Miss Pennington's smile seemed made of steel now.

"Damn," Daphne said.

Everybody looked at her. Their grandma said, "Daphne?"

"Well, excuse me," Daphne said, "but I just can't-" And then she sat up straighter and said, "I just can't help thinking about this dream I had a couple of nights ago."

"Oh, tell us," their grandma said, sounding relieved.

"I was standing on a mountaintop," Daphne said. "God was speaking to me from a thundercloud." She looked around at the others-their polite, attentive faces, all prepared to appreciate whatever she had to say. "'Daphne,' He said-He had this big, deep, rumbling voice. 'Daphne Bedloe, beware of strangers!'"

"And quite right He was, too," their grandma said briskly, but she seemed less interested now in hearing the rest of it. "Doug, could you send the salad bowl this way?"

"'Daphne Bedloe, a stranger is going to start hanging around your uncle,'" Daphne bellowed. "'Somebody fat, not from Baltimore, chasing after your uncle Ian.'"

"Why, Daphne! Daphne!" their grandma said, and she dropped a clump of lettuce on the tablecloth.

Later, Daphne argued that their grandma was the one who'd hurt Sister Harriet's feelings. After all, what had Daphne said that was so terrible? Nothing. She had merely described a dream. It was their grandma who had connected the dream to Sister Harriet. All aghast she'd turned to Sister Harriet and said, "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what's got into her." Then Sister Harriet, white-lipped, said, "That's okay," and sipped shakily from her water glass, not looking at the others. But she wouldn't have taken it personally if their grandma had not apologized, Daphne said; and Thomas and Agatha agreed. "She's right," Agatha told Ian. "It's not Daphne's Daphne's fault if someone fat was in her dream." fault if someone fat was in her dream."

This was after their guests had departed. They had left at the earliest acceptable moment-Miss Pennington reflective, Mr. Kitt bluff and unaware, Sister Harriet declining with surprising firmness Ian's offer to walk her home. As soon as they were gone, the grandparents had turned and climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

"Daphne was only making conversation," Thomas told Ian, but Ian said, "Yeah, sure," in a toneless voice, and then he went into the dining room and started clearing the table.

They followed, humble and overeager. They stacked plates and took them to the kitchen, scraped leftovers into smaller containers, collected pots and pans from the stove while Ian ran a sinkful of hot water. He didn't say a word to them; he seemed to know that all three of them were to blame and not just Daphne.

They couldn't bear it when Ian was mad at them.

And worse than mad: dejected. All his fine plans come to nothing. Oh, what had they done? He looked so forlorn. He stood at the sink so wearily, swabbing the gravy tureen.

Last month he'd brought home a saltcellar shaped like a robot. When you pressed a button in its back it would start walking on two rigid plastic legs, but they hadn't realized that and they hadn't paid it much attention, frankly, when he set it among the supper dishes. He kept asking, "Doesn't anyone need salt? Who wants salt? Shall I just pass the salt?" Finally Agatha said, "Huh? Oh, fine," and he pressed the robot's button and leaned forward, chortling, as it toddled across the table to her. His mouth was perked with glee and his hands were clasped together underneath his chin and he kept darting hopeful glances into their faces, and luckily they'd noticed in time and put on amazed and delighted expressions.

"Dust off the fruitcake, it's Christmas again," he always caroled in December, inventing his own tune as he went along, and on Valentine's Day he left a chocolate heart on each child's breakfast plate before he went off to work, which tended to make them feel a little sad because really all of them-even Daphne-had reached the stage where nonfamily valentines were the only ones that mattered. In fact there were lots of occasions when they felt sad for him. He seemed slightly out of step, so often-his jokes just missing, his churchy language setting strangers' eyes on guard, his clothes inappropriately boyish and plain as if he'd been caught in a time warp. The children loved him and winced for him, both. They kept a weather eye out for other people's reactions to him, and they were constantly prepared to bristle and turn ferocious on his behalf.

One vacation when they were little he took a swim in the ocean and told them to wait on the shore. He swam out beyond the breakers, so far he was only a dot, and the three of them sat down very suddenly on the sand and Daphne started crying. He was leaving them forever and never coming back, it looked like. A man standing ankle-deep told his wife, "That fellow's gone, gone," and Daphne cried harder and the other two grew teary as well. But then Ian turned and swam in again. Soon he was striding out of the surf hitching up his trunks and streaming water and shining in the sun, safely theirs after all, solid and reliable and dear.

He lowered a serving bowl into the sink. He swished it back and forth. Daphne said, "Ian? Want for us to take over now?" but he said, "No, thanks." The others sent her sympathetic looks. Never mind. He wasn't the type to carry a grudge. Tomorrow he would view this in a whole new light; he would realize they hadn't meant to cause any harm.

All they had wanted, he would see, was somebody wonderful enough to deserve him.

8.

I Should Never Tell You Anything.

When Reverend Emmett had his heart attack, the Church of the Second Chance was forced to manage without him for most of the month of October. The first Sunday a retired Baptist minister, Dr. Benning, gave the sermon, but Dr. Benning had to leave immediately afterward for a bus tour of the Sun Belt and so the second Sunday Sister Nell's uncle filled in-a nondenominationalist named Reverend Lewis who kept mixing up his "Thy" and his "Thou." "We beseech Thee to flood Thou blessings upon this Thou congregation," he intoned, and Ian was reminded of the substitute teachers he'd had in grade school who had always seemed just the slightest bit lacking. The sermon was based on Paul's first letter to Timothy. Many might not realize, Reverend Lewis said, that it was love love of money, and not money alone, that was held to be the root of all evil. Ian, who had never had much money or much love of money either, held back a yawn. of money, and not money alone, that was held to be the root of all evil. Ian, who had never had much money or much love of money either, held back a yawn. All All evil? Wasn't that the phrase to examine? evil? Wasn't that the phrase to examine?

On the third Sunday not even Reverend Lewis was available and they skipped the sermon altogether. They sang a few hymns and then bowed their heads for a closing prayer delivered in an uncertain voice by Brother Simon. "Dear God," Brother Simon said, "please give Reverend Emmett back to us as soon as possible." The fourth Sunday Reverend Emmett returned, gaunter and paler than ever, and preached a message of reassurance. Afterward, while shaking Ian's hand at the door, he asked if they might have a little talk.

So Ian sent Daphne on home without him and waited at one side, listening to each member inquire after Reverend Emmett's health. When the last of the congregation had departed he followed Reverend Emmett through the door behind the counter, into what passed for an office. Tangled pipes ran overhead and giant bolt holes marred the floor. In the center of the room stood an antique desk and swivel chair that must have come down from Reverend Emmett's family, with two blue velvet armchairs facing them. Reverend Emmett gestured Ian into one armchair but he himself remained on his feet, distractedly running a hand through his hair. As usual, he wore a white shirt without a tie and skinny black trousers. Ian guessed he must be in his mid-forties by now or maybe even older, but he still had that awkward, amateurish air about him, and his Adam's apple jutted above his collar like a half-grown boy's.

"Brother Ian," he said, "while I was in the hospital I did some serious thinking. It's unusual to have a heart attack at my age. It doesn't bode well for the future. I've been thinking I should face the fact that I'm not going to live forever."

Ian opened his mouth to protest, but Reverend Emmett raised a palm. "Oh," he said, "I don't plan on dying tomorrow or anything like that. Still, this kind of thing makes you realize. It's time we discussed my replacement."

"Replacement?" Ian asked.

"Someone who'll take over the church when I'm gone. Someone who might help out before I'm gone, even. Ease my workload."

Ian said, "But-"

But you ARE the church, he wanted to say. Only that sounded blasphemous, and would have distressed Reverend Emmett.

"I believe you ought to start training for the ministry," Reverend Emmett told him.

Ian wondered if he'd heard right.

"You know our congregation is fairly uneducated, by and large," Reverend Emmett said, finally sitting in the other armchair. "I think most of them would feel the job was beyond them. And yet we do want someone who's familiar with our ways."

"But I'm not educated either," Ian said. "I've had one semester of college."

"Well, the good thing about this heart attack is, it serves as advance warning. It gives us a chance to get you trained. I realize you might not want to follow my own route-university and such. I was younger and had more time. You're what, thirty-four? Still, Lawrence Bible School, down in Richmond-"

"Richmond! I can't go to Richmond!"

"Why not?"

"I have responsibilities here!"

"But surely those are just about finished now, aren't they?" Reverend Emmett asked. "Shouldn't you be thinking ahead now?"

Ian sat forward, clamping his knees. "Reverend Emmett," he said, "Daphne at sixteen is more trouble than all three of them were at any other age. Do you know her principal has me picking her up at school every day? I have to take off work and pick her up and drive her home in person. And it has to be me, not my father, because it turns out my father believes anything she tells him. Both my parents: they're so far behind the times, they just don't fully comprehend what modern kids can get into. You honestly suppose I could leave her with them and head off to Richmond?"

Reverend Emmett waited till Ian had wound down. Then he said, "What grade is Daphne in in school?"

"She's a junior."

"So two more years," Reverend Emmett said. "Maybe less, if she straightens out before she graduates. And I'm certain that she will straighten out. Daphne's always been a strong person. But even if she doesn't, in two years she'll be on her own. Meanwhile, you can start with a few courses here in Baltimore. Night school. Towson State, or maybe community college."

Ian said, "But also..."

"Yes?"

"I mean, shouldn't I hear a call call to the ministry?" to the ministry?"

Reverend Emmett said, "Maybe I'm the call."

Ian blinked.

"And maybe not, of course," Reverend Emmett told him. "But it's always a possibility."

Then he rose and once again shook Ian's hand, with those long, dry fingers so bony they fairly rattled.

When Ian arrived home, Daphne was talking on the kitchen telephone and her grandmother was setting various dishes on the table. Sunday dinner would apparently be leftovers-tiny bowls of cold peas, soggy salad, and reheated stew from a tin. "Cool," Daphne was saying. "We can get together later and study for that Spanish test." Something artificial and showy in her tone made Ian flick a glance at Bee, but Bee missed his point and merely said, "Well? How was church?"

"It was all right."

"Could you tell your father lunch is on?"

He called down to the basement and then beckoned Daphne from the phone. "I gotta go now," she said into the receiver. "My folks are starting brunch."

"Oh, is this brunch?" Ian asked his mother.

She smiled and set a loaf of bread on the table.

Once they were seated Ian said the blessing hurriedly, conscious of his father drumming his fingers on his knees. Then each of them embarked on a different meal. Doug reached for the stew, Ian put together a peanut butter sandwich, and Daphne, who was a vegetarian, dreamily plucked peas from the bowl one by one with her fingers. Bee finished anything the others wouldn't-more a matter of housekeeping than personal taste, Ian thought.

He missed the two older children. Thomas was away at Cornell and Agatha was in her second year of medical school. Most meals now were just this makeshift, often served on only half the table because Daphne's homework covered the other half. And most of their conversations felt disjointed, absentminded, like the scattered bits of talk after the main guests have left the room.

"Me and Gideon are going to study Spanish at his house," Daphne announced into one stretch of silence.

"Gideon and I," her grandmother said.

Ian asked, "Will Gideon's mother be home?"

"Sure."

Ian scrutinized her. Gideon was Daphne's boyfriend, an aloof, chilly type. Evidently his mother, a divorcee, had a boyfriend of her own. She was often out somewhere when Ian stopped by for Daphne.

"Maybe you could study here instead," he told her.

But Daphne said, "I already promised I'd go there." Then she picked up her empty bowl and licked it daintily, like a cat. Everyone noticed but no one objected. You had to select your issues, with someone like Daphne.

It unsettled Ian, sometimes, how much Daphne reminded him of Lucy. She had Lucy's small face and her curly black hair, although it was cut short and ragged. She had her froggy voice. Even in voluminous army fatigues, her slender, fine bones seemed so neatly turned that they might have been produced by a lathe. Her eyes were her own, though: still a dense, navy blue. And her own native scent of vanilla underlay the smells of cigarettes and motor oil and leather.

At the end of the meal Ian's father rose and brought a bowl of instant pudding from the refrigerator. He wiggled it at the others inquiringly, but Bee said, "No, thanks," and Daphne shook her head. "All the more for me, then," Doug said cheerfully, and he sat down and started eating directly from the bowl.

Was it because of the Sugar Rule that Daphne had declined? No, probably not. This was a girl who drank beer in parked cars during lunch hour, according to her principal. But she did continue to go to church every Sunday, singing the hymns lustily and bowing her head during prayers, when most other young people lost interest as soon as they reached their teens. And she flung herself into Good Works with real spirit. Whether she was actually a believer, though, Ian couldn't decide, and something kept him from asking.

There was a knock at the kitchen door, a single, surly thud, and they looked over to find Gideon surveying them through the windowpanes. "Oops! I'm off," Daphne said. No question of inviting Gideon in; he didn't talk to grownups. All they saw of him was the tilt of his sharp face and the curtain of straight blond hair, and then Daphne spun through the door and the two of them were gone. "Daph? Oh, goodness, she'll freeze to death," Bee said.

Ian wished Daphne's freezing to death were the worst he had to worry about.

Doug and Bee went upstairs for their Sunday nap and Ian did the dishes. Scraping the last of the pudding into a smaller container, he thought again about Reverend Emmett's proposal. Bible School! He had a flash of himself packing the car to leave home-participating in the September ritual that he had watched so often from the sidelines. The car stuffed to the ceiling with clothes and LP records, his parents standing by to wave him off. Maybe even a roof rack, with a bike or a stereo lashed on top. Or a butterfly chair like his former roommate's. Provided they still made butterfly chairs.

Over the years he had often wondered whatever had become of his roommate. He had imagined Winston proceeding through school and graduating and finding a job. By now he would be well established, probably in some field involving creative thought and invention. He had probably made a name for himself.

Ian glanced down at the pudding bowl and realized he had been eating each spoonful as he scraped it up. The inside of his mouth felt thick and coated. An unfamiliar sweetness clogged his throat.

At work he was training a new employee, a stocky, bearded black man named Rafael. He was giving his usual speech about the importance of choosing your wood. "Me, I always go for cherry if I can," he said. "It's the friendliest, you could put it. The most obedient."

"Cherry," the man said, nodding.

"It's very nearly alive alive. It changes color over time and it even changes shape and it breathes."

Rafael suddenly squinted at him, as if checking on his sanity.

The shop had seven employees now, not counting the high-school girl who came in afternoons to type and do the paperwork. (And they probably shouldn't shouldn't count her; sometimes her order sheets were so garbled that Ian had to sit down at the typewriter and place his fingers wrongly on the keys so as to figure out what, for instance, she'd meant by "nitrsi.") All around the room various carpenters worked on their separate projects. They murmured companionably among themselves but left Ian alone mostly. He knew they considered him peculiar. A couple of years ago he had made the mistake of trying to talk about Second Chance with Greg, who happened to be going through some troubles. Forever after that Greg kept his distance and so did all the others, apparently tipped off. They were polite but embarrassed, wary. As for Mr. Brant, he was even less company than usual these days. It was said that his wife had left him for a younger man. The one who said it was Mrs. Brant's niece Jeannie, who didn't work there anymore but sometimes dropped by to visit. Mr. Brant himself never mentioned his wife. count her; sometimes her order sheets were so garbled that Ian had to sit down at the typewriter and place his fingers wrongly on the keys so as to figure out what, for instance, she'd meant by "nitrsi.") All around the room various carpenters worked on their separate projects. They murmured companionably among themselves but left Ian alone mostly. He knew they considered him peculiar. A couple of years ago he had made the mistake of trying to talk about Second Chance with Greg, who happened to be going through some troubles. Forever after that Greg kept his distance and so did all the others, apparently tipped off. They were polite but embarrassed, wary. As for Mr. Brant, he was even less company than usual these days. It was said that his wife had left him for a younger man. The one who said it was Mrs. Brant's niece Jeannie, who didn't work there anymore but sometimes dropped by to visit. Mr. Brant himself never mentioned his wife.

Last spring, Mrs. Brant had paused to admire a bench Ian was sanding and she had softly but deliberately laid a hand on top of his. Her husband was in his rear office and the others were taking a break. Mrs. Brant had looked up into Ian's eyes with an oddly cool expression, as if this were some kind of test. Ian wasn't completely surprised (several times, women who knew his religious convictions had started behaving very forwardly, evidently finding him a challenge), and he dealt with it fairly well, he thought. He had merely slid his hand out from under and left her with the sandpaper, pretending he'd mistaken her move for an offer to help. And of course he had said nothing to her husband. But not two months later Jeannie announced that she was gone, and then Ian thought maybe he should have said something after all. "Mr. Brant," he should have said, "it seems to me your wife is acting lonely." Or, "Wouldn't you and Mrs. Brant like to take a trip together or something?"

But telling telling was what he had promised himself he would never do again. was what he had promised himself he would never do again.

Oh, there were so many different ways you could go wrong. No wonder he loved woodwork! He showed Rafael the cherrywood nightstand he had finished the day before. The drawer glided smoothly, like satin, without a single hitch.

While the other men took their afternoon break, Ian grabbed his jacket and drove off to fetch Daphne from school. He could manage the round trip in just over twenty minutes when everything went on schedule, but of course it seldom did. Today, for instance, he must have left the shop too early. When he parked in front of the school he found he had several minutes to kill, and even longer if Daphne, as usual, came out late or had to run back in for something she'd forgotten. So he cut the engine and stepped from the car. The air was warm and heavy and windy, as if an autumn storm might be brewing. Behind him, another car pulled up. A freckled woman in slacks got out and said, "What, we're early?"

"So it seems," Ian said. Then, because he felt foolish just standing around with her, he put his hands in his pockets and ambled toward the building. Scudding clouds glared off the second-floor windows-the art-room windows, Ian recalled, and Miss Dunlap's world-history windows, although Miss Dunlap must have retired or even died by now. Two boys in track suits jogged toward him on the sidewalk, separated around him, and jogged on. He wondered if they guessed what he was doing here. ("That's Daphne Bedloe's uncle; she's on suspended suspension and has to go home under guard.") It occurred to him that Daphne would be mortified if anyone she knew caught sight of him. He circled the school, therefore, and kept going. He passed the little snack shop where he and Cicely used to sit all afternoon over a couple of cherry Cokes, and he came to the Methodist church with its stained-glass window full of stern, narrow angels. One of the church's double doors stood open. Almost without thinking, he climbed the steps and went inside.

No lights were lit, but his eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. He made out rows of cushioned pews and a carved wooden pulpit up front, with another stained-glass window high in the wall behind it. This one showed Jesus in a white robe, barefoot, holding His hands palm forward at His sides and gazing down at Ian kindly. Ian slid into a pew and rested his elbows on the pew ahead of him. He looked up into Jesus' face. He said, Would it be possible for me to have some kind of sign? Would it be possible for me to have some kind of sign?

Nothing fancy. Just something more definite than Reverend Emmett offering a suggestion.

He waited. He let the silence swell and grow.

But then the school bell rang-an extended jangle that reminded him of those key chains made from tiny metal balls-and his concentration was broken. He sighed and stood up. Anyhow, he had probably been presumptuous to ask.

In the doorway, looking out, he saw the first of the school crowd passing. He saw Gideon with a redheaded girl, his arm slung carelessly around her neck so they kept bumping into each other as they walked.

Gideon?

There was no mistaking that veil of blond hair, though, or the hunched, skulking posture. Almost as if this were Ian's love, not Daphne's, he felt his heart stop. He saw the redhead crane upward for a kiss and he drew his breath in sharply and stepped back into the shadow of the door.

By the time he reached the car, Daphne was waiting in the front seat. The car's interior smelled of breath mints and tobacco. "Where've you been been?" she squawked as he got in, and he said, "Oh, around." He started the engine and pulled into the crawl of after-school traffic. "No Gideon?" he asked.

"It's his day to go to his dad's."

"Oh."

Daphne slid down in her seat and planted both feet on the dashboard. It appeared she was wearing combat boots-the most battered and scuffed he had ever laid eyes on. He hadn't realized they came that small. Her olive-drab trousers seemed intended for combat too, but the blouse beneath her leather jacket was fragile white gauze with two clusters of silver bells hanging from the ends of the drawstring. Any time she moved, she gave off a faint tinkling sound and the grudging creak of leather. How was it that such an absurd little person managed to touch him so?

He thought of Gideon's blond head next to the coppery, gleaming head of the girl in the crook of his arm.

Daphne, he should say, there's something I have to tell you there's something I have to tell you.