Ralph and Clinton had a good laugh over this remark, and then the old man said: “Listen, Clint, I think the best step you ever took was drop out o’ school. And it wasn’t my idea, was it?”

“No. It was mine.”

“Tell her that.” He indicated Annabel with a downward motion of his thumb. “She says it was me give you that idea. —But whatthehell, if I pressed charges every time that woman slandered me, she’d be locked up for ninety-nine years. —Now answer me, when did I ever butt in on you boys? Or tell you what to do? Ever?”

“Never,” Clinton said.

“Oh, well. She can’t help it; we shouldn’t be too hard on her.” He lighted a cigarette. “It was her sent me up here, you know. She wants me to find out what you two bozos did down there in Key Bonita.”

“I told her I was only there overnight.”

“Didn’t see him at all, huh?”

“No, sir.”

Ralph nodded. “Listen, whatever you got to say is strictly volunteer. I’m not the one with the prosecution complex in this outfit. You know I’m no prosecutor, don’t you? You got anything to say, it’s up to you—and it don’t have to go any farther.”

There was a long moment of silence in which Ralph grew uneasy. “I come up here tonight just because—to see how you’re gettin’ along. The fact is, I miss you down in that cellar.”

“I missed you, too, Ralph.”

“Well, shit, why not!” There was another pause. Then: “Furthermore, I hope you had a helluva good time down there in Florida. I been playin’ with the idea o’ goin’ down there myself before I—before I, uh, decide not to. But then I prob’ly won’t go anyway.” Ralph studied the top of his shoe for a while. He turned his foot in various ways, considering it from several angles. “I never cared much for the water,” he said.

Suddenly he got to his feet. “Well, old-kid-old-kid-old-sock,” he said, walking toward the door, “come on down to the cellar one of these days and we’ll holler dirty words up the clothes chute to Annabel.” He giggled and wheezed and leered at Clinton as he closed the door.

Clinton said, “G’night, Ralph. Thanks for comin’ up.” But he did not immediately take up his notebook. Instead, he looked for a long time at the closed door, as if it had written on it all the things he had not told his father.

Two weeks passed and Clinton remained in his pajamas.

Annabel continued to carry his meals to him, but now she took fewer pains to make them pleasant for him. At first she had placed early summer flowers on his tray, garnished his plate with parsley leaves and touched it up with colorful extras: spiced apples or red molds of Jell-o to sharpen his appetite. But as the days of his recuperation drew into weeks, and she began to suspect that Clinton might be malingering, the meals grew plainer. Annabel took her time about getting the newspapers to his room, and now and then she arranged to be just out of earshot when he called for ice water. She hoped that with this deterioration of service, the boy might find the sickroom less to his liking and declare himself recovered.