She didn't argue. She tossed Gideon a look, and Gideon gazed back at her expressionlessly. Then she unhooked her leather jacket from the newel post. She shrugged herself into it, slung her knapsack over her shoulder, and followed Ian out to the car.

When they'd been driving a while she said, "You didn't have to be rude to him."

"I wasn't rude. I just want to talk to you alone."

She clutched her knapsack to her chest. Now that she sat so close, he realized she too had that burnt smell. And her lips were swollen and blurry, and a red splotch stretched from her throat to the neckline of her Black Sabbath T-shirt.

"Daph," he said.

She hugged her knapsack tighter.

"Daphne, some things are not what they seem," he said.

"Watch out for that car," she told him.

"I mean some people people aren't what they seem. People you imagine you'll be with forever, say-" aren't what they seem. People you imagine you'll be with forever, say-"

"That car's edging over the line, Ian."

She meant the dark green Plymouth that was wavering a bit in the right-hand lane just ahead. "No doubt some teenager," Ian grumbled.

"Prejudice, prejudice!" Daphne scolded him. "Nope, it's an old man. See how low his head is? Some white-haired old man just barely peeking over the steering wheel and hanging on for dear life."

Ian said, "What I'm trying to tell you-"

"He's showing off for his girlfriend."

"Girlfriend!"

"See the lady next to him? Probably this hot-and-heavy pickup from the Senior Citizens' Center. He's showing her how in-charge he is, and reliable and steady."

Ian snorted. He applied his brakes and fell behind, allowing the Plymouth more room.

"You think I don't know what I'm up to, don't you," Daphne said.

"Pardon?"

"You think I'm some ninny who wants to do right but keeps goofing. But what you don't see is, I goof on purpose. I'm not like you: King Careful. Mr. Look-Both-Ways. Saint Maybe."

"Now look," Ian said. "The Plymouth is slowing down too. Seems he's set on staying with us." look," Ian said. "The Plymouth is slowing down too. Seems he's set on staying with us."

"Mess up, I say!" Daphne crowed. "Fall flat on your face! Make every mistake you can think of! Use all the life you've got!"

Ian glanced over at her, but he didn't speak.

"Let's pass," Daphne told him.

"Pass?"

"Speed up and pass. This driver's a turkey."

He obeyed. He whizzed through a yellow light, leaving the Plymouth behind, while Daphne rolled down her window and squawked out: "Attention! Attention! Lady in the green car! Your date's been spotted on an FBI's Most Wanted poster! I repeat!"

"Honestly, Daphne," Ian said. But he was smiling.

He turned down Waverly Street, pulled up in front of the house, and sat there with the engine running. He said, "Daph?"

"Thanks for the lift," she told him, and she hopped out.

He watched her cut across the front lawn-her knapsack bouncing, her ragged hair ruffling. The sole of one combat boot was working loose, and at every step she had to swing her left foot unnaturally high off the ground and stamp down hard. It gave her a slapdash, rollicking gait. It made her seem glorious. He was still smiling when he drove away.

At Prayer Meeting, the church always felt even smaller and cozier than it did ordinarily. It was something to do with the darkness closing in around it, Ian supposed. This was especially true tonight, for he was early and the fluorescent lights had not yet been switched on. He made his way through the rows of dimly gleaming metal chairs. He stepped behind the shop counter and tapped on the office door, which showed a thin line of yellow around the edges.

"Come in," Reverend Emmett called.

He was sitting in one of the armchairs with his legs stretched out very long and straight. He was thumbing through a hymn pamphlet. "Why, Ian!" he said, smiling, and he rose to his feet in his loose-strung, jerky manner.

Ian said, "Reverend Emmett-"

He probably could have stopped right there. Reverend Emmett looked so crestfallen, all of a sudden; he must have guessed what Ian was about to say.

"It's not only whether I'd be able able to give people answers," Ian told him. "It's whether I'd want to. Whether I'd feel right about it." to give people answers," Ian told him. "It's whether I'd want to. Whether I'd feel right about it."

Reverend Emmett went on waiting, and Ian knew he should explain further. He should tell him about the sign from God. He should say what the sign had finally recalled to him: Lucy rushing home out of breath, laughing and excited, and his own arrogant certitude that he had an obligation to inform his brother. But that would have opened the way for debate. (When is something philosophical acceptance and when is it dumb passivity? When is something a moral decision and when is it scar tissue?) He wasn't up to that. He just said, "I'm sorry."

Reverend Emmett said, "I'm sorry, too."

"I hope we can still be friends," Ian told him.

"Yes, of course," Reverend Emmett said gently.

Out in the main room, Ian lowered himself into a seat and unbuttoned his jacket. His fingers felt weak, as if he'd come through an ordeal. To steady himself, he bowed his head and prayed. He prayed as he almost always did, not forming actual words but picturing instead this spinning green planet safe in the hands of God, with the children and his parents and Ian himself small trusting dots among all the other dots. And the room around him seemed to rustle with prayers from years and years past: Let me get well Let me get well and and Make her love me Make her love me and and Forgive what I have done Forgive what I have done.

Then Sister Myra arrived with Sister Edna and flipped the light switch, flooding the room with a buzzing glare, and soon afterward others followed and settled themselves noisily. Ian sat among them, at peace, absorbing the cheery sound of their voices and the gaudy, bold, forthright colors of their clothes.

9.

The Flooded Sewing Box.

The spring of 1988 was the wettest anyone could remember. It rained nearly every day in May, and all the storm drains overflowed and the gutters ran like rivers and the Bedloes' roof developed a leak directly above the linen closet. One morning when Daphne went to get a fresh towel she found the whole stack soaked through. Ian called Davidson Roofers, but the man who came said there wasn't a thing he could do till the weather cleared. Even then they'd have a wait, he said, because half the city had sprung leaks in this downpour. So they kept a saucepan on the top closet shelf with a folded cloth in the bottom to muffle the constant drip, drip. Of course they'd moved the linens elsewhere, but still the upstairs hall smelled of something dank and swampy. Ian said it was him. He said he had mildew of the armpits.

Then along came June, dry as a bone. Only one brief shower fell that entire scorching month, and the yard turned brown and the cat lay stretched on the cool kitchen floor as flat as she could make herself. By that time, though, the Bedloes hardly cared; for Bee had awakened one June morning unable to speak, and two days later she was dead.

Agatha and her husband flew in from California. Thomas came down from New York. Claudia and Macy arrived from Pittsburgh with their two youngest, George and Henry; and their oldest, Abbie, drove up from Charleston. The house was not just full but splitting at the seams. Still, Daphne felt oddly lonesome. Late at night she cruised the dark rooms, stepping over sleeping bags, brushing past a snoring shape on the couch, and she thought, Somebody's missing Somebody's missing. She poured a shot of her grandfather's whiskey and stood drinking it at the kitchen window, and she thought, It's Grandma It's Grandma. In all the flurry of arrivals and arrangements, it seemed they had lost track of that.

But after everyone left again, Bee's absence seemed almost a presence. Doug spent hours shut away in his room. Ian grew broody and distant. Daphne was working for a florist at the moment, and after she closed shop she would often just stay on downtown-grab a bite to eat and then maybe hit a few bars with some friends, go home with someone she hardly knew just to keep occupied. Who could have guessed that Bee would leave such a vacancy? Over the past few years she had seemed to be diminishing, fading into the background. It was Ian who'd appeared to be running things. Now Daphne saw that that wasn't the case at all. Or maybe it was like those times you experience a physical ailment-stomach trouble, say, and you think, Why, I never realized before that the stomach is the center of the body Why, I never realized before that the stomach is the center of the body, and then a headache and you think, No, wait, it's the head that's the center... No, wait, it's the head that's the center...

July was as dry as June, and the city started rationing water. You could sprinkle your lawn only between nine at night and nine in the morning. Ian said fine; he just wouldn't sprinkle at all. It just wasn't worth the effort, he said. The grass turned brittle, like paper held close to a candle flame. The hydrangeas wilted and drooped. When Davidson Roofers arrived one morning to hammer overhead, Daphne wondered why they bothered.

Late in August a gentle, pattering rain began one afternoon, and people ran out of their houses and flung open their arms and raised their faces to the sky. Daphne, walking home from the bus stop, thought she knew how plants must feel; her skin received each cool, sweet drop so gratefully. But the rain stopped short ten minutes later as if someone had turned a faucet off, and that was the end of that.

Then summer was over-the hardest summer in history, her grandfather said. (He meant because of Bee's death, of course. He had probably not even noticed the drought.) But fall was not much wetter, or much more cheerful either.

October marked the longest Daphne had ever held a job-one entire year-and the florist gave her a raise. Her friends said now that she was making more money she ought to rent a place of her own. "You're right," she told them. "I'm going to start looking. I know I should. Any day I will." No one could believe she still lived at home with her family.

That Thanksgiving was their first without Bee. It wasn't a holiday Agatha usually returned for-she was an oncologist out in L.A., with a very busy practice-but this time she did, accompanied of course by Stuart. When Daphne came home from work Wednesday evening, she found Agatha washing carrots at the kitchen sink. They kissed, and Agatha said, "We've just got back from the grocery. There wasn't a thing to eat in the fridge."

"Well, no," Daphne said, leaning against a counter. "We thought we'd have Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant."

"That's what Grandpa said."

As usual, Agatha wore a tailored white blouse and a navy skirt. She must have a closetful; she dressed like a missionary. Her black hair curled at her jawline in the docile, unremarkable style of those generic women in grade-school textbooks, and her face was uniformly white, as if her skin were thicker than other people's. Heavy, black-rimmed glasses framed her eyes. You could tell she thought prettiness was a waste of time. She could have been pretty-another woman with those looks would would have been pretty-but she preferred not to be. Probably she disapproved of Daphne's tinkling earrings and Indian gauze tunic; probably even her jeans, which Daphne did have to lie down to get into. have been pretty-but she preferred not to be. Probably she disapproved of Daphne's tinkling earrings and Indian gauze tunic; probably even her jeans, which Daphne did have to lie down to get into.

"You know what Grandma always told us," Agatha said. "Only riffraff eat their holiday meals in restaurants."

"Yes, but everything's been so-"

Just then, Stuart came through the back door with a case of mineral water. "Hello, Daphne," he said, setting the case on the counter. He shook her hand formally. Daphne said, "Well, hey there, Stuart," and wondered all over again how her sister had happened to marry such an extremely handsome man. He was tall and muscular and tanned, with close-cut golden curls and eyes like chips of sky, and away from the hospital he wore the sort of casual, elegant clothes you see in ads for ski resorts. Maybe he was Agatha's one self-indulgence, her single nod to the importance of appearance. Or maybe (more likely) she just hadn't noticed. It was possible she was the only woman in all his life who hadn't backed off in confusion at the sight of him, which would also explain why he he had married had married her her. Look at her now, for instance, grumpily stashing his bottles in the refrigerator. "Really, Stu," she said, "you'd think we were staying till Christmas."

"Well, someone will drink it," he told her affably, and he went to hold open the door for Doug, who was hauling in a giant sack of cat food.

Ian arrived from work earlier than usual, and he hugged Agatha hard and pumped Stuart's hand up and down. He was always so pleased to have everyone home. And after supper-mostly sprouts and cruciferous vegetables, Agatha's doing-he announced he'd be skipping Prayer Meeting to meet Thomas's train with them. Ian almost never skipped Prayer Meeting.

He was the one who drove, with his father up front next to him and Daphne in back between Agatha and Stuart, her right arm held stiffly apart from Stuart's suede sleeve. (She could not take his looks for granted.) The dark streets slid past, dotted with events: two black men laughingly wrestling at an intersection, an old woman wheeling a shopping cart full of battered dolls. Daphne leaned forward to see everything more clearly, but the others were discussing Agatha's new Saab. So far it was running fine, Agatha said, although the smell of the leather interior kept reminding her of adhesive tape. Agatha probably thought of Baltimore as just another city by now. could not take his looks for granted.) The dark streets slid past, dotted with events: two black men laughingly wrestling at an intersection, an old woman wheeling a shopping cart full of battered dolls. Daphne leaned forward to see everything more clearly, but the others were discussing Agatha's new Saab. So far it was running fine, Agatha said, although the smell of the leather interior kept reminding her of adhesive tape. Agatha probably thought of Baltimore as just another city by now.

At Penn Station all the parking slots were filled, so Ian circled the block while the others went inside. "What's happened to Ian?" Agatha murmured to Daphne as they walked across the lobby.

"Happened?" Daphne asked.

But then their grandfather caught up with them and said, "My, oh, my, I just never can get over what they've done to this place." He always said that. He made them tip their heads back to study the skylight, so airily delicate and aqua blue above them, and that was what they were doing when Thomas discovered them. "Gawking at the skylight again," he said in Daphne's ear. She wheeled and said, "Thomas!" and kissed his cheek and passed him on to Agatha. Lately he had become so New Yorkish. He wore a short black overcoat that picked up the black of his hair and the olive in his skin, and he carried a natty little black leather overnight bag. But when he bypassed Stuart's outstretched hand to give him a one-armed bear hug, Daphne could see he was still their old Thomas. He had this way of assuming that people would just naturally love him, and so of course they always did.

Now they had to crowd together in the car, and since Daphne was smallest she sat in front between Doug and Ian. As they drove up Charles Street, Thomas told them all about his new project. (He worked for a software company, inventing educational computer games.) None of them could get more than the gist of it, but Ian kept saying, "Mm. Mmhmm," looking very tickled and impressed, and Stuart and Agatha asked intelligent-sounding questions. Doug, however, was silent, and when Daphne glanced up at him she found him staring straight ahead with an extra, glassy surface in front of his eyes. He was thinking about Bee, she knew right off. All of the children home again but Bee not there to enjoy them. She reached over and patted his hand. He averted his face and gazed out the side window, but his hand turned upward on his knee and grasped hers. His fingers felt satiny and crumpled, and extremely fragile.

It wasn't till late that night, after Doug and Ian had gone to bed and the others were watching TV, that Agatha had a chance to ask her question again. "What's happened to Ian?"

"Nothing's happened," Daphne said.

"And Grandpa! And this whole house!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Thomas, you know, don't you?"

Thomas gave a light shrug-his favorite response to any serious question. He was seated on Agatha's other side, flipping channels with the remote control. Stuart lounged on the floor with his back against Agatha's knees. It was after midnight and Daphne was getting sleepy, but she hated to miss out on anything. She said, "How about we all go to bed."

"Bed? In California it's barely nine o'clock," Agatha said.

"Well, I'm I'm ready to call it a day," Stuart announced from the floor. "Don't forget, we flew the red-eye." ready to call it a day," Stuart announced from the floor. "Don't forget, we flew the red-eye."

"I come home and find this place a shambles," Agatha told Daphne. "The grass is stone dead, even the bushes look dead. The front-porch swing is hanging by one chain. The house is such a mess there's no place to set down our bags, and the dishes haven't been done for days and there's nothing to eat in the fridge, nothing in the pantry, not even any cat food for the cat, and when I go up to our room both mattresses are stripped naked and all the sheets are in the hamper and when I take the sheets to the basement the washing machine doesn't work. Grandpa told me it's been broken all fall. I asked him, 'Well, what have you done about it?' and he said, 'Oh, any time one of us goes out we try to remember to gather a little something for the laundromat,' and then he said we're eating our Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant. A restaurant! On St. Paul Street!"

"Well, it's not as bad as it looks," Daphne told her. "There's been a drought, for one thing. I mean, the grass isn't really our fault. And the swing is probably fine; it's just that Ian needs to check the porch ceiling-boards that buckled in the floods."

But she could hear how lame this was sounding-drought and floods both. And to tell the truth, she hadn't realized about the mess. She looked around the living room (newspapers so outdated they'd turned yellow, dead flowers in a dusty vase, cat fur from the carpet clinging to Stuart's corduroys) and she felt ashamed. A memory swam back to her of her most recent drop-in visit to the laundromat, during which she had spotted, on one of the folding tables, a hardened mass of Bedloe plaids that some stranger had removed from a washing machine and left to dry in a clump, possibly several days back.

"Also, Ian needs a haircut," Agatha told her.

"He does? But I gave gave him a haircut," Daphne said. (Ian hated barbershops.) "I gave him one just last-" him a haircut," Daphne said. (Ian hated barbershops.) "I gave him one just last-"

Oh, Lord, way last summer. All at once she saw him: the long, limp tendrils drooping over his collar, dull brown mixed with strands of gray, and the worn lines fanning out from his eyes.

"He looks like some eccentric, middle-aged...uncle," Agatha said.

"He does not!" Daphne protested, so loudly that Stuart, slumped against Agatha's knees, jolted upright and said, "Huh?" and Thomas raised the volume on the remote control.

"And Grandpa has food stains down his front," Agatha said, "and you've got dirty fingernails."

"Well, I do work in a florist shop," Daphne told her. She darted a glance at her left hand, which rested on the arm of the couch.

"Is it Grandma?" Agatha asked. "But it can't be, can it? I know we all miss her, but Ian's been in charge of the house for ages, hasn't he?"

"It's true we miss her," Daphne said, and just then she heard Bee calling her for supper on a long-ago summer evening. "Daaph-ne!"-the two notes floating across the twilight. Surreptitiously, she started cleaning her nails. "But we get along," she said. "We're fine! And no way is Ian middle-aged. He's forty; that's not so old! He's even got this sort of girlfriend. Clara. Have you met Clara? No, I guess not. Woman at our church. She's okay."

"Is she coming for Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Who, Clara?" Daphne asked stupidly. As a matter of fact, she had never given the woman much thought. "Well, no, I don't believe he invited her," she said.

"How about you?"

"How about about me?" me?"

"Are you seeing anyone special?"

"Oh. No," Daphne said, "I'm between boyfriends at the moment."

"What happened to...was it Ron?"

"Rich," Daphne said. "He was getting too serious. I think I'm more the one-night-stand type, if you want the honest truth."

She didn't know why she had this urge to shock, sometimes, when she was talking to Agatha. It wasn't even that effective, for Agatha merely raised her eyebrows and made no comment.