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And on the sixteenth floor of the apartment building we live in, everything is even more silent and latina more latina still, the sounds from the street falling short of us. And it is also at this time of night, for reasons unbeknownst latina to the scientists, that strangers choose to enter peopleŐs homes unannounced and do evil things. It is during this pre-supper sance then that the stranger, who has decided against being detected in the elevator and has climbed sixteen flights, enters our apartment and silently, stealthily, creeps, quietly, whisperly behind my mother and waits. His presence my mother and I are unaware of. I have lied to you, reader. My motherŐs name is not Martha Harris. I have lied and I apologize for it. My motherŐs name is, in fact, Martha Finklestein. I am sketchy on the details, because my mother is sketchy on the details, but sometime during World War II when my mother was about ten years old and living in Mount Vernon, New York, her father decided that his eldest son would have an easier go at finding a job if he was not so obviously Jewish.
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