Near the coast among the Tuart, the white house squatted over its red path like a gang member. State House. Days of the spook-track places: The Log. The Cubby. The Swamp. The Swings. Before word spread that it was bush pollen seizing up children’s windpipes, or anyone knew sunlight had turned on us and rabbits were a blight again. Worried about souls and manners, as well as lungs, nuns pointed fingers at local refineries, taught nursery rhymes, imported martyrs and old inferiorities, passed on love— of The Two Times Table, and other symmetries. After school, Us-Girls sifted asbestos for castanets,…