Released, she ran to Ernie. He received the news with no comment. After she’d put on her uniform, he came up to her. “Well, how long’s Sigrid going to take off? What am I supposed to do meanwhile? My wife can’t take this for long. She’s ailing. Well …” And turned away, shambling toward the table where the accounts were kept.

An hour or so before closing time—Ernie conceded they could close a little earlier since it was a weekday anyhow and they were short-handed, although he had no sympathy for anyone who would take his own life—Ben Greenhouse drove up in a Chrysler touring car. Annie went out to him with order pad in hand.

“You can bring me a ginger ale,” Ben said, “so we can talk a minute. I’m going back to Hollywood.”

She brought back the drink and hooked the tray onto the rim.

“Don’t let it scratch the car,” he said nervously.

She was exhausted; her hair untidy, her lipstick chewed away.

“You’re disappointed in me,” he said.

“No…no.”

He sighed. “Yes. You couldn’t help but be. I wish I could simply be awful and not be aware of it.”

“The ice is melting.”

“You’re going to think harshly of me. I wanted to leave you with something—pleasant. I’m sorry about the young man…but it’s part of my illness, that I’m not more concerned. I’m concerned about you, though. Will you be all right? Do you think so?”

He looked at her with curious eagerness. He was very small in the huge car. For all the romantic swagger of the fedora on the back of his head, he merely seemed forlorn, the dark eyes lusterless.

“I’ll be all right,” she said, asserting something against his soft sadness, meaning something other than what he’d asked which she understood as a kind of exoneration.

“You’re a good girl,” he said. “Now take this stuff away. I don’t want it. I’m going to write you a letter. I’ll try to explain a few things. Good-by, Ann.”

She walked home, dragging her feet, aching with fatigue. Sigrid was in Joe’s room. From the road, Annie could see her through the open door sorting out clothes. She wished it were a week later, a year later.

On the narrow cot were two or three shirts, some boxer shorts, an old black cardigan with a raveled sleeve. As Annie came in, Sigrid swept some toiletries off a wooden shelf into a paper bag. One book lay on the floor. It was a Boy Scout handbook and there was a ragged marker of newspaper at a chapter on knot-making. When Sigrid moved the pillow, Annie found a length of line with which Joe had apparently been practicing knots.

She pulled one end of the rope and the half-knot gave way—Joe’s life went in her hands. An involuntary gasp escaped her. Sigrid looked up from a scuffed suitcase she was emptying. Her face was blank of expression. Perhaps the whole family was like that—snow-faced.