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shirts and trousers, at the mercy of her blows. In an effort to protect himself, he raised his arms, a movement that brought down an entire line of shirts upon him.
    I howled with glee and the widow's head popped out of the confusion of pajamas and nightgowns. She looked in my direction, paused, frowned, and then attacked Omer again with the broom, her voice rising to a dangerous pitch. “Bum … thief … sinner.”
    She had looked straight at me, and then had turned back to her assault on Orner LaBatt. Safe from her now, I untangled myself from the clothes, glad to be rid of my disguise, trying to catch my breath, enduring the pain brought on by my fall, still shivering with cold.
    Free at last, I ran through the yard, across her front lawn, down the street, streaking to safety. I rested in the shaded doorway next to Dondier's Market and waited for my heart to resume its normal beating, my breathing to become regular.
    Trudging homeward, I took solace in acknowledging that Omer LaBatt's pursuit of me that day had served one purpose, at least. For a little while I had not been thinking of my aunt Rosanna, my pain and anguish absent as I ran for my life through the streets and alleys and backyards of French-town.
    What I did not know was that I had faded for the second time.

omen never wore high heels in Frenchtown on weekday afternoons. Except my aunt Rosanna. I spotted her one day hurrying along Seventh Street in bright red high-heeled sandals with straps that wrapped around her ankles like thin fingers caressing her flesh.
    I ducked behind the big oak tree across from the Lachance Steam Laundry as she passed and, after counting to fifty, began to follow her.
    Once or twice she glanced over her shoulder as if suspecting a follower, but I was too quick for her to spot me. I slipped from tree to tree, skittered between houses, hid behind banisters on piazzas, crouched behind bushes in my hot pursuit, feeling clever and resourceful, trying to ignore the small sense of shame that grew within me as I dogged her footsteps. Shame at following her like this, shame at how I had betrayed her in the bedroom.
    She approached the corner of Fourth and Spruce, where men and boys on short time at the shops hung around, and I grimaced, knowing the remarks the men would make as she passed. Watching from a piazza across the street, I silently cheered as she held her head high and paid them no attention. But this didn't prevent them from whistling and yelling at her. “Hey, baby, want some company?”
    At the intersection of Mechanic and Third where St. Jude's steeples climbed to the sky, she paused. Would she go into the church? Confess herself, maybe? Confess what? But she continued on her way. She went toward Fourth Street again, walking aimlessly, more slowly now, head down, as if deep in thought. She didn't glance behind anymore and her movements were not at all furtive. It was easy to follow her now without much risk of being spotted, but I still took precautions as she turned at Fourth and Mechanic.
    She stopped suddenly in front of the three-decker at 111 Fourth, bent over to straighten the seams of her stockings, then patted her hands around her waist as if to make certain her blouse was still tucked into her skirt. She fluffed her hair and the rings on her fingers caught the sunlight. I knew who lived at 111 Fourth and my spirits sank as I crouched behind the bushes across the street.
    Make her walk away, I prayed. Make her change her mind.
    But my prayer wasn't answered.
    She marched into the driveway, her high heels kicking up small pieces of gravel. She passed the steps leading to the back door and headed toward the garage at the rear of the three-decker. A sign on the garage proclaimed: TOUBERT ENTERPRISES.
    Not him, I cried silently as I watched her knock on the door, tilting her head like a child about to ask for candy. Even in my despair, she melted my heart with that tender inclination of her head.
    The door opened and she