Leon had the news from the letter with his name written across its envelope just after he finished his breakfast. He and Sarah had eaten together and been cheerful and amiable. Juanita had brought Rachel down before they finished, and taking the nurse-privilege, had drawn out a chair and sat down with the baby, whose special trick at that time was “rubber-knees, marble-knees.” She would stare at her audience—anyone would do—with leering intensity, bouncing the while on bent, rubbery knees as if she intended to go on forever. Then quite suddenly the knees would stiffen; a frown would come to her face and freeze. Her body rigid, she would stand like a slab of marble before tilting and falling into arms she knew would be there to catch her. Then she would collapse into a delirium of vain and joyous laughter, celebrating her own cleverness. She knew herself to be irresistible, and so everyone thought that she was.

This morning Leon left his chair to catch her, although it was more often Sarah. Both loved her dearly, and while they could not think of her as “our” child, each thought of her as “my” child.

“Crazy pussy!” Leon exclaimed, holding the happy child over his head and looking up at her, as Sarah and Juanita sat by beaming.

It was into this family scene that Lovey walked with the letter. The laughter stopped, except for that of the child. Juanita stood quickly, without thinking what she was doing, and assumed a slightly servile pose. Lovey had been more severe than ever since Floyd’s departure had brought on Ezra’s decline. The old man was in fact old at last, although he had appeared for most of his life to be so to the others because of his dignity and special occupations.

Lovey said, “Man they call Turnip from over at the Anderson Place brought this. He say—Juanita, take the child away.”

Leon handed the still-gurgling baby to Juanita, who went out with her hastily. Sarah and Leon, both standing waited for Lovey’s explanation. “Clarence Anderson has put a gun to his head and killed hisself. He left this letter for you.” She handed it to Leon and left them.

Sarah sat down and waited as Leon opened the letter and read rapidly. He finished it and went back to the beginning and read again more carefully, although he had understood it the first time. “The poor bastard,” he whispered. Nodding to himself he said, “Well, this is a day. This is a day, to be sure.” He went to her and gave her the letter. “If he has indeed killed himself, we will share boundaries with a new owner of the Anderson Farm.”

In the midst of her reading she exclaimed, “Roscoe Elk! How can it be? Surely it cannot be so.”