Chapter 14D

(between pages 275 and 276)

SEPTEMBER IN THE RAIN

"Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion;
and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement." - George Eliot

Beneath the awning in the garage doorway I stood, watching the relentlessly pouring rain. The wind whipped my hair across my eyes, and my skirt swirled around my knees.

"Well, it's not going to stop." said Malcolm, locking the door behind us.

We stepped onto the gravel path that connected the garage to the house. Wet gravel crunched underfoot as we hurried toward the steps to the kitchen door, the nearest entrance.

"I don't know why we haven't built a cover from here to the house." said Malcolm, as though the suggestion hadn't been made dozens of times before. This was mentioned frequently,
usually by Mal, but plans were never made to do it.

Malcolm discovered he didn't have the key to the side door, so we had to dash around to the front portico. The front entrance was unlocked, and inside the doors, a table lamp emanated a welcoming glow.

"Is Joel in, tonight?"

"I'm not sure."

No music issued from the parlor, where Joel was usually to be found, if indeed he was home at this hour, but that meant little.

I brushed water out of my eyes.

"I'll tell Minnie that we'll have coffee in the library."

"Fine." said Malcolm, already divesting himself of his wet jacket and tie, as he walked toward the staircase.

It was a blustery evening once the rain ceased, the temperature having dropped into the low forties during the overcast day. It was then late September, and the change in season was exhilarating, lifting my spirits as it always did. I moved through the downstairs rooms, watering the geraniums that grew in pots on windowsills, and systematically checking to be sure that doors and windows were securely closed.

When I reached the front salon, I found Joel at the escritoire, writing letters under a cone of lamplight.

"Pardon me for subjecting your refined ears to the music of the plebs, Mother. I haven't had a minute to change the record."

"Never mind that." I said. "Join us for coffee, if you wish."

"So, you've returned, unscathed, from another evening among the fashionable savages." Joel remarked.

"I suppose so." " I said, laughing.

He smiled, absent-minded, and offered only monosyllabic answers to my inquiries about his day. Finally giving up, I left him to his writing, and the music of Benny Goodman, issuing from the phonograph.

I understood my son's preoccupations. It was not music in which I took an interest, but in novels, I, too, could escape. I escaped into another life-a life full of mystery,
adventure and happiness, away from the predictability of being mistress of Foxworth Hall, where life seldom changed. But I had a security that allowed me to immerse myself wholeheartedly into my books, knowing I had a place where I belonged. The lack of change in that place was my comfort.

But from where would Joel find his own comfort? He then seemed, at the age of eighteen, to be at loose ends, and I did not know how best to help him find direction.

I went on to the library, and was soon so absorbed by a Mary Borden novel that I did not notice Malcolm's entrance, or hear him, until he had spoken to me twice.

He scanned the title of a book lying on an end table, one of the Civil War novels which had become so popular, over the last few years.

"I don't see why you insist on filling your mind with this nonsense; it just sends you into a sentimental mire." He picked up a Bible, sent to me by John Amos. "And so does this."

"Well, that is my choice to make, is it not? I hardly asked for your opinion. Anyway, the book is Corinne's, in fact. She was reading it this morning, before she left."

"Where is she?"

"I had planned to take her shopping for her new school wardrobe, today, but she flounced off in a huff, after I forbade her to wear lipstick. Makeup on young girls is inappropriate, and I told her so."

Malcolm nodded his approval, and lit his pipe.

"She's gone over to Lucy's, to listen to that ridiculous radio program they've become so fond of. She'll probably stay over until tomorrow." I said, knowing Malcolm would be disappointed, for it was the last weekend before Corinne's return to boarding school.

"Who is this Lucy?"

"The McCarthys' daughter. You know-the little girl who thinks Mal is "swell." Corinne's growing up, Malcolm. You have to expect that she'll prefer spending time with her girl friends." I added.

The telephone rang, and I went back to my book as Malcolm took the call, which turned out to be Mal, phoning from New Haven. When it was my turn to speak, I listened eagerly as he enthusiastically relayed anecdotes of his first week back at Yale. Mal was in mid sentence, speaking rapidly, barely allowing me a chance to get a word in, when the line went dead.

"That was peculiar." I commented, relaying what had happened. "Why doesn't he ring back? I should have thought he would have, by now." I glanced reproachfully at the clock, then the phone, as if the instrument itself was faulty.

Malcolm shrugged.

"These connections are never reliable."

The other lines, used primarily by Malcolm for business, were also out of order. All six of our telephone lines were out of service, in fact, and remained so, through the night.

"I rather envy him being up north now, in the fall. It's so lovely." I mused, remembering the vivid autumn colors, a glory of red, orange and gold as the maples scattered their treasure on the wind. It was the season when I missed New England most. "He wants us to take a ski trip to Vermont next year."

"He seems to be developing an appreciation for the place, for the people, for their forward-thinking outlook. Says he may stay on, after his graduation."

I knew Malcolm couldn't be terribly pleased by that, and neither was I. I wanted my children to stay close to home-what mother doesn't?

"He'll change his mind by then, surely."

"Likely so." said Malcolm, then added thoughtfully, "I might have done the same, if not for Foxworth Hall, and if the business hadn't needed looking after."

"What?"

"I considered it, before leaving New Haven, you know. My father did his best to discourage me. No doubt he thought some girl was my motive for wanting to stay in New England, but that didn't come into it."

"Such a commonplace motive would never be yours." I said in irrision.

I could see that Malcolm was disturbed, as we continued to exchange trivial details about our son, details that only the mother of a recently grown young person cares about, when she must relinquish that son to the indifferent world.

It was, in fact, Mal's third year at Yale, but each September's departure was difficult for me, , especially following the activity of summer.

Summer was the best time for us, as a family, and memories of my children, their laughter and gay banter, brought me comfort during the long, grim years of the 'Forties and 'Fifties.

All three children were home during summers, and Malcolm could sometimes be persuaded to take an August vacation. Most often, he went away alone. This year, however, Malcolm had taken the five of us to Colorado for a week, before continuing on to spend a few days in California, (the part of our vacation most enjoyed by Corinne.)

The Colorado mountains were a recent favorite place of Malcolm's, to hunt. When Mal was twelve, Malcolm had begun taking the boy along on his trips,
beginning with fox hunting excursions in Virginia. This, according to Malcolm, was an essential masculine equestrian pursuit. Joel had never been invited, nor had he expressed interest in going, which was just another instance in which he disappointed Malcolm.

Remnants of that holiday feeling still lingered in my idle thoughts, and the evening had been pleasant, despite the children's absence. Joel was most often preoccupied by his own solitary pastimes. Corinne wouldn't return to school until the following weekend, and had gained permission to spend her last few days with various friends whose homes had swimming pools, one amenity which Foxworth Hall lacked, and would never have, as long as Malcolm decided such things.

I had spent the afternoon with Rosemary Murphy, a neighbor who shared my interest in gardening. She requested my help in organizing and judging contests in this year's Albemarle county fair. The Murphys extended a dinner invitation, but I'd met Malcolm, as previously planned, in Charlottesville for dinner at a French restaurant which we both favored.

These were the years when many evenings were devoted to social events which Malcolm deemed necessary (and worthy.) Malcolm had, over the last four years, become more involved in local and state politics, and now when we dined out, which was a regular occurrence, it was more often than not at some banquet, or other type of engagement meant to raise funds. Rarely did the two of us have dinner out, alone.

The weather had worsened as we sipped our wine, and by the time we'd finished our meal and were ready to leave, it was quite unsafe to be driving. Yet Malcolm had skillfully, and with care, driven up the narrow, winding roads and into the hills toward home. Strong wind and rain pelted the windshield, and my nervousness increased, as the car climbed the steep, slippery roads in the early darkness. It was a relief to finally reach home.

"I'm beginning to worry about Mal." I said. My mind had never left the abrupt way the call had been cut off. Malcolm looked as though he wanted to say something.

"What is it?" I asked, impatiently. There was a slight hesitation before he spoke. There was something ominous in that brief pause, something he refused to say.

Joel walked into the library, frowning, his eyes fastening on Malcolm.

"Excuse me," he began, avoiding eye contact, "Father, Collins left a message. He wishes to speak to you right away about one of the horses-it's aboutt Pandora. Sorry, Mother."

"I'll deal with that tomorrow." Malcolm said in a dismissive manner.

Malcolm's expression turned to irritation, which deepened as Joel continued to speak, whether from the interruption or from the reason for it, or just because of Joel's apprehension around him, I couldn't tell.

The hostility between Malcolm and Joel had been barely suppressed, for the past few months. Joel wanted to go to a music school in the fall, but naturally, Malcolm cared nothing for Joel's wishes or plans, having his own plans for his sons' futures mapped out.

"Father, would it be all right if I borrow the car, on Saturday?"

"Absolutely not. As I said when you went for your license, if you want to drive the car, you'll have to go out and get a job-something more than that part time work you've been doing. I haven't changed my position, on the matter."

Joel made no answer. He stared morosely out into the rain, as though he was waiting for someone.

"You aren't going out in this weather." I declared, guessing what was in his mind.

"Have you heard about the hurricane?" he asked abruptly, shifting restlessly, still standing in the doorway.

"What hurricane?" I asked, mildly concerned, as I motioned for Joel to come in, which he did with reluctance. He tried to avoid Malcolm as much as possible when Mal was away, but I sensed he was worried.

Malcolm glared in Joel's direction.

"It's only a storm." he said in a tone that left no room for disagreement, and waved the air, his signal that it was to be the end of the discussion.

"It's more than a storm." Joel countered in a somber tone. "It's a hurricane, and it's passing over New England."

I must have looked stricken, for they both stared at me, and Malcolm scowled at Joel, willing him to silence.

Joel rifled through the pages of the Radio Guide nervously, but he didn't move from his place by the French windows.

As if in support of what he'd said,
the electric system began to fail, due to the storm. The cello concerto on the radio faded, then died, and the overhead lights in their fluted shades dimmed before flickering out altogether, some minutes later.

"Aren't you concerned about Mal? Haven't you heard about this?" Joel persisted.

"We've heard." Malcolm replied tersely. "Mal is fine. We spoke to him half an hour ago."

"You knew this when he called! Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded of Malcolm. Panic rose, the vise of dread clutched at my heart.

Joel stared from one to the other of us warily, and edged toward the door.

"Either stay or go, but stop hovering in doorways." Malcolm snapped, then, his minor irritation gone, he asked, "Will you sit with us?"

"Thank you, no, sir," Joel mumbled. I didn't catch the rest of his sentence before he was gone. Malcolm stared after him, annoyed.

"I don't understand him." he grumbled. "Is our company so distasteful to him that he has to go sneaking off by himself all the time? I've never known a boy with a more reclusive nature."

"Well, Malcolm, you haven't been very agreeable yourself, lately. Whenever he says more than two words to you, you start in criticizing him."

"Joel has an excellent mind and has had a sound upbringing, and I don't see why he is so determined to throw away every advantage given him."

"It is because of his advantages that he can pursue his talents." I said.

"If he had sense, he would develop other talents. Music won't take him very far in life, and it won't support him." Malcolm insisted.

Mal had urged me to talk to Malcolm, but I doubted that I could bring him around to seeing anything from Joel's point of view. Mal had already attempted discussion with his father, and had gotten nowhere.

"I tried, Mother," Mal had told me, "but whenever I say a word in favor of Joel's plans to Father, he comes down on me like a sack of tombstones. He's so determined to pack Joel off to Yale, to four years of them chipping away at his soul, until there is no Joel left, only Foxworth."

Perhaps Mal exaggerated, but there was some truth in what he said. Malcolm was a man who greatly valued appearances, and prized the symbolism represented by his position on the town council, the front pew of our village church, and in the very existence of this imposing house that itself was a monument to generations of superiority. That one of his sons should think otherwise, and not share the same high ambition that had always driven him, was an offense to Malcolm.

"Let Joel fight his own battles," Malcolm would say. "He can come and discuss it with me himself. If he can't face a little straight talk, then I wish him luck with the world."

"Yes, well," I shrugged, and turned back to Malcolm, glaring my recriminations as another clap of thunder seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

"Olivia," he said slowly, "I've just heard on the radio of a storm which is moving up the Atlantic. Mal didn't want me to mention it; he knew you'd worry needlessly."

"It seems there is a need to worry." I said.

"They expected it to turn, to curve out further over the Atlantic where it wouldn't cause damage, but now there are reports that it has in fact blown the other direction, and is hitting the coast."

I began to twist my rings in apprehension, envisioning devastating losses.

"Where, precisely?"

"Massachusetts...and Connecticut."

"New Haven's not so far away from the coast." I worried. "We've got to call Mal back."

"You won't be able to get a call through." he said. "We'll have to wait until we hear from him."

"What have you heard?"

"I told you."

"You've got to know more than that!"

"He said there have been winds over one hundred miles reported from Boston and... New London."

"My house!"

"Yes." Malcolm was silent for several seconds. "It will, at the very least, sustain a great deal of damage, if not be washed away completely by the high tides. I'm sorry." he said, seeing my expression.

"Don't pretend to be magnanimous, Malcolm," I said with disgust.

Washed away! The words kept reverberating in my mind ominously.

"Mal says he'll drive over and see what's become of it when it is safe to do so." said Malcolm.

I had given Mal a key to the house, although he didn't go to New London often. It had become something of a pied-a-terre for him while he attended Yale,
although he lived on campus, in a room overlooking busy Chapel Street, where open trolley cars went back and forth until all hours.

"Olivia, Mal will come to no harm. He has the sense not to take unnecessary risks."

"I can't believe you would try to keep this from me. Don't you think I'd read about this in the paper tomorrow morning?"

"Your reaction now is the very reason I did not wish to bring it up. You can do nothing for him, if you work yourself into a hysterical state." he said, his eyebrows knit together in a worried expression.

Later, Mal would describe in horrific detail what he had learned. The waterfront business district in New London caught fire, burning uncontrollably for ten hours. The stately homes along Ocean Beach were leveled by the storm tide, and the Fort Neck section of town was left a twisted ruin.

It was the worst natural disaster in recorded history to befall New York, Rhode Island and Connecticut. Newspapers would carry reports and photographs of destruction on a devastating scale: trees felled, church steeples down and seventy-five-thousand buildings damaged. A school bus full of children was swept off a causeway and into the storm surge. Over six hundred lives were lost; thousands more were injured. No one had been prepared, because there had been no warning of the coming storm. Gusts of one-hundred-twenty miles per hour was recorded at the Watch Hill Lighthouse in Rhode Island, before the weather tower collapsed.

"Light one of the oil lamps, would you?"

I fumbled, looking for the kerosene lamps kept here for just such emergencies. More time elapsed.

"We may as well go up then." he decided.

The mansion felt vast and hollow, and defenseless without electricity. We ascended the left staircase cautiously in the thickening darkness. The lamp threw a dim, inadequate light ahead, as we turned into the south wing corridor. The kerosene fumes made my eyes water. Shadows rose up just out of reach of that glow, and the house was silent, as if we were the only two people left in the tworld. Our steps echoed in the hallway, as we parted ways.

Although I knew she was safe, I wished Corinne was home tonight. I wished I could look in on Joel, a thing I hadn't done since he was small. Of course I could not, but it brought back a wistful longing to turn back the years to a time when the boys were mine-when they were young enough to be my purpose. I remembered many a night when I had slipped into the boys' shared room, hoping not to wake Joel, always a light sleeper. There had been times when I needed not to be alone; I needed to see them. They were so innocent then; they looked as if they could never grow up to be like their father. Even now, I prayed this would be so, that my influence would prove stronger than Malcolm's. Of course it would be. I was stronger than Malcolm; I could handle him-I still felt I could, and my boys were my reasons to keep trying.

I remembered how those silent moments could sometimes restore me, how a sliver of moonlight found its way into the room through an aperture in the draperies. It lay across the floor, and the light encircled us like a benevolent spirit. Mal would mumble in his sleep, then subside once again. I would sit on the end of Mal's bed, and watch them for a long time. Now such was impossible.

Each of us was an island in our separate, draughty rooms, alone in this vast house with concerns that inhabited the dark. I dreaded the hours I must live through before morning-before any news could come about Mal. I lay huddled against the cold night beneath thick blankets. Sweet unconsciousness was not to be mine. I couldn't manage even a light sleep, my ears were too alert to the slightest sound, any stirring, any sudden trouble. My powerlessness, my inability to protect Mal kept me awake and disturbed.

I went out into the corridor; I did not need to see to make my way along it to the rotunda. I knew where the hall runner would end and the wood began, where the floor would creak gently underfoot, the precise placement of a cabinet with an alabaster vase of flowers. I reached out to find the glass-smooth rosewood balustrade. I stood in the disorienting darkness for a full five minutes, trying to let the absolute silence calm me, sending a prayer for Mal into that silence. I couldn't see across the rotunda to the north wing, but it too was quiet. Joel had probably closed his door and the one at the end of the hall.

Finally, I retraced my steps down the hall, and to Malcolm's door.

"I can't sleep." I said.

"For God's sake, sit down! I can't stand your infernal pacing."

Malcolm's rooms were in near darkness, but the double doors to the adjoining sitting-room were open, and there Malcolm sat, in one of his brown leather chairs. The kerosene lamp burned low, offering but a thin illumination in that wood-paneled room of dark furnishings, plush carpet and fireplace.

The storm raged. The power and phone lines were down through the night; windows rattled in their casements. The house felt inadequate against nature's fury. A branch struck one of the windows and I jumped.

"You should have a drink." Malcolm said with celerity, as if he'd been waiting for an excuse. He kept a decanter on a tray on the low table next to his chair, and from it, he poured a tumbler of Scotch.

"No, I don't want one." I said into the blackness.

I lay on the sofa and tried to rest. Across the room, Malcolm poured himself a second drink. Not once did we put into words our fear that we might not see Mal again, that he might not survive the disaster of the hurricane.

We should have spoken of Mal before our memories of him were altered by loss. Later, when we should have shared those memories, we were unable to do so. We could not have known how close we were to losing our stubborn, talented, humorous first-born. This was merely a warning, merely a preview for the blow that would befall us, the very next year.

We should have laughingly recalled times when Mal had tried our patience, vexing us by asserting his independence. From perhaps his tenth year on, he had frequently and dilatorily provoked Malcolm, and it became harder to threaten Mal into behaving.

"When your father hears of this-" was often all I needed to say to restore good behavior. The trailing threat was usually enough to make the children behave,
particularly Joel, and Corinne was corrigible mainly because she couldn't stand confrontation, or to have anyone displeased with her. But Mal was strong-willed, and too much like his parents for threats to sway him.

No, it had not all been an easy road with Mal. When he was seventeen, he began to spend time with a group of friends Malcolm and I didn't approve of. Once, Mal was brought home in the middle of the night by some of these unsavory friends. He was too drunk even to walk-that was the explanation I was given.

Malcolm, furious, ordered Mal to leave, and not come home until he was sober, and could conduct himself properly.

Malcolm himself rarely imbibes-something for which I am eternally grateful, as when he does, he becomes belligerent, though to be fair, he has never struck me in anger, just as he has seldom embraced me in unrepressed warmth. He is-at the core-too restrained for either extreme.

Mal stayed away for three days that time-three days during which I did not speak to Malcolm.

"He's got to learn responsibility, Olivia." Malcolm had said. He kept trying to justify his reactions, which I thought unreasonably harsh. His explanations were met only with my withering looks and cold silences.

"You coddle them too much. It's different with boys; you never had brothers, so you don't understand. This is the boy I'm supposed to leave everything to,
and you expect me to let him destroy himself? Well? Don't look at me that way! He should be ashamed to let his mother see him, in such bad shape. Damn it, SAY something! I will not allow a son of mine to be a delinquent."

There were many things I'd wanted to say, but if I had spoken, it would have escalated into another argument, and we argued often enough. Joel had been home from school then, and it upset him to hear us quarreling. Over time, Mal had grown impervious to our raised voices. He was always the stronger of the two of them; he had inherited more of Malcolm's temperament than had Joel. Mal would talk back to Malcolm-a thing Joel would not have dared try.

Mal had thought it great fun to make jokes at our expense-his serious, old-fashioned parents. I remember the merriment in his eyes as he mimicked an argument between Malcolm and myself, parroting my accent perfectly, (for the more agitated I become, the more pronounced it is) and affecting Malcolm's caustic responses and precise mannerisms and expressions.

"I would hope," said Malcolm, when we'd come upon this scene unexpectedly one day, "that you aspire to something more worthwhile in life than the theatre."

The sneering rebuke deflated Mal's spirits only temporarily; he well knew Malcolm's opinion of actors, musicians and "artistic types". When Malcolm walked away, he resumed where he'd left off, and that was how he coped with outbursts; he simply waited for them to pass, feigning indifference. It was what I often did. Not so for Joel, who cowered, and in so doing incurred more wrath from his father. Even away at school, Joel seemed to be the victim of every bully. Mal, on the other hand, was the instigator of the mischief he became embroiled in. I suspect we didn't even hear about half of these incidents.

During the first few years when Mal went away to school, he was sent home several times, for unruly behavior. Naturally, Malcolm was full of I-told-you-so remarks, since it was I who insisted they be sent to boarding schools.

Malcolm and I had clashes of our own to distract us, and they increased as time went on. They were often about the children, particularly about Corinne. We could not seem to agree on anything, concerning the children. When they were all away at school the house was lonely, but we were far more amicable.

Of course, it was only later that I realized some of the damage we had done, subjecting them to the strained atmosphere in which we existed. Frequent altercations may have been necessary for us, but surely it had not been good for children. That was easy enough to see, just by observing them.

The next morning I woke, cold and with shoulders stiff, in the same position in which I'd fallen asleep. I went to my own room to dress, and hurried downstairs, hoping news of Mal had come.

Joel was in the kitchen, looking sullen as he usually did before noon, and still in his dressing-gown. He was eating dry cereal mixed with yogurt, rather than milk, a combination Garland had introduced to the boys. I can remember him teasing Mal about the orderly way in which he cleaned his plate, eating one item at a time, finishing everything on his plate before taking a drink-just as I did, while Garland's glass would be refilled twice each meal.

"Where is your father?"

"I haven't seen him, but he's been here. There's coffee. There's one cup left, if you'd like it."

As coffee was poured, there was a discreet knock at the side entrance, just off the small passage to the kitchen. Malcolm disliked the arrival of visitors before eleven o'clock in the morning. In truth, I didn't much care for it either.

"That will be Lyman, no doubt." I said, and went to let him in.

"Hello, madam." said Lyman, in his affected, half-mocking way.

"How did you know I'd be at home?" asked Joel, offering Lyman a cigarette. Lyman Bromley had been Joel's friend for several years, though they had attended different schools.

"You are always at home in the mornings. You are far too lazy to be any other place."

They left the kitchen, and I drank my coffee in solitude, then went upstairs an hour later. The day was going to pass slowly, and waiting for the telephone to ring would not make it happen or insure that the news was good.

In the spare bedroom, I continued sorting through Corinne's baby clothes, which were to be passed along to Millicent's daughter Caroline, whose first baby had been born in August. Some time later, I heard voices, and Millicent appeared in the doorway, directed here by Joel. Much to my surprise, she had the infant with her.

"My goodness! You could open your own shop."

"There's more here than I realized. Some of these were nearly brand new. Corinne grew out of them before wearing them." I said.

"Am I too early?"

"No, of course not. Sit down... anywhere."

She put her straw beach bag and the baby down in the center of the bed.

"I like this room." said Millicent.

I had redecorated, since the days when Garland had lived here. Now it had cream curtains, eighteenth-century engravings of landscapes, a walnut bureau, a tall mirror and a small Louis XV writing desk.

"Corinne says it's too muted, but what can one expect, from a thirteen-year-old? Anything lacking rosettes and frills is considered boring, by her." I smiled.

"How is she?"

"Oh," I sighed. "she's been moody and waspish, lately, and that's so unlike her."

"It's the age." said Millicent.

"She seems to want to grow up so quickly! She's taken to wearing make-up, behind my back. I don't know where the years have gone. Last week I walked into her room and found a box full of toys-a nurse doll, a toy sewing machine, a doll buggy. She wanted it all taken up to the attic."

As if on cue, from the corridor, I heard the voices of Corinne and her friend.

"Have you been fraternizing with the Indians?" I asked, as Corinne and Lucy sauntered in. Lucy giggled. "Did your mother know you went out of the house with all that paint on your face, Lucille?"

"Oh, Mama." groaned Corinne.

"If I'm not mistaken, that is Corinne's yellow sweater."

"You said it would be okay to borrow it." Lucy said to Corinne.

"That's fine." I said.

They went over to the bed and cooed over the baby.

"Can I hold her, Mrs. Hanscomb?" asked Corinne. "Can we take her to my room?"

Millicent nodded.

"Just for a few minutes." I instructed.

"I know all about babies," boasted Corinne to Lucy, as they exited. "Trudy's sister has one."

"I have news, madam." said Malcolm, appearing in the doorway shortly after. He nodded to Millicent.

"Ah, you've seen Lyman."

"That young man is a thoroughly objectionable person, but I did not come to discuss him."

"Have you heard from Mal, then?"

"He called a few minutes ago, and spoke to Joel. Mal couldn't stay on the line for long-you know what these long distance calls are, but he promised to telephone again, tomorrow."

It was not Malcolm, but Millicent who embraced me, sharing my relief at the news.

"I've never heard anything like it, Mother." said Mal, the next day, still sounding shaken by what he'd seen. "The wind sounded like... like a high-pitched scream."

"Mal," I began, clutching the telephone receiver tightly to my ear. "Mal, maybe... never mind."

I wanted to ask him to book passage on the next train, to come home immediately, but that would be an unreasonable, pointless request. There was no imminent danger now.