Now focused on a nondescript home two houses away from the site of his former residence, my father quickened his pace, focused all on our next destination. Although transfixed, I managed to elicit a few small bits from my him, “lady who used to live here…played with her son…was always good to us.”

Tentatively, somewhat bewildered, I followed behind my father up the front walk.  Moments later, “Hello, Mrs. Blake?  Do you remember me?  I’m Don Williams and I used to live a few doors away.”

I swear to God, the frail woman looked to be in her nineties but managed to display acceptable posture as she squinted her left eye in a bid to better recognize the two younger men in her doorway.  “Yes, hello Don, please come in,” she offered, turning her back to us and retreating to the inner house. 

My dad and I stole a knowing glance, each sharing the uneasy thought: this woman doesn’t know who we are, and we shouldn’t be in her house.  With the advantage of knowing our motives were purely innocent, we tentatively followed into the home.

Minutes later, now uncomfortably stationed in her pre-1970s decorated living room, my father began the small talk, asking about the houses and of course throwing out the old names, “Neverosky” being one that I remember.  My dad enquired about her son, Ronny, to which the woman perked up and explained that he lived in the nearby city of Surrey.  At times, Mrs. Blake seemed to nod comprehendingly likely attempting to convince us that she remembered the details my dad shared.  I wasn’t confident she understood any of it.

In fact, the more my dad spoke, the more my unease grew.  This woman, if she even was Mrs. Blake, wasn’t familiar with what my dad was talking about and – I was convinced – had no recollection of my father.

Offering my dad a series of signals, delivered with both body-language and eye contact, the conversation came to an end, and I stood up wanting to escape the small house and relieve the uneasy feeling of trespass.  As we made our way back to the entrance, Mrs. Blake finally spoke up, taking the lead of the conversation for the first time.

“Donny, I remember the day your mother left.  She put on her overcoat and stepped out with two suitcases.  She marched up that hill to a taxicab that was waiting.  Shirley wasn’t there, but you were following ten feet behind, matching her step for step and you were crying all the way.”