Part 29 (1/2)

You patients neurotic, sulky, and cranky,

Give thanks for this medical hanky-panky!

And sing hoo, sing ray,

Sing night, sing day-

There was more, much more, and a whole column of even more ingenious rhymes, but here I not so much rebelled as faltered, having observed William in the act of unleas.h.i.+ng his locked hands.

He spoke.

”Goodbye.” he said to Euphoria Karp.

”Goodbye?”

”It was good of you to bring Jerome up here in the middle of all this. In spite of everything it's been fruitful, fruitful.”

”It's been peachy,” winked Euphoria.

Professor Karp led her away like a hangman dedicated to his work.

And William spoke again.

”Your mother's all right?”

Apparently he had forgotten that he had already asked this. ”She coughs now and then,” I said.

”But she is much better.”

I nodded. ”She even comes out on the terrace now.”

”I'm glad to hear it. Though she mustn't be careless, you know. I hope she isn't planning to go down to Was.h.i.+ngton for that hearing?” I admitted I knew of no such scheme. ”Those hearings can be nasty,” he continued. ”It won't do her any good down there.”

”I thought it was open and shut. I thought all they had to dp was confirm Enoch's appointment.”

William's eyelid flickered for me, as it had not for Karp. ”That's right,” he said.

”Then why do you say nasty?”

”It's in the nature of politics,” was all he would yield, and offered nothing more. His look hardened, quite as if not biological tears but a sort of chemical lacquer brushed his stare, and he listened once more to the voice of his daughter-in-law.

This reminded me of the duty of civility. ”I've just learned about your son and Miss Pettigrew. How wonderful.”

”Thank you, yes, wonderful,” he lugubriously acknowledged it. ”A charming child. Vivacious.”

But he did not wish to be drawn into talk of his son. He was silent, and simply waited.

He waited: for me. And so, because I could think of nothing further to delay the moment of confrontation, I had to begin. ”I came to see you,” I finally undertook it.

”Obviously”-but he did not mock.

”I hope you don't mind. It's not a terribly convenient time-”

William did not palliate these excuses by dismissing them.

”-but I had no idea there was a celebration.”

He answered with a mutter.

”What?” I said, straining.

”Your mother,” he said again, in so low a tone I scarcely heard, ”doesn't know you're here.”

”No.”

He appeared neither angry nor not-angry. He was controlled; more, he was indifferent. ”I thought not,” he said merely.

”I'm going away in two days.”

”I suppose you are.”

”To a place-it's a house, I don't know, Duneacres it's called. It's a place on an island.”

”Yes,” he said patiently.

”My father is there-it's where my father is. They're sending me to my father,” I burst out. ”My mother and Enoch.”

”I see.” He took me by the elbow. It was a spontaneous motion. In all my life before, except in a formal clasp. I had never felt William's hand.

”It's to see my father,” I explained. ”And they tell me nothing. They won't speak of it.”

”Come,” William said.

”I want to understand,” I pressed on; ”and they won't speak of it.”

”Oh: understand”-as though understanding were nothing.

”I mean”-I half-pleaded and half-insisted-”I mean I need to know.”