“The best fail—is that what you mean?”

“The best get caught in the machine. When that big grader came down the road, it looked prehistoric. I hated it.”

“Maybe. But we have to have roads.”

“I don’t know,” Joel said. “Seems like I know less every day.”

“Someone has to be responsible. Someone has to pick up the pieces. Someone has to make shelter,” Ellen said sharply. It was the first sign she had shown of strain. “That’s what you people haven’t learned yet, Joel.”

“I guess you mean you did it for me—shelter and all.”

“Well, you’ve paid for it, haven’t you?”

“You don’t pay for what you and Nick and Willard have given me. You can’t.”

“You’re a nice boy, Joel, I’ll grant you that.” Then she sat down at the table for a second and faced him. “It’s only that somebody pays for Old Pete and Nick and you and John … and what looks free and innocent, everything you thought you found here, costs a lot.”

That was when Nick came in, and there was no more talk—only Joel’s blundering attempts to make the meal less strained.

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—May 17

I had come upstairs to lie down and think, but I can’t stay still with so much happening, so much to be sorted out. Ellen just called to say that Nick attacked Ed Taggart and she has decided that this time he has to go back to the state hospital, at least for a while, to see whether they can do anything about his violence. Luckily Joel is there and will drive them over. I offered to go of course, but with six for dinner I feel rattled, so I was relieved not to have to. Olivia will be here in a half hour—such a blessed thought. It seems as if all the little threads that bind us together here have got hopelessly tangled. God knows what is going on with Cathy and Joel, or, for that matter, when he really will leave. I suppose it might drag on for months, his waiting to be drafted.