Ismelda will prepare the children’s favorite supper: meatloaf with lots of ketchup, macaroni and cheese with lots of melted (Kraft’s American cheddar) cheese, chocolate smoothies for dessert. Ismelda will bathe them with special tenderness since this day has been a nervous day for them and Ismelda will put them to bed and Mommy will come kiss them good night.

  As if casually Wes will ask Hannah: “Why are you protecting him?—the thug who raped you.”

  Hannah glances up, not sure if she has heard correctly.

  The man who is her husband, staring at her with a small fixed half smile like a broken wishbone. Staring.

  • • •

  Inner-city, high-crime area.

  At 10:11 P.M. three Detroit police squad cars speeding along Brush Street! Braking in the street in front of a brownstone row house at 1181 Brush! Glaring spinning lights! Six police officers! Orders to bring Zekiel Jones, thirty-one, to headquarters for questioning.

  Believed to be a witness to a reported “aggravated assault and rape” at the Marriott Hotel in suburban Far Hills the day before. Strong likelihood Jones is the perpetrator.

  Detroit PD assisting Far Hills PD in what would be a “preliminary” step in the Far Hills investigation.

  (Faxed) description of the suspected rapist provided by the victim: Black male, mid- or late twenties, six feet, two hundred pounds.

  No warrant has been (yet) issued for Jones’s arrest. No warrant (yet) to search the premises at 1181 Brush which Jones shares with nine relatives, including his eleven-month-old baby daughter and his eighty-seven-year-old grandmother.

  Pounding at the front door. Loud voices, angry-sounding shouts, lights flashing against the front windows of the residence.

  Police!—open up! At the hearing officers will swear under oath they’d identified themselves multiple times.

  Will swear under oath they’d been given no background information on Zekiel Jones, no idea that he’d been an employee of the Far Hills Marriott for several years, no prior arrests or convictions, no police record, only wanted for questioning in a suburban rape case.

  Swear under oath they have no choice but to open fire, officer safety is threatened, suspect is not complying with officers’ orders, is believed to be armed and dangerous, is believed to have nearly beaten a (white) woman to death and to have raped her, is believed to be going for a weapon, is suspected to be a part-time drug dealer with weapons in the household, drug dealing everywhere in the “inner city,” refuses to identify himself, shouting threats he will kill the officers, refuses to raise his hands and keep his hands where officers can see them, backs away from the door, officers break through door shattering glass, screams and shouts, pushes chair, overturns table shoved at police officers, refuses to kneel on the floor, refuses to raise his hands and keep his hands where officers can see them, refuses to provide ID, refuses to lie on his stomach on the floor spreading arms and legs, resists arrest, strikes at police officers, lunges at officer’s firearm to “wrest” it away from him, high on something—crack cocaine probably; eyes flamey red like an animal or drunk, belligerent, uncooperative, flees residence by a rear door, ignores warning shots, in the alley staggers and falls, now on his knees crying Don’t shoot me!—don’t shoot—even as he has been shot once, twice, three more times shot: back, shoulders, neck from distances of twelve to twenty feet, yet still considered dangerous, on his stomach in the alley writhing in pain and bleeding badly from five wounds resists arrest, makes threats, refuses to lie still, refuses to keep his hands where officers can see them, refuses to identify himself, refuses to show ID, attempts again to lunge for officer’s gun, for officer safety he is handcuffed behind his back, limp arms lifted, heavy-muscled limp arms and (thick) wrists handcuffed as finally Zekiel Jones lies motionless and cooperative on his stomach scarcely breathing in the alley beside the brownstone residence at 1181 Brush Street bleeding to death from five gunshot wounds.

  Ambulance is called at 10:19 P.M., arrives in eight minutes. Sirens, flashing lights.

  Lights are extinguished in neighbors’ houses. No one visible at windows.

  Yet officers are shouting, warning: Stay inside! Stay inside! Stay out of the street!

  More squad cars arrive. Now sirens, flashing lights, megaphone.

  Wrists cuffed behind his back unconscious Zekiel Jones is carried on a stretcher to the ambulance, bleeding badly he is lifted inside and the ambulance speeds away with siren deafening, red light flashing.

  No weapons will be found in the alley, no weapons will be found inside Zekiel Jones’s house. No “controlled substances” except prescription blood pressure pills in the possession of the grandmother.

  A moderate level of alcohol, equivalent to two or three beers, but no drugs in Zekiel Jones’s blood.

  Taken to the ER at Detroit General Hospital where Zekiel Jones will undergo emergency surgery and be declared dead at 11:58 P.M.

  Headline in the next day’s Detroit News:

  ARMED SUSPECT IN FAR HILLS RAPE CASE

  FATALLY SHOT IN BRUSH ST. STANDOFF WITH DETROIT POLICE

  III

  Disguise

  At last. After weeks. Venturing out.

  Out of the house. Out of Far Hills.

  Though her destination isn’t far: Saint Jude’s Children’s Hospital, Franklin Hills.

  Or is it, more precisely, Saint Jude’s Children’s Cancer Center.

  In fact: Saint Jude’s Memorial Children’s Cancer Center.

  Dark glasses hiding half her face. Silk head scarf like a chemotherapy patient, hasn’t “lightened” her hair in weeks and the dark roots are showing and these dark roots glinting silver.

  Not advised to operate heavy machinery but she drives very cautiously, takes a longer route to Franklin Hills avoiding serious traffic.

  Often lately, can’t remember names: names new to her, strangers’ names, names from long ago, childhood names.

  Names of persons who have died as if in dying they’d sunk into a great lightless pit pulling their names in with them.

  Zekiel Jackson? Zekiel Johnson? Zekiel Jones?

  Great lightless pit pulling their names in with them.

  No Tears!

  I am a volunteer. Yes, I have called, my name should be on the list—‘Hannah Jarrett.’”

  “Yes. This is my first time at Saint Jude’s.”

  “Yes, I am a mother. Yes, my children are still young.”

  “No—I mean yes, there was someone in my family with …”

  “A long time ago. Treatments were different then. Radiation, chemotherapy—I think it’s all changed now.”

  “Thank you. I—I will remember: No tears!”

  Often, lately: has difficulty remembering names.

  Since it happened: a fall on concrete steps, striking her head.

  “A ‘concussion.’ Fortunately, not a skull fracture.”

  Slowly, the bruises have faded. Even the welts in the soft white skin of her thighs.

  And with fading, the memory of the bruises, welts. Him.

  Names new to her, entering her life too late in her life—these she has had difficulty remembering.

  Names of strangers: Dr. T__, therapist, smiling at Hannah thinly, warily.

  Names of long-ago. Childhood.

  Susan. Susanne. Susannah?

  Of course, she remembers Susie.

  Hannah’s cousin Susie, her aunt Ellen’s daughter. Stricken with bone cancer, Ewing’s sarcoma, seven years old. Seven! Hannah had been six at the time.

  At first, pretending not to know that something terrible, unspeakable, had happened to Susie.

  Nor did Hannah’s mother explain, exactly. A vague nervous explanation of why they weren’t seeing Susie and her parents for Christmas as usual—A bad thing is growing in Susie’s jaw, the doctors will remove it.

  What did that mean—a bad thing growing … Hannah was too frightened to inquire.

  Whatever it was, Susie had “surgery” on her jaw, and later Susie had “surgery” on her left eye where the bad thing had spread.

  Behind a closed door Hannah’s mother spoke on the telephone with Aunt Ellen, her voice lowered. Sometimes, even through the closed door you could hear sobbing.

  Adults did not cry, you did not hear an adult cry. You did not want to hear an adult cry, you would run away and hide.

  Nor did Joker Daddy want to hear anyone crying. Not ever, not for any reason.

  Tears solve nothing but make you look ugly as hell.

  And so—no tears!

  Joker Daddy did not visit with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Brian, Joker Daddy did not wish to see their maimed little daughter Susie who had once been so vivacious, pretty.

  Adult responses tended to be incredulous, slightly reproachful.

  What! Are you sure—Ewing’s sarcoma? A child?

  Never heard of such a thing …

  Must be genetic.

  Where voices are hushed a child does not want to listen too carefully.

  After the surgeries inflicted upon Susie came “radiation”—“chemotherapy.”

  Hannah had no idea what these were but understood that, like “surgery,” they were hurtful to her cousin, for they took place in Children’s Hospital.

  Children’s Hospital! Words that did not belong together.

  Appalling to Hannah to imagine, all of Susie’s hair was said to have “fallen out.” Soft fine wavy fair-brown hair very like Hannah’s hair. So that, according to Hannah’s mother, Susie wore little knitted caps on her bald head to keep warm.

  Bald head. These words, too, made Hannah feel very sad, she wished her mother would not say such words.

  One of Susie’s little wool caps was knitted by Hannah’s mother, in fuzzy multicolored yarn.

  Fitted on Hannah’s head, as Mommy was knitting it. For Mommy was not a skilled knitter and often cursed to herself, unraveling rows of yarn and knitting them again until at last she’d finished the rainbow wool cap to which she added a tassel in the shape of a white kitten.

  Hannah peered at herself in the mirror, as her mother fitted it on her head. She liked the little cap very much though it was somewhat tight. It did not seem fair, Mommy had never knitted a wool cap for her.

  There were times Mommy went to visit Susie in the hospital, and later Aunt Ellen where she was living alone now with just Susie, in an apartment in Cleveland, but Hannah was not invited to accompany Mommy, and Hannah was not encouraged to ask questions about these visits.

  Strange to Hannah how once Susie had been a part of Hannah’s life, the little girls had seen each other at least once a week, they’d played with dolls together, they’d spent hours playing with Susie’s dollhouse which her grandfather had built for her but now Susie began to be forgotten—the name “Susie” no longer much spoken. In grade school Hannah had other friends, girls in her class—their faces, their names, began to crowd out “Susie” as a weak radio station is crowded out by stronger radio stations. Hannah was hesitant to ask her mother about Susie because of the look on her mother’s face when she did.

  A child learns young: You calculate what the look on the adult face will be. Most urgently, the adult male face.

  What you want is a smile, approving eyes. You bask in such approval, which is love.

  By the age of ten it was said that Susie had undergone eighteen surgeries. Eighteen!

  Then, Susie was undergoing “reconstructive” surgery.

  Rebuilding the face. The bones. A miracle …

  But what if it comes back—again …

  Their insurance won’t begin to cover it.

  Finally, one day Hannah saw Susie again. Though prepared for a surprise, warned not to register surprise, Hannah didn’t recognize her cousin, now ten years old: a child with a pasty-pale face that looked as if it had partly melted, then hardened again, but unevenly; the left eyelid drooping, the eye unnaturally shiny, unfocused, like a doll’s eye, scary to see. A face that might have been broken into two asymmetrical halves, then forced together again, like broken crockery.

  Something mismatched about the lower jaw. And the nose, one nostril much narrower than the other, just a slit.

  And on the head, which seemed unnaturally small, the rainbow knitted cap that Hannah’s mother had knitted.

  It seemed wrong to Hannah, Susie was not as tall as Hannah when once she’d been taller than Hannah. Bigger.

  Hannah shrank from Susie, frightened.

  Oh, Hannah! Come here, honey.

  You remember Susie … Hannah!

  On the verge of tears. Wanting to run away.

  But then, no. Hannah steeled herself.

  Susie smiled shyly, to encourage. Susie, feeling sorry for her.

  Hannah remained tongue-tied, tremulous. Hannah was convinced, Susie smelled funny—like copper pennies held in the hand.

  Hannah told her mother she did not want to sit beside Susie at dinner.

  Nonetheless, Hannah was seated beside Susie at dinner.

  Not able to eat much. For Susie did smell.

  Until at last Hannah’s exasperated mother excused her, sent her away from the table.

  Yes, ashamed. But sickish-feeling for days afterward, provoked by any strong smell, especially smells of food.

  There would be more surgeries for Susie to undergo—“reconstruction.” Skin grafts, bone grafts. By seventh grade Susie had a face that might have been mistaken for a “normal” face if you didn’t look too closely.

  But of course children look too closely. It’s in the nature of (cruel) children, particularly middle-school boys, to look too closely.

  No matter that Susie’s hair had grown back a beautiful chestnut-red, springy with curls. And Susie’s mother bought her beautiful clothes, bright colors, soft textures. Still you could see that there was something wrong with Susie’s face, and that look of being hunted in her face, the glisten of fear in the “good” right eye, the skin like melted/coagulated taffy.

  Freak Face—the boys called her.

  Laughing, jeering. Taunting. Following Susie at school, along the walkway. And if she turned to them, shrinking back in exaggerated horror.

  Not all boys, only just some boys.

  Not all days, only just some days.

  Worse than the cancer—Susie would say bitterly. How people stared at her in the street, even adults. But always children—always children stared. She’d come to fear and dread children, even the “nice” ones.

  Something in the human brain that fears and dreads and shrinks from deformity. Even the mildest deformity, the anxious eye seeks.

  Hannah vows, she will never succumb to such ignorance.

  Hannah vows, she must make penance.

  Remembering the shock of the call from her mother—had to be September 1956, Hannah was a newly arrived freshman at the University of Michigan. And Susie, a dropout from UM, living by herself in a place not far from her mother, back in Cleveland, discovered by her mother comatose in a locked bathroom.

  Overdose: painkillers.

  But also sleeping pills in Susie’s blood, alcohol. Many times fatal.

  Hannah never knew: if there was a suicide note. If it had been suicide, or an accident.

  Why didn’t I keep in touch with her.

  What is wrong with me!

  Dear God, what is wrong with me.

  Soon then calling to speak with her mother, burst into tears and cried, cried so hard, desperate to speak of Susie but unable to speak, wracked with sobs, her mother tried to interrupt but Hannah continued crying, finally her mother hung up—Tears solve nothing only make you look ugly as hell.

  Which is true: Years later, Hannah looks ugly as hell.

  There’s the pretty lady!

  Hannah has begun volunteering at Saint Jude’s Memorial Children’s Cancer Center in Franklin Hills two mornings a week.

  Reading to children who’ve had cancer surgery, children undergoing radiation and chemotherapy, children with no hair, children with enormous bruised eyes, children with “melted-looking” skin, children with impossibly thin arms and legs, children in wheelchairs, children pushing walkers, children who can walk unassisted, children who’ve been hospitalized for weeks, children brought to the hospital as outpatients, children who stare vacant-eyed at Hannah as she reads to them in a high-pitched voice meant to be a bunny’s voice, children who lapse into twitchy sleep, children who moan and mutter, children who laugh in delight at the bunny voice, children who smile happily at her—There’s the pretty lady!

  Twice a week Hannah steps through the looking glass. Leaves the house at Cradle Rock Road, drives (very carefully) to Franklin Hills, Saint Jude’s where unexpected happiness awaits her.

  Children have no interest in who we are, still less in what the world knows of us. Hannah is pretty in their eyes. Hannah in canary-yellow clothes, jangling bracelets on her wrists, red-lipstick smile. Hannah with her (now newly lightened) hair fluffed about her face. Dangling earrings, tiny green ceramic parrots.

  Like inhaling helium! Hannah hasn’t felt so light since childhood.

  Hannah can be trusted by the children, for Hannah is a stranger. No anxiety in her eyes, no trembling mouth, tearful eyes.

  Their own mothers cannot match Hannah, reading Twelve Little Bunnies.

  Cardinal rule: Read slowly. S-l-o-w-l-y.

  Even the older children are dulled with painkillers. Even the blank-faced may be listening, intently.

  Volunteers have permission to bring colorful balloons, gifts of (small, not expensive) stuffed animals, children’s books. Some of these are the books Hannah reads from, her own children’s favorite books, outgrown.

  When she is allowed Hannah distributes oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies, little fruit tarts with no added sugar. Hannah never gazes in stunned horror, never registers dismay.

  No tears!—Hannah keeps her word.

  Volunteers at Saint Jude’s tend to burn out after a few months, so new volunteers are always welcomed.

  (She has heard that Marlene Reddick was a volunteer at Saint Jude’s, until just recently. But no details.)

  Hannah is also a donor to the Saint Jude’s Endowment Fund. Wes doesn’t know yet how much she has given, Wes professes himself relieved that Hannah has left the house finally, preoccupied with this new volunteer work in Franklin Hills for such a good cause.