Not understanding what had just been said, baffled as to how his chastising had suddenly turned into his chastisement, he groped for a sly rejoinder.

“But this is today, Uncle.”

Zeke looked at him and shook his head. “Yeah, it is, ain’t it.”

Zeke stood and walked to the garage.

She stood at the wide door before the water that fell like a curtain between her and the world. Jimmy stood in the arch of the inside door, listening. Zeke walked out to her. She had to have heard him, his feet shuffling so, but she did not turn around.

“Raining hard, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. But I bet it’ll turn into snow soon.”

“Snow?”

“Yeah.”

“You might be right.”

They stood there. Silent. Jimmy expected quiet, soft conciliatory words. Then he realized he had already heard them, as pure and as honest as the rain.

By the time he pulled the Oldsmobile into Ruth’s drive, it was dark. Six o’clock. When they had dropped Zeke off they had parted as family, not as warring factions. And as Jimmy saw his great-aunt to bed, watching her familiar slow steps, slower now from a day so full of activity; as he waited for her to disrobe and change into her nightclothes; and as he helped her to bed, he considered the myriad ways things could have been different. Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. If Anne had not died. If Horace had not died. If his grandmother had not died. All so soon ago.

Seemingly, Ruth closed her eyes as soon as her head touched the goose-stuffed pillow, and said dreamily: Snowing now, I bet.

He turned off the lights in the house, closing and locking doors behind him. On the way to the car a fat snowflake pelted him on his face and mingled there with a fresh and hot tear.

April 30, 1984 4:45 am

April 30, 1984

4:45 am

But really, Mr. Cross—might I call you Horace?

Of course.

Horace—I am Veronica. But really, Horace, people can be so crass. You understand what I mean, don’t you? Just unforgivable. I’m afraid people have lost manners and politeness. They abide by no rules. Beasts is what they have become. Beasts. Don’t you agree?

Yes. Yes. Why, of course.

Picture a buffalo standing in the middle of a stage. Picture it wearing a white dress, simple, almost plain, not too many frills, but decidedly expensive. Picture it wearing gold spectacles and a yellow hat with green and white flowers. Picture it drinking tea, its lionlike, snakelike tail switching from one side of its wide haunches to another, lazily. Horace’s foot throbbed.

I remember when I was a little girl . . . why, everyone seemed to have the most superb manners. My Cousin Charles, I remember, had the most graceful . . .