Then he went back to deploring how no one wrote letters these days. Pretty soon, he said, this country's mail service would be canceled for lack of interest. Turn all the post offices into planters, he said, and his lips twisted into one of his wry smiles before he recollected himself and grew serious again.

At home, Beastie nosed Ian's palm joyfully and lumbered after him into the living room, where his mother was walking Daphne up and down. She kissed him hello and then handed him the baby, who was too near sleep to do more than murmur. "Oh, my legs!" Bee said, sinking onto the couch. "That child has kept me on my feet all evening."

Thomas sat at the other end of the couch with his doll clutched to his chest, her yellow wig flaring beneath his chin like a bedraggled sunflower. Agatha sat in an armchair. She surveyed Ian levelly and then returned to her picture book. Both of them wore pajamas. They had the moist, pale, chastened look of children fresh from their baths.

"Have you eaten yet?" Ian's mother asked him. "I fed the children early because I didn't know."

"I can find something."

"Oh. Well, all right."

Daphne had gained weight, or maybe it was her sleepiness that made her feel so heavy. She drooped over Ian's shoulder, giving off a strong smell of apple juice.

"Your father's been through...various drawers," his mother said. She glanced toward Agatha. Evidently Lucy's name was not supposed to be spoken. "He didn't find a thing."

"Yes, he told me."

Agatha turned a page of her book. Ian's father crossed to the barometer on the wall and tapped the glass.

"Ian, dear," his mother said, "would you mind very much if I toddled off to bed?"

"No, go ahead," Ian said, although he did feel a bit hurt. After all, this was his first visit home.

"It's been such a long day, I'm just beat. The older two are sleeping in Danny's room, and I've set up the Port-a-Crib in your room. I hope Daphne won't disturb you."

"I'll be okay."

"He looks downright domestic, in fact," his father said, and he gave a snort of laughter. Doug belonged to an era when the sight of a man holding a baby was considered humorous. He liked to say he'd changed a diaper only once in all his life, back when Bee had the flu and Claudia was an infant. The experience had made him throw up. Everyone always chuckled when he told this story, but now Ian wondered why. He felt irked to see his father drift behind Bee toward the stairs, although his his knees were not arthritic and he might easily have stayed to help. "Night, son," he said, lifting an arm. knees were not arthritic and he might easily have stayed to help. "Night, son," he said, lifting an arm.

"Good night," Ian said shortly.

He sat on the couch next to Thomas. Daphne instantly made a chipped sound of protest, and he stood up and started walking again.

"Ian," Agatha said, "will you read us a story?"

"I can't right now. Daphne won't let me sit down."

"She will if you sit in a rocking chair," Agatha said.

He tried it. Daphne stirred, but as soon as he began rocking she went limp again. He wondered why his mother hadn't thought of this-or why Agatha hadn't informed her.

Agatha was pulling up a footstool so she could sit next to him. Her eyes were lowered and her plain white disk of a face seemed complete in itself, ungiving. "Get a chair, Thomas," she ordered. Thomas slid off the couch and dragged over the miniature rocker from the hearth. It took him awhile because he never let go of Dulcimer.

The book Agatha placed on Ian's lap dated from his childhood. The Sad Little Bunny The Sad Little Bunny, it was called. It told about a rabbit who got lost on a picnic and couldn't find his mother. Ian wondered about reading this story under these particular circumstances, but both children listened stolidly-Thomas sucking his thumb, Agatha turning the pages without comment. First the rabbit went home with a friendly robin and tried to live in a tree, but he got dizzy. Then he went home with a beaver and tried to live in a dam, but he got wet. Ian had never realized what a repetitive book this was. He swallowed a yawn. Tears of boredom filled his eyes. The effort of reading while rocking made him slightly motion-sick.

On the last page, the little rabbit said, "Oh, Mama, I'm so glad to be back in my own home!" The picture showed him in a cozy, chintz-lined burrow, hugging an aproned mother rabbit. Reading out the words, Ian noticed how loud they sounded-like something tactless dropped into a shocked silence. But Agatha said, "Again."

"It's bedtime."

"No, it's not! What time is it?"

"Tell you what," he said. "You get into your beds, and then I'll read it once more."

"Twice," Agatha said.

"Once."

What did this remind him of? The boredom, the yawns...It was the evening of Danny's death, revisited. He felt he was traveling a treadmill, stuck with these querulous children night after night after night.

In the morning the minister came to discuss the funeral service. He was an elderly, stiff, formal man, and Bee seemed flustered when Ian led him into the kitchen. "Oh, don't look at all this mess!" she said, untying her apron. "Let's go into the living room. Ian can feed the children."

But Dr. Prescott said, "Nonsense," and sat down in a kitchen chair. "Where's Mr Mr. Bedloe?" he asked.

Bee said, "Well, I know it sounds heartless, but he had to take the day off yesterday and of course tomorrow's the funeral so...he went to work."

"Is that good?" Dr. Prescott asked Daphne. She was squirting a piece of banana between her fingers and then smearing it across her high-chair tray.

"It's not that he doesn't mourn her. Really, he feels just dreadful," Bee said. "Ian, could you fetch a cloth, please? But substitute teachers are so hard to get hold of-"

"Yes, life must go on," Dr. Prescott said. "Isn't that right, young Abigail."

"Agatha," Bee corrected him. "It's Claudia's girl who's named Abigail."

"And will the children be attending the service?"

"Oh, no."

"Sometimes it's valuable, I've learned."

"We think they'll have a fine fine time staying here with Mrs. Myrdal," Bee said. "Mrs. Myrdal used to sit with them when they lived above the drugstore and she knows all their favorite storybooks." time staying here with Mrs. Myrdal," Bee said. "Mrs. Myrdal used to sit with them when they lived above the drugstore and she knows all their favorite storybooks."

She beamed across the table at Agatha. Agatha gazed back at her without a trace of a smile.

Dr. Prescott said, "Agatha, Thomas, I realize all that's happened must be difficult to understand. Perhaps you'd like to ask me some questions."

Agatha remained expressionless. Thomas shook his head.

Ian thought, I would! I would! I would! I would! But it wasn't Ian Dr. Prescott had been addressing. But it wasn't Ian Dr. Prescott had been addressing.

He'd remembered to bring his suit but he had forgotten a tie, so he had to borrow one of his father's for the funeral. Standing in front of his mirror, he slid the knot into place and smoothed his collar. When the doorbell rang, he waited for someone to answer. It rang again and Beastie gave a worried yap. "Coming!" Ian called. He crossed the hall and sprinted downstairs.

Mrs. Myrdal had already opened the front door a few inches and poked her head in. Her hat looked like a gray felt potty turned upside down. Ian said, "Hi. Come on in."

"I worried I was late."

"No, we're just getting ready."

He showed her into the living room, where she settled on the sofa. She was one of those women who grow quilted in old age-her face a collection of pouches, her body a series of squashed mounds. "My, it's finally getting to be fall," she said, removing her sweater. "Real nip in the air today."

"Is that so," Ian said. He was hanging about in the doorway, wondering whether it was rude to leave.

"And how are those poor children bearing up?" she asked him.

"They're okay."

"I couldn't get over it when your mother called and told me. Those poor little tots! And I understand your parents won't be keeping them."

"No, we're trying to find some relatives," Ian said.

"Well, it's a shame," Mrs. Myrdal said.

"I don't guess you you know of any relatives." know of any relatives."

"No, dear, your mother already asked me. I told her, I said, 'I'm sorry, but I wouldn't have an inkling.' Although just between you and me, I'm pretty near positive that Lucy was, well, not from Baltimore."

"Ah."

"You could sort of tell, you know," she said. "I always sensed it, even before we had our falling out. You heard we'd fallen out, I suppose."

"Not in so many words," Ian said.

"Well!" Mrs. Myrdal said. She folded her sweater caressingly. "One time we went downtown together and I caught her shoplifting."

"Shoplifting?"

"Bold as you please. Swiped a pure silk blouse off a rack and tucked it into the stroller where her innocent baby girl lay sleeping. I was so astounded I just didn't do a thing. I thought I must have misunderstood; I thought there must be some some explanation. I followed along behind her thinking, 'Now, Ruby, don't go jumping to conclusions.' On we march, past the scarf counter. Whisk! Red-and-tan Italian scarf scampers into her bag. I know I should have spoken but I was too amazed. My heart was racing so I thought it had riz up in my throat some way, and I worried we'd be arrested. We could have been, you know! We could have been hauled off to jail like common criminals. Well, luckily we weren't. But next time she phoned I said, 'Lucy, I'm busy.' She said, 'I just wanted to ask if you could baby-sit.' 'Oh,' I said, 'I don't believe I care to, thank you.' She knew why, too. She didn't let on but she had to know. Couple of times she asked again, and each time I turned her down." explanation. I followed along behind her thinking, 'Now, Ruby, don't go jumping to conclusions.' On we march, past the scarf counter. Whisk! Red-and-tan Italian scarf scampers into her bag. I know I should have spoken but I was too amazed. My heart was racing so I thought it had riz up in my throat some way, and I worried we'd be arrested. We could have been, you know! We could have been hauled off to jail like common criminals. Well, luckily we weren't. But next time she phoned I said, 'Lucy, I'm busy.' She said, 'I just wanted to ask if you could baby-sit.' 'Oh,' I said, 'I don't believe I care to, thank you.' She knew why, too. She didn't let on but she had to know. Couple of times she asked again, and each time I turned her down."

Ian ducked his head and busied himself patting Beastie.

"Not that I wished her ill, understand. I was sorry as the next person to hear about her passing."

From the stairs came the sound of footsteps and his mother's voice saying, "...juice in that round glass pitcher and-" She arrived in the doorway with the baby propped on her hip. Thomas and Agatha were shadowing her. "Oh! Mrs. Myrdal," she said. "I didn't hear you come in."

Mrs. Myrdal rose and reached out in that fumble-fingered, greedy manner that old ladies take on around babies. "Would you look at how this child has grown!" she said. "Remember Mrs. Moo-doe, darlin'?" She accepted Daphne in a rumpled bunch and cocked her head at the other two. "Thomas and Agatha, I'd never have known you!"

"Now, we shouldn't be long," Bee told her. "It's going to be a very simple...Ian, where's your father got to?"

Ian said, "Um..."

"Isn't this just like him! Check the basement, will you? Mrs. Myrdal, the tea bags are in the..."

Ian went out to the kitchen. He thought, She was only shoplifting She was only shoplifting. He crossed the pantry and started down the basement steps. She wasn't meeting some man, she was shoplifting She wasn't meeting some man, she was shoplifting. He called, "Dad?"

"Down here."

That dress was not a present from her lover after all.

His father was tinkering at his workbench. Wearing his good dark suit, his hair still showing the comb lines, he bent over the lamp from the attic bedroom. "Are we set to go?" he asked without turning.

Why, even I have been known to shoplift. Me and Pig and Andrew, back in fifth grade. It's nothing. Or next to nothing.

"Ian?"

He looked at his father.

"Are we set to go?"

"Yes," Ian said after a moment.

"Well, then."

His father switched off the light above the bench. He started toward the stairs. He halted next to Ian and said, "Coming?"

"Yes."

They climbed the stairs.

Oh, God, this is the one last little dark dot I can't possibly absorb.

In the hall, his mother was putting on her hat. "Why is it," she asked his father, "that the minute everyone's ready, you choose to disappear?"

"I was just looking at that lamp, sweetheart."

The three of them left the house and walked to the car. Ian felt bruised all down the front of his body, as if he'd been kicked.

The last time he'd been in this church was for Danny's funeral-and before that, for Danny's wedding. When he stood on the sidewalk looking up at Dober Street Presbyterian, all his thoughts were gathered toward his brother. He could almost believe that Danny had been left behind here, in this peaked stone building with the louvered steeple.

Inside, his parents stopped to greet Mrs. Jordan while Ian continued down the aisle. He passed Aunt Bev and her husband, and Cousin Amy, and a couple of the foreigners from the neighborhood. He caught sight of Cicely's blond curls gleaming like fresh pine shavings, and he slid in next to her and took hold of her hand, which turned out to contain a knob of damp Kleenex. Her lashes and her cheeks were damp too, he saw when she smiled at him. She had told him when he telephoned that she wouldn't think of not coming to this, even though it meant a two-hour train ride. She just needed to say goodbye, she told him. She had always thought Lucy was special.

The organ started playing softly, and Dr. Prescott entered through a side door and took a seat behind the pulpit. Below the pulpit lay the casket, pearly gray, decorated with a spray of white flowers. The sight of it made Ian feel cold. Something like a cold blade entered his chest and he looked away.

Now the others were filing down the aisle-his father solemn and sheepish, his mother wearing an expression that seemed less grief-stricken than disappointed. "I'm not angry; just disappointed," she used to tell Ian when he misbehaved. (What would she say now, if she knew what he had done?) Behind came Claudia and Macy with Abbie, who was evidently considered old enough now for funerals. She had on her first high heels and wobbled slightly as she followed the others into a pew. This wasn't the front pew but the one just behind. Maybe the front pew was reserved for Lucy's blood relations, if any showed up.

But none did. The organ music dwindled away, Dr. Prescott rose and announced a prayer, and still no one arrived to fill that empty pew.

The prayer was for the living. "We know Thy daughter Lucy is safely by Thy side," Dr. Prescott intoned, "but we ask Thee to console those left behind. Comfort them, we pray, and ease their pain. Let Thy mercy pour like a healing balm upon their hearts." Like a healing balm. Ian pictured something white and semiliquid-the bottle of lotion his mother kept by the kitchen sink, say-pleasantly scented with almonds. Could the balm soothe not just grief but guilt? Not just guilt but racking anguish over something impulsively done that could not be undone?

Ordinarily indifferent to prayers (or to anything else even vaguely religious), Ian listened to this one yearningly. He leaned forward in his seat as if he could ride the words all the way to heaven. He kept his eyes tightly shut. He thought, Please. Please. Please Please. Please. Please.

In the pews around him he heard a rustling and a creaking, and he opened his eyes and found the congregation rising. Struggling to his feet, he peered at the hymnbook Cicely held in front of him. "...with me," he joined in belatedly, "fast falls the eventide..." His voice was a creak. He fell silent and listened to the others-to Cicely's clear soprano, Mrs. Jordan's plain, true alto, Dr. Prescott's rich bass. "The darkness deepens," they sang, "Lord, with me abide!" The voices ceased to be separate. They plaited themselves into a multistranded chord, and now it seemed the congregation was a single person-someone of great kindness and compassion, someone gentle and wise and forgiving. "In life, in death, O Lord," they finished, "abide with me." And then came the long, sighed "Amen." They sat down. Ian sat too. His knees were trembling. He felt that everything had been drained away from him, all the grief and self-blame. He was limp and pure and pliant as an infant. He was, in fact, born again.

Through the burial in Pleasant Memory Cemetery and the car trip home, through the flurry of reclaiming the children, setting up the coffeepot, and greeting the guests who stopped by afterward, Ian wandered in a dreamlike state of mind. He traveled around the living room with a plate of butterscotch brownies, failing to notice it was empty till his brother-in-law pointed it out. "Earth to Ian," Macy said, guffawing, and then Mrs. Jordan relieved Ian of the plate. Cicely came up from behind and slipped a hand into his. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

"Yes, fine," he said.

Her fingertips were soft little nubbins because she bit her nails. Her breath gave off the metallic scent of Coca-Cola. Mrs. Jordan's craggy face had a hinged and plated look, like an armadillo hide. Everything seemed very distinct, but also far away.

"It's been too much," Mrs. Jordan told Cicely. "Just too much to take in all at once. First Danny, and now Lucy!" She turned to draw one of the foreigners into the conversation; he was hovering hopefully nearby. "Why, I remember the day they announced their engagement!" she said. "Remember, Jim?"