How many times do you dream, in a single night? In a week? A year?

  Snowy nights. The heater in Mr. Sandman’s car. Windshield wipers slapping. Sheepskin jacket, boots. Mr. Sandman taking my hands in his and blowing on them with his hot, humid breath—“Brrrr! You need to be warmed up, Snow White.”

  Hot chocolate, with whipped cream. Spicy pumpkin pie, with whipped cream. Jelly doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, whipped cream doughnuts. Sweet apple cider, piping-hot. (Mr. Sandman’s word which he uttered with a sensual twist of his lips: piping-hot.)

  One evening he had a favor to ask of me, Mr. Sandman said.

  For his archive he was taking the measurements of outstanding students. All he required from me was a few minutes’ cooperation—allowing him to measure the circumference of my head, the length of my spine, etc.

  “An archive, dear, is a collection of facts, documents, records. In this case, a very private collection. No one will ever know.”

  I could not say no. Already Mr. Sandman was wrapping a yellow tape measure about my head—“Nineteen point six inches, dear. Petite.”

  The length of my spine—“Twenty-nine point four inches, dear. Well within the range of normal for your age.”

  Height—“Five feet three point five inches. A good height.”

  Weight—“Ninety-four pounds, eleven ounces. A good weight.”

  Waist—“Twenty-one inches. Good!”

  Hips—“Twenty-eight inches. Very good!”