Ferrol's face did something. "Chidi Abara. Talked about airplanes."
"Still does. He's an aircraft mechanic in Dayton."
"He couldn't hit a forehand."
"He still can't. He kept the racket you gave him. It's in his garage." Benedetta folded her arms. "I brought my grandson here when he was eleven because I remembered Chidi talking about the officer who painted the sign. I thought, if a police officer painted it, then it's safe here. Then I read the sign out loud to him. Every word." She paused. "And this morning, you came and told him he was trespassing on it."
"Yes, ma'am," Ferrol said. "I did."
Ruel had expected him to say more. To explain. The long shift, the microwave through the window on Haddon Street, the man on the phone, the arithmetic he did from the car. Ruel had already heard him say it was on him; he waited for the part where a grown man tries to take a little of it back. It did not come. Ferrol just stood there in the cold in front of a sixty-four-year-old laundry worker and let her look at him.
Benedetta looked at him a long time.
"I don't know what you've been doing for ten years," she said finally. "I don't need to know. People get tired. People get hurt. People get moved to a car on Route 9 and they forget why they painted a sign. I've been tired. I've forgotten things." She took off her glasses and let them drop on their chain. "But you don't get to forget this one. Not now. Not after this morning. You understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She turned to Ruel. Her face did not soften, exactly, but it changed key. "You all right?"
"I'm all right, Gram."