"Jack," the foreigner said.

"Jack, I was there when he brought her home. I'd come over to borrow the pinking shears and in they walked. Well, I knew right away what was what. Pretty little thing like that, who wouldn't wouldn't want to marry her?" want to marry her?"

"Woe betide you," Jack told Ian.

"Um..."

"O lud lud! Please to accept my lamentations."

This must be the foreigner who was so devoted to Roget's Thesaurus Roget's Thesaurus. Bee was always quoting choice remarks. Mrs. Jordan gave him a speculative stare. "I suppose in your culture, Lucy wouldn't have lasted even this long," she said. "Don't they throw themselves on their husband's pyre or something?"

"Pyre?"

"And now I reckon Doug and Bee will have to take on those poor children," she told Ian.

Ian said, "Well, actually-"

"Just look at that little one. Did you ever see anything so precious?"

Ian followed her gaze. In the doorway to the hall, Daphne stood rocking unsteadily. Her dazzling white shoes-hard-soled and ankle-high-no doubt helped to keep her upright; but still, standing alone at ten months was quite an accomplishment, Ian suspected. Was this the first time she'd tried it? He thought of all the fuss that would have been made ordinarily-the applause and the calls for a camera. But Daphne went unnoticed, a frail, wispy waif in an oversized dress, looking anxiously from face to face.

Then she spotted Ian. Her eyes widened. She grinned. She dropped to the floor and scuttled toward him, expertly weaving between the grownups' legs and pausing every now and then to wrench herself free from the hem of her dress. She arrived at his feet, took hold of his trousers and hauled herself to a standing position. When she beamed up at him, she had to tip her head so far back she nearly fell over.

Ian bent and lifted her into his arms. She nestled against his shoulder. "Oh, the darling," Mrs. Jordan said. "Why, she's crazy about you! Isn't she, Ian? Isn't she? Ian?"

He couldn't explain why the radiance left over from church fell away so suddenly. The air in the room seemed dull and brownish. Mrs. Jordan's voice sounded hollow. This child was far too heavy.

Back in school, he kept trying to recapture that feeling he'd had at the funeral. He hummed "Abide with Me" under his breath. He closed his eyes in hopes of summoning up the congregation's single, melting voice, the soft light from the pebbled windows, the sense of mercy and forgiveness. But nothing came. The bland brick atmosphere of Sumner College prevailed. Biology 101 progressed from nematodes to frogs, and King John repudiated the Magna Carta, and Ian's roommate dragged him to see Devil-Women from Outer Space Devil-Women from Outer Space.

At night, Danny stood at the blackboard in front of Ian's English class. "This is a dream," he announced. "The word 'dream' comes from the Latin word dorimus dorimus, meaning 'game of chance.'" Ian awoke convinced that there had been some message in this, but the harder he worked to decipher it, the farther away it drifted.

He phoned home Saturday afternoon and learned that Mrs. Jordan, of all people, had cleverly uncovered the name of Lucy's ex-husband. "What she did," Bee told Ian, "was sit Agatha down beside her and run through a lot of everyday, wife-ish remarks. She said, 'Don't forget the garbage,' and, 'Suppertime!' and, 'You're late.' Her theory was, the name would sort of swim into Agatha's memory. She thought Thomas was too young to try it on. But all at once Thomas pipes up, 'You're late with the check again, Tom!' he said. Just out of nowhere!"

"Well, that would make sense," Ian said. "So Thomas must be Tom Junior."

"I said to Jessie Jordan, I said, 'Jessie,' I said, 'you're amazing.' Really I don't know what I'd have done without her, these past few days. Or any any of the neighbors. They've all been so helpful, running errands for me and taking the children when my legs are bad..." of the neighbors. They've all been so helpful, running errands for me and taking the children when my legs are bad..."

What she was saying, it seemed to Ian, was, "See what you've gone and done? See how you've ruined our lives?" Although of course she didn't mean that at all. She went on to say the Cahns, next door, had lent her their sitter, and the foreigners had brought over a pot of noodle soup with an aftertaste resembling throw-up. "People have been just lovely," she said, "and Cicely's mother called to say-"

"But what about Thomas Senior?" Ian broke in.

"What about him?"

"Did you look for him in the Cheyenne phone book?"

"Oh, we'd already called all the Deans in Cheyenne, but now we have a name to give the officials. They ought to be able to track something something down-driver's license, marriage license...I remember Lucy said once he'd remarried." down-driver's license, marriage license...I remember Lucy said once he'd remarried."

That night Ian dreamed that Lucy sat in her living room among bushel baskets of mail-letters and fliers and magazines. Then Danny walked in and said, "Lucy? What is this?"

"Oh," she said, "I just can't open them anymore. Since you died it seems I haven't had the heart."

"But this is terrible!" he cried. "Your bulks and your flats I could understand, but first-class, Lucy! First-class envelopes lying untouched!"

"Then talk to Ian," she said in a wiry, tight voice.

"Ian?"

"Ian says I'm not a bit first-class," she said, and her mouth turned down at the corners, petulant and spiteful looking.

Ian awoke and blinked at the crack of light beneath the door. Winston was snoring. Someone's radio was playing. He heard the scrape of a chair down the hall and carefree, unthinking laughter.

Sunday morning he rode into town on the college's little blue church bus. Most of the passengers were students he'd never laid eyes on before, although he did recognize his lab partner, dressed in a hard-surfaced, voluminous gray coat. He pretended not to see her and proceeded toward the long seat at the rear, where he settled between two boys with haircuts so short and suits so tidy that they might have stepped out of the 1950s. Really this was a sort of losers' losers' bus, he realized, and he had an impulse to jump off while he still could. But then the senior class secretary boarded-a poised, attractive girl-and he felt reassured. He rode through the stubbled farmlands with his eyes fixed straight ahead, while the boy on his left fingered a rosary and the boy on his right whispered over a Bible. bus, he realized, and he had an impulse to jump off while he still could. But then the senior class secretary boarded-a poised, attractive girl-and he felt reassured. He rode through the stubbled farmlands with his eyes fixed straight ahead, while the boy on his left fingered a rosary and the boy on his right whispered over a Bible.

At the courthouse square in Sumner, the bus stopped and everyone disembarked. Ian chose to follow the largest group of students, which included the senior class secretary and also a relatively normal-looking freshman named Eddie something whom he'd seen around the dorm. He and Eddie fell into step together, and Eddie said, "You on your way to Leeds Memorial?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

Eddie nodded. "It's not too bad," he said. "I go every week on account of my grandmother's paying me."

"Paying you?"

"If I don't miss a Sunday all year I get a check for a hundred bucks."

"Gosh," Ian said.

Leeds Memorial was a stately brick building with a white interior and dark, varnished pews. The choir sounded professional, and they sang the opening hymn on their own while the congregation stayed seated. Maybe that was why Ian didn't have much feeling about it. It was only music, that was all-something unfamiliar, classical-sounding, flawlessly performed. Maybe the whole church had to be singing along.

The theme of the day was harvest, because they were drawing close to Thanksgiving. The Bible reading referred to the reaping of grain, and the sermon had to do with resting after one's labors. The pastor-a slouching, easygoing, just-one-of-the-guys type with a sweater vest showing beneath his suit coat-counseled his listeners to be kind to themselves, to take time for themselves in the midst of the hurly-burly. Ian felt enormous yawns hollowing the back of his throat. Finally the organist began thrumming out a series of chords, and the sermon came to an end and everyone rose. The hymn was "Bringing in the Sheaves." It was a simpleminded, seesawing sort of tune, Ian felt, and the collective voice of the congregation had a note of fluty gentility, as if dominated by the dressed-up old ladies lining the pews.

Walking back to the bus, Eddie asked if he'd be coming every Sunday.

Ian said he doubted it.

His Thanksgiving vacation was fractious and disorganized; Lucy's children had still not been claimed. By now they had moved in upon the household in full force. Their toys littered the living room, their boats and ducks crowded the bathroom, and Daphne's real crib-much larger than the Port-a-Crib-cramped his bedroom. He was alarmed at how haggard his mother looked, and how heavy and big-bellied. The waistband of her slacks was extended with one of those oversized safety pins women once decorated their kilts with. And the holiday dinner she served was halfhearted-no hors d'oeuvres, not even beforehand, and the turkey unstuffed and the pies store-bought. Even the company seemed lacking. Claudia snapped at her children, Macy kept drifting away from the table to watch a football game on TV, and the foreigners had to leave before dessert in order to meet the plane of a new arrival. All in all, it was a relief to have the meal over with.

He tried to help with the children as much as possible. He played endless games of Parcheesi; he read and reread The Sad Little Bunny The Sad Little Bunny. And he rose at least once each night to rock Daphne back to sleep, sometimes nodding off himself in the process. Often he had the feeling that she was rocking him him. He would wake to find her coolly studying his face in the dark, or even prying up one of his lids with her chubby, sticky fingers.

Ironically, it was during this vacation that Cicely told him she might be pregnant. In the middle of a movie called Georgy Girl Georgy Girl, which concerned a young woman who was tiresomely, tediously fond of infants, she clutched a handful of his sleeve and whispered that she was two weeks late. "Late for what?" he asked, which for some reason made her start crying. Then he understood.

They walked out on the movie and drove around the city. Ian kept inventing other possibilities. She was tense about her exams, maybe, or it was all that traveling back and forth on the train, or-"I don't know! How would I know? Some Some damn reason!" he said, and she said, "You don't have to shout! It was your fault as much as it was mine! Or more, even; way more. You're the one who talked me into it." damn reason!" he said, and she said, "You don't have to shout! It was your fault as much as it was mine! Or more, even; way more. You're the one who talked me into it."

This wasn't entirely accurate. Still, on some deeper level it seemed he deserved every word she hurled at him. He saw himself as a plotter and a predator, sex-obsessed; Lord, there were days when thoughts of sex with anyone-it didn't have to be Cicely-never left his mind for a moment. And now look: here was his rightful penance, marriage at eighteen and a job bagging groceries in the A&P. He drew a breath. He said, "Don't worry, Ciss. I'll take care of you."

They were supposed to stop by Andrew's after the movie, but instead he drove her home. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said, and then he went on to his own house and climbed the stairs to his room, where he found Daphne sitting upright and holding out her arms.

By the time he returned to school on Sunday evening, he had almost persuaded Cicely to see a doctor. What he hoped for (although he didn't say it) was a doctor who could offer her a magic pill or something. There must be such a pill. Surely there was. Maybe it was some common cold remedy or headache tablet, available on open shelves, with NOT TO BE TAKEN DURING PREGNANCY NOT TO BE TAKEN DURING PREGNANCY imprinted on the label-a message in code for those who needed it. But if he mentioned this to Cicely she might think he didn't want to marry her or something, when of course he did want to and had always planned to. Just not yet, please, God. Not when he'd never even slept with a imprinted on the label-a message in code for those who needed it. But if he mentioned this to Cicely she might think he didn't want to marry her or something, when of course he did want to and had always planned to. Just not yet, please, God. Not when he'd never even slept with a dark-haired dark-haired girl yet. girl yet.

He flinched at the wickedness of this thought, which had glided so smoothly into his mind that it might have been there all along.

In Biology 101 on Tuesday, his lab partner said she'd noticed him on the church bus. She wondered if he'd like to attend the Wednesday Night Youth Group at her place of worship. "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't," he said instantly. "I've got a paper due."

"Well, maybe another time, then," she said. "We always have such fun! Usually they show a movie, something nice and clean with no language."

"It does sound like fun," he said.

He meant that sincerely. He ached, all at once, for a blameless life. He decided that if Cicely turned out not to be pregnant, they they would start living like that. Their outings would become as wholesome as those pictures in the cigarette ads: healthy young people laughing toothily in large, impersonal groups, popping popcorn, taking sleigh rides. would start living like that. Their outings would become as wholesome as those pictures in the cigarette ads: healthy young people laughing toothily in large, impersonal groups, popping popcorn, taking sleigh rides.

But on Thursday, when Cicely phoned to tell him she'd got her period, what did he do? He said, "Listen. You have to go on the pill now. You know that." And she said, "Yes, I've already made an appointment." And that weekend they picked up where they had left off, although Cicely still had her period and really it was sort of complicated. He had to rinse all the bedclothes the following morning, and as he stood barefoot in the dormitory bathroom watching the basin fill with pink water, he felt weary and jaded and disgusted with himself, a hopeless sinner.

Christmas fell on a Sunday that year. Ian didn't get home till Friday evening; so Saturday was a hectic rush of shopping for gifts. Only on Christmas Eve did he have a chance to look around and realize the state of the household. He saw that although a good-sized tree had been erected in the living room, no one had trimmed it; the box of decorations sat unopened on the piano. The swags of evergreen were missing from the banister, the front door bore no wreath, and the house had a general air of neglect. It wasn't just relaxed, or folksy, or happy-go-lucky; it was dirty. The kitchen smelled of garbage and cat box. The last two remaining goldfish floated dead in their scummy bowl. None of the gifts had been wrapped yet, and when the children asked to hang their stockings it emerged that all the socks were in the laundry.

"Well, I'm sorry," Bee said, "but one person or another has been sick the last two weeks running and I just haven't had a minute. So I'm sorry. Hang something else, instead. Hang grocery bags. Hang pillowcases."

"Pillowcases!" Thomas said dolefully.

"Don't worry," Ian told him. "I'll do a wash tonight. You go on to bed and I'll hang your stockings later."

So that evening was spent in the basement, more or less. Ian found the hampers so overstuffed and moldy that he guessed the laundry had not been seen to in some time, and he decided to take care of the whole lot. Also he put himself in charge of gift wrapping. While his mother sat at the dining room table sipping the sherry he'd poured her, he swaddled everything ineptly in plain tissue. (She had not thought to buy Christmas paper.) He wrapped even the gifts meant for him-a couple of shirts, a ski jacket-pretending to pay them no heed. Periodically he left his work to run downstairs to the basement and start another load of laundry. The scent of detergent and fresh linens gradually filled the house. It wasn't such a bad Christmas Eve after all.

"Remember Christmas in the old days?" his mother asked. "When we got everything ready so far ahead? Presents sat under the tree for weeks! Homemade, most of them. Lord, you children made enough clay ashtrays to cover every surface, and none of us even smokes. But this year I just couldn't get up the spirit. Seems like ever since this happened with your brother I've been so...unenthusiastic."

Ian didn't know what to say to that. He made a big business of tying a bow on a package.

"And remember all the hors d'oeuvres at Christmas dinner?" she asked. "This year I'll be doing well to throw a piece of meat in the oven."

"Maybe we should go to a restaurant," Ian said.

"A restaurant!"

"Why not?"

"Let's hope we haven't come to that, that," his mother said.

In the living room they heard a sharp grunt-his father, asleep in his recliner chair.

But as it turned out, Christmas Day was not so different that year from any other. Mrs. Jordan came, along with the foreigners. The children contributed their share of excitement (Claudia's six and Lucy's three, combined), and Doug's Polaroid Land camera flashed, and the cat made choking sounds behind the couch. It was disconcerting, in a way. Last Christmas Daphne hadn't been born yet; nor had Franny. Now here sat Daphne chewing a wad of blue tissue while Franny stirred her fists through Agatha's jigsaw puzzle. They both seemed so accustomed to being here. And Danny and Lucy had completely vanished. Something was wrong with a world where people came and went so easily.

The day after Christmas, Sid at the movers' phoned to see if Ian could help out over vacation. Their man Brewster had left them in the lurch, he said. Ian told him he'd be glad to help. School would not reopen till mid-January and he could use the extra cash. So Tuesday morning, he reported to the garage on Greenmount.

LeDon was delighted to see him. That Brewster fellow, he said, had just up and walked away in the middle of a job. "He say, 'See you round, LeDon.' I say, 'Hey, man, you ain't ditching ditching me.' He say, 'All day long I'm ditching you,' and off he go. Well, he weren't never what you call real friendly." me.' He say, 'All day long I'm ditching you,' and off he go. Well, he weren't never what you call real friendly."

They were moving an old lady from a house to an apartment-lots of old-lady belongings, bowlegged furniture and mothballed dresses and more than enough china to stock a good-sized restaurant. Her son, who was overseeing the move, had some kind of fixation about the china. "Careful, now! That's Spode," he would say as they lifted a crate. And, "Watch out for the Haviland!" LeDon rolled his eyes at Ian.

Then at the new place, they found out the kitchen was being remodeled and they had to set the china crates in the living room. "What the hell?" the son said. "This was supposed to be finished three days ago." He was talking to the cabinetmaker-the deaf man Ian had come across last summer, as it happened. "How much longer?" the son asked him. Any fool could see it would be way way longer; the kitchen was nothing but a shell. The cabinetmaker, not looking around, measured the depth of a counter with a steel measuring tape. The son laid a hand on the man's forearm. The man turned slowly, gazed a moment at the son's hand, and then lifted his eyes to his face. "HOW...LONG!" the son shouted, exaggerating his lip movements. longer; the kitchen was nothing but a shell. The cabinetmaker, not looking around, measured the depth of a counter with a steel measuring tape. The son laid a hand on the man's forearm. The man turned slowly, gazed a moment at the son's hand, and then lifted his eyes to his face. "HOW...LONG!" the son shouted, exaggerating his lip movements.

The cabinetmaker considered, and then he said, "Two weeks."

"Two weeks!" the son said. He dropped his hand. "What are you building here, Noah's ark? All we need is a few lousy cupboards!"

The cabinetmaker went on about his business, measuring the counter's length now and the height of the empty space above it. Surely he must have known the son was speaking to him, but he seemed totally absorbed in what he was doing. Once again, Ian envied the man his insular, impervious life.

On New Year's Eve Pig Benson threw a big, rowdy party, but Ian didn't go. Cicely was baby-sitting her brother and it was her last night home. (Her college worked on a different schedule from Ian's.) So they set all the clocks an hour ahead and tricked Stevie into going to bed early, and then they snuck upstairs to her room, where Ian unintentionally dozed off. He was awakened by church bells ringing in the New Year, which meant her parents could be expected at any moment. As soon as he'd dressed, he slipped downstairs and into the frosty, bitter night. He walked home half asleep while bells pealed and firecrackers popped and rockets lit the sky. What optimism! he found himself thinking. Why did people have such high hopes for every New Year?

He practiced saying the date aloud: "Nineteen sixty-seven. January first, nineteen sixty-seven." Monday was his birthday; he'd be nineteen years old. Daphne would be one. He shivered and pulled his collar up.

That night he dreamed Danny came driving down Waverly Street in Sumner College's blue church bus. He stopped in front of home and told Ian, "They've given me a new route and now I get to go anywhere I like."

"Can I ride along?" Ian asked from the sidewalk.

"You can ride along after you learn Chinese," Danny told him.

"Oh," Ian said. Then he said, "Chinese?"

"Well, I like to call it Chinese."

"Call what Chinese?"

"You understand, Chinese is not what I really mean."

"Then what do do you mean?" Ian asked. you mean?" Ian asked.

"Why, I'm talking about...let us say...Chinese," Danny said, and he winked at Ian and laughed and drove away.

When Ian woke, Daphne was crying, and the room seemed moist as a greenhouse from her tears.

Agatha's school reopened Tuesday, and Thomas's nursery school Wednesday. This should have lightened Bee's load, but still she looked exhausted every evening. She said she must have a touch of the flu. "Ordinarily I'm strong as a horse!" she said. "This is only temporary, I'm positive."

Ian asked, "What's the word on Tom Dean, Senior? Any sign of him?"

"Oh," his mother said, "I guess we'll have to give up on Tom Dean. It doesn't seem he exists."

"Then what'll you do with the children?"

"Well, your father has some ideas. He's pretty sure from something Lucy once mentioned that she came from Pennsylvania. Maybe her first marriage was recorded there, he says, in which case-"

"You're stuck with them, aren't you," Ian said.

"Pardon?"

"You're stuck with those children for good."

"Oh, no," she told him. "I'm certain we'll find somebody sooner or later. We'll just have to. We'll have to!"

"But what if you don't?" Ian asked her.

Her face took on a flown-apart, panicked look.