The rest of the way home John had tried to think of ways to ask Miss Zula to explain that sad to say. He was good with words, and always had been. Students and colleagues both gave him high marks for his lectures, for the way he led seminars, for his ability to make the complex clear, to argue his point. He had made a career out of the careful weighing and arrangement of words until they sang on the page. Words were tools that could be used to uncover the truth, but this time they would not work for him.

Because, he must admit to himself, he was afraid of what Miss Zula might say if he could think of a way to ask her.

Now John half listened to Rob and Kai as they moved boxes. They were talking about curtains and telephone calls that needed to be made, address-change cards and utilities. They needed an answering machine and long-distance service, which made John think of his own telephone, because, he realized, it had been ringing for a while.

“John,” said Kai, passing him with her arms full of books. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

By the time had had crossed the room, the machine had picked up.

“John? This is Eunice. What is this silliness about Caroline going on retreat five days before her wedding? Mama’s no help, she says it’ll do Caroline good. Except Mama’s up there at the lake and we’re down here with a list a mile long of things to get done before Saturday.”

The machine clicked off. John looked at Kai, who blinked at him with the same look she got when she was working out the next ten or twenty chess moves: intrigued.

He got up and started filling an empty moving box with books from the pile on the floor.

For the next hour he and Kai packed books and carried the boxes out to the porch, listening to one message being recorded after another. John would have turned the machine off, but he had the idea that if he did people would start showing up at his door.