Doctor Morgan and Mrs. Morgan sat on the front row with people from Chemistrand and their old friends and brothers and sisters who had chartered a plane to come and be with them. Their other child was buried in Massachusetts, but for some reason they had decided to bury Clay here, in the cemetery behind the church. Although there had not been any room in the cemetery for years, a plot was found for them and a stone put into place. A tall plain stone of Carrera marble. “Clay Alexander Morgan, 1934–1954. ‘I Have Let Fall Death.’ Hadrian, A.D. 1.”

After the service and the burial, my family and I went out to the Morgans’ house and stayed a long time on the screened porch talking to people and standing shoulder to shoulder with our hands folded. At some point my mother led me back to Patricia’s bedroom and the three of us talked for a while. “You mustn’t blame yourself,” she said. “I gave you the wine.”

“It was the rain,” I answered, as I had every time we had the conversation. We had had the conversation in the hospital after Clay died and in the church before the ceremony and now we were having it again. “It was the rain, not the wine.”

“It’s not a judgment,” Patricia said. “It’s only that he’s gone.” She was sitting on the bed and my mother was sitting beside her and I was standing. One of the Morgans’ friends from Massachusetts came into the room.

“There’s nothing to do now,” she said, “but go on. We have to go on, Patricia. You have to go on for Max.”

“Where is Max?” she asked. “He should come and talk to Rhoda.”

“He’s out by the root cellar,” she answered. “He was out there with Drew and Arthur. He told them to leave. He said he wanted to be alone.”

“Go out and talk to him,” Patricia said to me. “He wants to talk to you, Rhoda. He’s worried about you. He talked about you last night. He doesn’t blame you. No one blames you.”