Annabel closed the door. Ralph sank heavily into the easy chair vacated by the merry old tramp. Clinton looked through the front window at the three departing kings who huddled together on the lawn redistributing their wealth.

Annabel was more timid now. She approached her husband uncertainly, and spoke softly: “Ralph, it’s never my intention to go against your wishes, but there are times when . . .”

“Keep still,” he said, not even looking at her.

“All right, sulk if you have to.”

“Keep still.”

The telephone rang. Annabel hugged her own elbows: could it be Christmas? Had Christmas arrived? Was it Berry-berry? “Dear God in Heaven!” she said aloud, half prayer, half exclamation.

Clinton picked up the telephone in the dining room.

“Hello? —Yeah, just a minute. —Ralph, it’s for you. Long distance. Covington, Kentucky!”

Ralph rose quickly to his feet. “Covington?” He went to the phone. Annabel and Clinton formed a cluster at his elbow.

Clinton said, “Does Ralph know somebody in Covington, Kentucky?”

“It’s Berry-berry,” said Annabel. “He’s on his way home and calling to tell us.”

“Keep still,” Ralph said. “I can’t hear a goddam thing.” Then, into the telephone: “Talk up, will you? —Yes, I’m Ralph Williams, who wants me, who wants to talk to Ralph Williams?” After a moment, he shouted impatiently: “Well, put him on! Naturally I’ll pay for it, he’s my son!” Annabel made a deep sound of delight. Ralph looked at her. “Now you keep still, I want to hear what this is all about.” He squeezed the instrument with both hands, as if it were an empty water pouch and he was dying of thirst. “Hello, you big sonofabitch!” he shouted at last.

Annabel grimaced. “Oh, that language is so cute! So cute on Christmas Eve, I could vomit!”

“I can’t hear you,” Ralph said, “your mother’s here puttin’ on a show for us, she’s squawkin’ her head off and doin’ a fanny dance. I’ll see if I can talk her into shutting her goddam mouth.”

Ralph glanced at her. She glared back at him coldly.

“Now, what the hell’s this all about?” Ralph shouted good-naturedly into the mouthpiece. “You’re where? In the Covington what? Well, good for you, I knew you’d make the grade, you little shitass. Go on, tell me the rest of it.”

The next pause seemed interminable to Clinton. He had even lighted a cigarette before he realized that he never smoked in Annabel’s presence. Then he put it out.

Annabel held her silence for a long while. Finally, she whispered, “Doesn’t he want to talk to me?”

“Yeah, go on,” Ralph said, into the phone.

“Selfishness!” Annabel breathed. “Self, self, self!”

“Well, I don’t blame you one iota,” Ralph put in. “I wish I’d been there.” Another pause followed.

Annabel made no further effort at restraining herself.

“Give me that phone,” she demanded. “He wants to talk to his mother!”

“Hold on a minute, boy,” Ralph said. Then, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he turned to Annabel and said, very distinctly, “He can’t talk to you because he’s in jail.” He watched the stunned silence fall about her like a shroud, then returned to the phone. “Go on, kid, I got rid of the interference.”