The husband—Mr. White, my wife called him—mowed his lawn in shorts and a t-shirt. Mrs. White sunbathed on a plastic lounger, big moviestar sunglasses covering her eyes. She never turned a shade darker; if anything, her skin and hair became more radiant. Midge and I would argue about this, me insisting that the wife was whiter, Midge replying that Mr. White was the brighter of the two. But when we saw them side by side, framed inside their open front door, when we took over a plate of macadamia cookies, any differences in whiteness were only a trick of the light. A certain shadow on the cheek or the elbow. The white people were simply an absence of color, from their eyebrows to their fingernails, white as a blank sheet of typing paper.