Epilogue
Friday, September 23, 1988
Portland, Maine
The front door opened slowly, and Helena Johnson’s head appeared around the edge. Her mouth dropped open. “Joe, what are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story, Mother. I’ve been fired.”
“Fired? What are you talking about?”
“Yes,” Johnson said. “They told me yesterday morning. Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll tell you what I can of what happened.”
Johnson followed his sixty-three-year-old mother into the red-tiled hallway of the family house. As soon as she had closed the door, she grasped him in a tight hug, then stood back, one hand on each of his shoulders.
“Did you upset your boss? I know you said once he was difficult,” she asked in her hybrid accent, New England mixed with a heavy dose of her native Polish. “Come on, I’ll make yo
