He whispered hoarsely to himself. “Why not be honest? I know why my father loves Aron. It’s because he looks like her. My father never got over her. He may not know it, but it’s true. I wonder if he does know it. That makes me jealous of her too. Why don’t I take my money and go away? They wouldn’t miss me. In a little while they’d forget I ever existed—all except Lee. And I wonder whether Lee likes me. Maybe not.” He doubled his fists against his forehead. “Does Aron have to fight himself like this? I don’t think so, but how do I know? I could ask him. He wouldn’t say.”

Cal’s mind careened in anger at himself and in pity for himself. And then a new voice came into it, saying coolly and with contempt, “If you’re being honest—why not say you are enjoying this beating you’re giving yourself? That would be the truth. Why not be just what you are and do just what you do?” Cal sat in shock from this thought. Enjoying?—of course. By whipping himself he protected himself against whipping by someone else. His mind tightened up. Give the money, but give it lightly. Don’t depend on anything. Don’t foresee anything. Just give it and forget it. And forget it now. Give—give. Give the day to Aron. Why not? He jumped up and hurried out to the kitchen.

Aron was holding open the skin of the turkey while Lee forced stuffing into the cavity. The oven cricked and snapped with growing heat.

Lee said, “Let’s see, eighteen pounds, twenty minutes to the pound—that’s eighteen times twenty—that’s three hundred and sixty minutes, six hours even—eleven to twelve, twelve to one—” He counted on his fingers.

Cal said, “When you get through, Aron, let’s take a walk.”

“Where to?” Aron asked.

“Just around town. I want to ask you something.”

Cal led his brother across the street to Berges and Garrisiere, who imported fine wines and liquors. Cal said, “I’ve got a little money, Aron. I thought you might like to buy some wine for dinner. I’ll give you the money.”

“What kind of wine?”

“Let’s make a real celebration. Let’s get champagne—it can be your present.”

Joe Garrisiere said, “You boys aren’t old enough.”

“For dinner? Sure we are.”

“Can’t sell it to you. I’m sorry.”

Cal said, “I know what you can do. We can pay for it and you can send it to our father.”

“That I can do,” Joe Garrisiere said. “We’ve got some Oeil de Perdrix—” His lips pursed as though he were tasting it.

“What’s that?” Cal asked.

“Champagne—but very pretty, same color as a partridge eye—pink but a little darker than pink, and dry too. Four-fifty a bottle.”

“Isn’t that high?” Aron asked.

“Sure it’s high!” Cal laughed. “Send three bottles over, Joe.” To Aron he said, “It’s your present.”

[3]

To Cal the day was endless. He wanted to leave the house and couldn’t. At eleven o’clock Adam went to the closed draft-board office to brood over the records of a new batch of boys coming up.