The adolescent boys of Sojourner Truth took her class just to hear that voice, and to see her figure-Mrs. Turner said in that breathy voice she had. He was hiding behind her blue woolen skirt, making sure that I couldn’t get at him. The little yellow dog was yapping, standing on its spindly back legs as if he were going to attack me. Instead of answering she fumbled around with the bolt and then pulled the door open. I tried my key but the door was bolted from the inside. The only weapon I carried was a pocket knife, and it only pierced flesh when I cut the corns from my baby toe. I was a workingman, versed in floor waxes and bleach-not blood. Images of bodies I’d stumbled upon in my street life came back to me. I approached the bungalow feeling a hint of dread. It was November and the sky hadn’t quite given up night yet. That’s why I was almost always the first one on the scene. It was up to me to see that everything worked right. I was the supervising senior head custodian. Even the janitors who worked under me didn’t show up until seven-fifteen. The teachers at Sojourner Truth Junior High School never came in that early. Idabell Turner’s car was parked in the external lot and there was a light on in her half of bungalow C. WHEN I GOT TO WORK that Monday morning I knew something was wrong.
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