As he dried the right hand he examined it almost curiously, noting the scratches and the broken nails, the bruises and the calluses, the fact that the once long and slender fingers had gnarled and thickened. Despite everything, he reflected, this hand never had struck him. Against his will he remembered other things, in memory felt again the fingers stroking his hair and gripping the back of his neck, tight with love and agony.

Poppa, he thought.

He made certain his father was still asleep before he touched the damp hand with his lips.

When he let himself into the apartment in Boston he found his wife on her hands and knees, painting a crib he had never seen before.

She scrambled to her feet and kissed him. “How is he?” she said.

“Not very well. Where did that come from?”

“Mrs. Kender called this morning and asked if I could help in the Auxiliary thrift shop. When I got there she pounced on me and showed me this. The mattress was ghastly and I threw it away, but the rest is in perfect condition.” They sat.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

He told her what the chart had revealed when the resident had showed it to him. A disfunctioning cirrhotic liver, anemia, possible damage to the spleen, d.t.’s compounded by malnutrition and sleeplessness.

“What can they do for a man in that condition?”

“They can’t release him, one more bout of drinking would kill him.” He shook his head. “His only chance is concentrated psychotherapy. The state hospitals have good men but they’re overcrowded. It’s doubtful that he’ll get it there.”

“We shouldn’t have made the child,” she said.

“It had nothing to do with it.”

“If we hadn’t been married . . .”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. He won’t be eligible for Medicare for a year and one-half, and a private facility will run to more than forty dollars a day. I’m not going to come close to earning that much as an instructor.” He sat back and looked at her. “The crib looks nice,” he said wearily.

“It’s just the first coat. Will you paint the finish?”

“All right.”

“And we’ll get some funny baby decals.”

He got up and took a shirt and a clean set of whites from the bureau and went into the bathroom to shower and change. He could hear her dialing the telephone and then the rise and fall of her voice as he turned on the water.

When he came back into the living room, knotting his tie, she was sitting and waiting.

“Is there a good private hospital for him around here?” she asked.

“There’s no use discussing it.”

“Yes, there is,” she said. “I just sold the place in Truro.”

He abandoned the tie. “Call them back.”