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insisted it wasn’t a joke.) The ride up Michigan Avenue was horrific. Every white man looked like he was about to duck into a telephone booth and emerge in a Klan hood. The blacks frightened her like no one in Oakland had scared her for years. Her racism? Their hostility? They drove past Bertram’s department store where Aunt Martha had bought that pinafore when Susan was eight. (Susan’s mother had inhaled sharply when she saw the pink and grey box. Bertram’s was a very fine store. Aunt Martha always sent things from very fine stores. Mother might have sent more pink and grey boxes herself if she hadn’t married a feckless sailor and moved to California.) Grey, humid Detroit heat. Petulant showers and then sudden sun evaporating everything. What if they didn’t get in? Just get out of Detroit. Love it or leave it. Just get out.
    â€œShit, Susan, this is the tunnel. I told you we wanted the bridge. Everyone says the bridge is an easier crossing.”
    â€œNo, they say it’s quicker, but the guards at the tunnel are easier.”
    â€œHell, Susan, don’t you remember what Hank said about the deserter from Georgia? Shit, Susan.”
    Her voice was blocked with tears.
    â€œJust tell me the way to the bridge,” he barked. “I’m the one who’s driving the van. I’m the one who’s resisting the damn draft.”
    â€œOh, I see,” she turned to him, glared at him, raising her voice. “And I suppose I’m just along for the ride?”
    He rubbed the back of his hand along her cheek and kept his eyes on the traffic ahead. “I’m sorry, hon. It’s our decision. Let’s not get at each other. It’ll be over in an hour. We’ll be in Canada. Maple leaf or beaver,” he tried to laugh. Then he lowered his voice to soothing. “We’ll be OK in Canada.”
    She didn’t say, “if we get in.” She said, “It looks as if the Ambassador Bridge is just about ten blocks from here.”
    When they passed the U.S. border guards, she wanted to wave or give them the finger, but their escape was too tenuous. A small sign in the middle of the bridge said, “Welcome to Canada. Bienvenue au Canada.” Before she noticed it, they had pulled up to the Canadian border guard.
    â€œGood afternoon,” he said. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
    Guy’s face grew pale. She looked for reassurance in his familiar features and all she could see was his pale.
    â€œMy wife and I would like to apply for landed immigrancy.”
    (“My wife and I,” she thought. They had married for this charade. “Immigrancy.” Ellis Island. Her mother and Rosa Kaburi. New World. But no one would muck up their name here. Not a High Anglo name like Thompson. She knew what she was doing when she took that name.)
    â€œEh, what was that? Could you speak up, please?”
    Those were the right words. She knew they were the right words. What kind of game was this fellow running?
    â€œOK” the guard said finally. “Go to the green building over there after you’ve filled out these forms.”
    â€œOut,” Canadian “out.” He hadn’t smiled.
    â€œMy wife and I would like to immigrate to Canada.”
    â€œDid you bring your gear with you?” Another foreign official. Never before had she thought of Canadians as so foreign.
    â€œGear?” Guy asked.
    â€œFurniture,” barked the official, “pots, pans, baby carriage.”
    â€œOh, my parents are sending up that stuff,” said Guy, who was always good at charades. “We do have a few things in the car.”
    Susan wondered what they would think when they saw the sleeping bags, typewriters, guitars. Hippies? Actually, it was true that Guy’s mother insisted on sending up the mahogany bedroom set once they got settled.
    â€œDraft dodger?” the guard asked casually.
    â€œIn fact,” Guy