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birds imprisoned in glass. What’s black
    mail, and how can you do black mail to somebody? I never saw any black mail. Anything Lonnie
    Watts, our mail carrier, had ever delivered to our place was always in a white or brown envelope.
    “I’ve held my tongue all these years,” said Aunt Celeste. “When I think that if I hadn’t
    stopped you, well, all I can say is, now is the time for payback. You can call it what you like.”

    In bed that night, I lay awake a long time, thinking about secrets, black envelopes, and
    sisters. While none of it made any sense, somehow I knew Aunt Celeste wouldn’t be back for a
    long time, if ever. I never told anyone what I’d heard.
    Miraculously, since Melvin never ratted me out, I didn’t receive that expected beating for
    my messy prank. Aunt Celeste and her family pulled out of our front yard on Saturday morning,
    the usual goodbyes exchanged.
    Afterwards, Momma grew quiet and withdrawn for weeks, not once mentioning her sister
    again. Aunt Celeste didn’t lose her house after all, as evidenced by the addresses on the
    occasional cards she sent. As for me, I never stopped wondering what Aunt Celeste knew about
    Momma that I didn’t. When I finally learned the truth, I’d have given my life to have never
    known.

CHAPTER 5
    From earliest memory I knew I was different from other kids. Sensitive by nature, I
    seemed to have an acute awareness of the feelings and moods of others, like a sneak peek into
    their hearts. When I’d least expect it, I’d get startling flashes of insight into their motives or past
    experiences.
    Understandably, such vivid psychic moments could be frightening enough to incite panic
    in a child. Time was needed to accept the uncontrollable nature of this gift and the fact that I
    could survive its fearful effects. I came to think of this sensitivity as my “window.”
    I wasn’t sure when it began or what caused it. Maybe it started the night I was a witness
    to the birth and death of my baby sister, Angel. Maybe it began the day it dawned on me that just
    like Cain with Abel, I was destined be my sister’s keeper. Either way, my “window” was part of
    me.
    Oddly, my “window” refused to open when I was near Reese Watkins, as though a
    curtain had been erected to block the sun. I figured it was because he was so close to God. As our
    preacher, he was a frequent guest in our home and one of the first people to express sympathy
    during those bleak days following Angel’s death. During that nightmare fog of confusion and
    grief, it occurred to me that I didn’t care for him or his overpowering aftershave. Then I forgot
    all about it until the day he came for Sunday dinner and made me cry.
    It was a radiant autumn morning of brilliant clarity when the leaves were beginning to
    turn and hillsides appeared to be lit by some red and gold flame. The sky was cloudless, the air
    sharp with the tang of wood smoke, and the bare windows of our small church were fogged from
    the heat of close bodies.
    I wondered, for the thousandth time, as we cleared the church doorway and headed for
    our usual bench, what it was about Momma that always drew such peculiar looks from people. It
    was like watching someone compelled to peek at something dangerous and forbidden, like those
    “dirty” pictures older boys at school snickered over. That look never failed to baffle me and, as
    my eyes darted around the room, I spied it on more than a few faces.
    Did those looks have anything to do with her appearance? Were they jealous? My
    momma wasn’t beautiful in any traditional sense, certainly not like the models we saw in our
    Sears Catalogue. Her features were far too bold, her jaw too square for her to be considered a
    beauty.
    But as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, it occurred to me that her delicate hands
    and tiny feet could possibly be a source of envy. Maybe they hated her thick honey-colored hair,
    worn in a coiled braid at the nape of her neck, or the