He stammered something and got up and left the room. I was only trying to make a joke, admittedly one in poor taste, although I was prompted partly by exasperation. Then I began to wonder if I was still being influenced by Margaret Dorn.

I called the nurse and asked for more sedation. She brought it and I took it and went to sleep again. That was the last time, however, that I took any sleeping pills while I was there. I kept asking for them, but I always saved them, concealing them in my hand and then taking a big gulp of water while the nurses watched.

That was the first time I thought of suicide. I was in the hospital four days, and by then I had collected eight sleeping pills in a handkerchief. I don’t know what kind they were or what their potency was but I decided I needed more than eight if I was going to use them to put an end to myself.

The autopsy on Jack’s body revealed that he had died of a massive myocardial infarction. His remains were then taken to the funeral home in Cainesville to await my release from the hospital.

Duff came in to see Franny and me every day, but we didn’t get around to discussing any supernatural problems. We talked about notifying Jack’s relatives and mine, but I finally decided against it. He had only a few cousins, all of them in the East, and I was sure none of them would come to the funeral. The same applied to my relatives.

Duff kept assuring me he was getting along splendidly at home. He wasn’t going back to school until after the funeral, but he was driving the rented car for grocery shopping and visiting Franny and me. If he was stopped by the police, I told myself, I would take the blame.

The morning I was released Father Jackson showed up again. He apologized for his conduct and I apologized for mine. Then he waited while Duff and I went to see Franny.

As on the first day I visited her, her eyelids seemed to flicker briefly and she made a slight motion toward clenching her fist. I don’t know whether the latter was an emotional reaction or just an involuntary thing. I still don’t know, even after all this time, what she feels about me, except sometimes I think she’s afraid of me.

Following Father Jackson’s car, Duff and I drove to the Nichols Funeral Home in Cainesville. The proprietor, a fat, cherry-­faced man who seemed on the verge of a coronary himself, conducted us to a small room where a gray metal casket rested on a stand. There was a large basket of red roses near it. On the basket handle was a gaudy ribbon inscribed “Dear Father.”

“I hope you find the casket suitable,” Mr. Nichols wheezed.

“It’s fine.”