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feelings altogether. “Did you lock the door when you left?”
    â€œI always do,” she whispered, her voice strained. “I called John. I thought maybe he came home for lunch, but he didn’t. Then I found an envelope on the table by the telephone, you know, the table in the foyer. It’s addressed to Carmella Ann Mabley.”
    I pulled onto the breakdown lane and stopped.
    â€œMuriel? Are you there?”
    â€œYeah, I’m here. Did you open it?”
    â€œNo. I can’t. I don’t want to know . . .”
    â€œOpen it, Reece. Whatever it is, it can’t hurt you. What’s done is done. There’s nothing else anyone can take from you.”
    â€œIf they know about my life now, there’s plenty they can take.”
    â€œThen all the more reason you need to open the envelope so we know what we’re dealing with.”
    â€œYou come. We’ll open the envelope together,” she whimpered like a little girl. “I can’t, I don’t want to open it by myself.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll be there. Calm down. You don’t want to upset the girls and John.” I heard her blow her nose. The splashy, wet sound grossed me out. “I’ll come this weekend,” I said. My muscles tensed, bringing on the sweats again. I rolled the windows down and took a few deep breaths. I felt myself getting worked up with resentment. “Look. Sit tight and we’ll talk more later.”
    I clicked off and pulled into oncoming traffic, causing a flurry of beeping horns, and sped toward the Harbison Avenue exit. I pulled up to the KFC/Taco Bell drive-up window across from the Fifteenth and Second district station and asked for a cup of ice, dumped a few cubes down the front of my blouse, and rubbed one against my cheeks. The woman at the window reacted as though I had three heads and six tits. Her destiny revealed and she did not have a clue.
    I considered calling Dulcey, then brushed it away. Better to learn the contents of the envelope before getting girlfriend shook up over what might be nothing. That name, Carmella Ann Mabley, had not visited either of our lips for twenty years. Nareece often blew things out of proportion, and most of the time was incapable of rational thought. It seemed a trip to Boston was the only way to sort this out, whatever this was.
    I arrived home to find every light in the house on. I drove up to the gate and saw Travis in the kitchen window chugging down a glass of something. He waved and disappeared from view. By the time I pulled the car in and was at the door fumbling for my keys, Travis whipped the door open.
    â€œHey, Moms. What’s good?” he said and was on me doling out hugs like a mama bear. All squished up, lifted up, and unable to hug back without access to my arms, I reveled in the love. He put me down and backed into the doorway.
    He bowed and gestured for me to enter—the queen, come home to her palace. The door from the driveway led down a hallway to a finished room, off of which was a stairway leading up to the kitchen. Travis slammed the door and rushed ahead of me down the hall and up the stairs. He paused at the top of the stairs. He flashed me a wide grin, pecked my cheek, and stepped aside from the doorway, allowing me entry to the kitchen. In simultaneous motion, he slid two fingers under the straps of my briefcase and purse straps and lifted them from my shoulder, then pulled a counter stool out for me.
    The kitchen space is long and narrow so the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room was cut down to counter level and ran three-quarters of the kitchen length to the entryway. It was a Laughton project.
    I settled in the stool and marveled at the sight of my son as he took a wineglass from the cabinet and set it before me, then held a bottle of Massaya’s Classic White, draped over his forearm for my approval, like a sommelier. He proceeded to uncork the goods.
    Two years old had