Adam said with wonder, “I could live with you and not know any of these things! Why was Abra mad?”

Cal said, “I don’t know if I ought to tell.”

“I don’t want you to then.”

“It’s nothing bad. I guess it’s all right. You see, sir, Aron wants to be a minister. Mr. Rolf—well, he likes high church, and Aron liked that, and he thought maybe he would never get married and maybe go to a retreat.”

“Like a monk, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Abra didn’t like that?”

“Like it? She got spitting mad. She can get mad sometimes. She took Aron’s fountain pen and threw it on the sidewalk and tramped on it. She said she’d wasted half her life on Aron.”

Adam laughed. “How old is Abra?”

“Nearly fifteen. But she’s—well, more than that some ways.”

“I should say she is. What did Aron do?”

“He just got quiet but he felt awful bad.”

Adam said, “I guess you could have taken her away from him then.”

“Abra is Aron’s girl,” said Cal.

Adam looked deeply into Cal’s eyes. Then he called, “Lee!” There was no answer. “Lee!” he called again. He said, “I didn’t hear him go out. I want some fresh coffee.”

Cal jumped up. “I’ll make it.”

“Say,” said Adam, “you should be in school.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You ought to go. Aron went.”

“I’m happy,” Cal said. “I want to be with you.”

Adam looked down at his hands. “Make the coffee,” he said softly and his voice was shy.

When Cal was in the kitchen Adam looked inward at himself with wonder. His nerves and muscles throbbed with an excited hunger. His fingers yearned to grasp, his legs to run. His eyes avidly brought the room into focus. He saw the chairs, the pictures, the red roses on the carpet, and new sharp things—almost people things but friendly things. And in his brain was born sharp appetite for the future—a pleased warm anticipation, as though the coming minutes and weeks must bring delight. He felt a dawn emotion, with a lovely day to slip golden and quiet over him. He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched his legs out stiff.

In the kitchen Cal urged on the water heating in the coffeepot, and yet he was pleased to be waiting. A miracle once it is familiar is no longer a miracle; Cal had lost his wonder at the golden relationship with his father but the pleasure remained. The poison of loneliness and the gnawing envy of the unlonely had gone out of him, and his person was clean and sweet, and he knew it was. He dredged up an old hatred to test himself, and he found the hatred gone. He wanted to serve his father, to give him some great gift, to perform some huge good task in honor of his father.

The coffee boiled over and Cal spent minutes cleaning up the stove. He said to himself, “I wouldn’t have done this yesterday.”