Matt came from beyond the roses, swinging a small black box camera by its strap. He was eleven, lanky and dark, with an earnest face that reflected his mother’s resolute honesty and her total lack of irony. The three on the lawn watched him approach. Unnerved by their attention, he started to speak while still at a distance. “I’m going to take a picture.”

“Oh God,” said Clem.

“The camera was your idea,” May remarked.

“You wanted to give him a guitar.”

“I don’t want to be in it,” Nettie said, closing her book.

“Don’t be silly,” said May.

“Who’d want a picture of her?” Matt snorted foolishly. Nettie, injured, looked away.

May sighed. “Nettie, what’s wrong now? He’s only teasing. You should be able to ignore that, at your age.”

Nettie saw no reason to expect that what had been intolerable to her in childhood should be acceptable now.

“Daddy, smile.”

“I don’t feel like smiling.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve got to smile.”

“Put the tray out of sight,” May said.

Immobilized, they stared into the sunshine. The camera clicked. Matt came up to them, twisting the knob to the next number. “It probably won’t come out—there was too much light. And Daddy moved. And Nettie looked as if she was going to cry.”

“My love,” Clem said, keeping his eyes on the road and slowing to let another car pass. “You mustn’t.”

Nettie wiped her eyes with a shredding Kleenex. She moved along the seat away from Clem until she was propped in the corner.

“Make sure that door is closed” was all he said.

If I could only think of something else, she told herself—something that wouldn’t make me cry. She attempted one or two seemingly arid subjects, but they led her back to tears. It was like trying not to be sick. Unable to stay at such a distance from him, she changed her position slightly, taking her weight off the car door. “It was so awful today,” she said.

“Didn’t seem any worse than usual.”

“Well—I suppose it’s worse for me than for you.” She hoped he would contest this.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agreed.

“I don’t think I can come for weekends any more.” Until she spoke, she had not considered this possibility.

“Nettie,” he said, irritated into using her name, “that’s something you must decide for yourself.” After a moment, he added with ill-timed practicality: “What would I tell May?”

“You could always tell her,” said Nettie, “that I’ve fallen in love. With someone my own age.” Almost immediately, however, she threw away this advantage and laid her hand on his knee. “Oh, Clem, what will happen?”

“Darling, I don’t know.”

“But it can’t go on and on like this.” His silence seemed to ask, “Why not?,” and to answer it she made a little explanatory gesture with her free hand. “Without any meaning,” she said. “Anything to hope for.”