“Good night,” Ian said shortly.
He sat on the couch next to Thomas. Daphne instantly made a chipped sound of protest, and he stood up and started walking again.
“Ian,” Agatha said, “will you read us a story?”
“I can’t right now. Daphne won’t let me sit down.”
“She will if you sit in a rocking chair,” Agatha said.
He tried it. Daphne stirred, but as soon as he began rocking she went limp again. He wondered why his mother hadn’t thought of this — or why Agatha hadn’t informed her.
Agatha was pulling up a footstool so she could sit next to him. Her eyes were lowered and her plain white disk of a face seemed complete in itself, ungiving. “Get a chair, Thomas,” she ordered. Thomas slid off the couch and dragged over the miniature rocker from the hearth. It took him awhile because he never let go of Dulcimer.
The book Agatha placed on Ian’s lap dated from his childhood. The Sad Little Bunny, it was called. It told about a rabbit who got lost on a picnic and couldn’t find his mother. Ian wondered about reading this story under these particular circumstances, but both children listened stolidly — Thomas sucking his thumb, Agatha turning the pages without comment. First the rabbit went home with a friendly robin and tried to live in a tree, but he got dizzy. Then he went home with a beaver and tried to live in a dam, but he got wet. Ian had never realized what a repetitive book this was. He swallowed a yawn. Tears of boredom filled his eyes. The effort of reading while rocking made him slightly motion-sick.
On the last page, the little rabbit said, “Oh, Mama, I’m so glad to be back in my own home!” The picture showed him in a cozy, chintz-lined burrow, hugging an aproned mother rabbit. Reading out the words, Ian noticed how loud they sounded — like something tactless dropped into a shocked silence. But Agatha said, “Again.”
“It’s bedtime.”
“No, it’s not! What time is it?”
“Tell you what,” he said. “You get into your beds, and then I’ll read it once more.”
“Twice,” Agatha said.
“Once.”
What did this remind him of? The boredom, the yawns … It was the evening of Danny’s death, revisited. He felt he was traveling a treadmill, stuck with these querulous children night after night after night.
In the morning the minister came to discuss the funeral service. He was an elderly, stiff, formal man, and Bee seemed flustered when Ian led him into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t look at all this mess!” she said, untying her apron. “Let’s go into the living room. Ian can feed the children.”
But Dr. Prescott said, “Nonsense,” and sat down in a kitchen chair. “Where’s Mr. Bedloe?” he asked.
Bee said, “Well, I know it sounds heartless, but he had to take the day off yesterday and of course tomorrow’s the funeral so … he went to work.”
“Is that good?” Dr. Prescott asked Daphne. She was squirting a piece of banana between her fingers and then smearing it across her high-chair tray.
“It’s not that he doesn’t mourn her. Really, he feels just dreadful,” Bee said. “Ian, could you fetch a cloth, please? But substitute teachers are so hard to get hold of—”
“Yes, life must go on,” Dr. Prescott said. “Isn’t that right, young Abigail.”
“Agatha,” Bee corrected him. “It’s Claudia’s girl who’s named Abigail.”
“And will the children be attending the service?”
“Oh, no.”
“Sometimes it’s valuable, I’ve learned.”
“We think they’ll have a fine time staying here with Mrs. Myrdal,” Bee said. “Mrs. Myrdal used to sit with them when they lived above the drugstore and she knows all their favorite storybooks.”
She beamed across the table at Agatha. Agatha gazed back at her without a trace of a smile.
Dr. Prescott said, “Agatha, Thomas, I realize all that’s happened must be difficult to understand. Perhaps you’d like to ask me some questions.”
Agatha remained expressionless. Thomas shook his head.
Ian thought, I would! I would! But it wasn’t Ian Dr. Prescott had been addressing.
He’d remembered to bring his suit but he had forgotten a tie, so he had to borrow one of his father’s for the funeral. Standing in front of his mirror, he slid the knot into place and smoothed his collar. When the doorbell rang, he waited for someone to answer. It rang again and Beastie gave a worried yap. “Coming!” Ian called. He crossed the hall and sprinted downstairs.
Mrs. Myrdal had already opened the front door a few inches and poked her head in. Her hat looked like a gray felt potty turned upside down. Ian said, “Hi. Come on in.”
“I worried I was late.”
“No, we’re just getting ready.”
He showed her into the living room, where she settled on the sofa. She was one of those women who grow quilted in old age — her face a collection of pouches, her body a series of squashed mounds. “My, it’s finally getting to be fall,” she said, removing her sweater. “Real nip in the air today.”
“Is that so,” Ian said. He was hanging about in the doorway, wondering whether it was rude to leave.
“And how are those poor children bearing up?” she asked him.
“They’re okay.”
“I couldn’t get over it when your mother called and told me. Those poor little tots! And I understand your parents won’t be keeping them.”
“No, we’re trying to find some relatives,” Ian said.
“Well, it’s a shame,” Mrs. Myrdal said.
“I don’t guess you know of any relatives.”
“No, dear, your mother already asked me. I told her, I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have an inkling.’ Although just between you and me, I’m pretty near positive that Lucy was, well, not from Baltimore.”
“Ah.”
“You could sort of tell, you know,” she said. “I always sensed it, even before we had our falling out. You heard we’d fallen out, I suppose.”
“Not in so many words,” Ian said.
“Well!” Mrs. Myrdal said. She folded her sweater caressingly. “One time we went downtown together and I caught her shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting?”
“Bold as you please. Swiped a pure silk blouse off a rack and tucked it into the stroller where her innocent baby girl lay sleeping. I was so astounded I just didn’t do a thing. I thought I must have misunderstood; I thought there must be some explanation. I followed along behind her thinking, ‘Now, Ruby, don’t go jumping to conclusions.’ On we march, past the scarf counter. Whisk! Red-and-tan Italian scarf scampers into her bag. I know I should have spoken but I was too amazed. My heart was racing so I thought it had riz up in my throat some way, and I worried we’d be arrested. We could have been, you know! We could have been hauled off to jail like common criminals. Well, luckily we weren’t. But next time she phoned I said, ‘Lucy, I’m busy.’ She said, ‘I just wanted to ask if you could baby-sit.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe I care to, thank you.’ She knew why, too. She didn’t let on but she had to know. Couple of times she asked again, and each time I turned her down.”
Ian ducked his head and busied himself patting Beastie.
“Not that I wished her ill, understand. I was sorry as the next person to hear about her passing.”
From the stairs came the sound of footsteps and his mother’s voice saying, “… juice in that round glass pitcher and—” She arrived in the doorway with the baby propped on her hip. Thomas and Agatha were shadowing her. “Oh! Mrs. Myrdal,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”