Searching for Caleb

He looked at her for a moment, considering. "Oh, very well, thank you," he said finally.

"You don't have to shout, Aunt Lucy," Justine told her. "Only narrow in.

You know what I mean?"

"Oh yes," said Lucy, although she didn't. They went through this on every visit.

Once they were inside the house, there was the usual difficulty in knowing what to say about it. Certainly some comment seemed called for.

But the rooms were small and dark. The windows were curtained only by great tangles of plants all merging and mingling and sending long runners clear across the floor. There were not nearly enough places to sit. In one of the little back bedrooms, Lucy was horrified to glimpse an absolutely bare, rust-stained mattress, striped blue and white. It reminded her of the time her church group had toured a flophouse for their social service project. "Justine, dear heart," she said, "have we interrupted your bedmaking?"

"My what? Oh no, I'm going to run the sheets down to the laundromat this evening."

"Perhaps I could help you put the fresh ones on."

"But I don't have any others," Justine said.

Lucy sat down very suddenly on a chrome-legged chair that had been dragged out of the kitchen.

Grandfather Peck never would open his presents until after lunch. He had them taken to the table, and meanwhile he and Two settled themselves in the living room and discussed business affairs. Since both of them were retired, it was a vague, wistful, second-hand sort of discussion. "Dan I believe is very much involved with that Kingham matter," Two said. "You remember Kingham."

"Oh yes. What was that again?"

"Well, let's see, I'm not quite . . . but he says it's moving just fine."

"Fine, is it."

Perhaps Two should not have retired just yet. But he would feel better when his brothers joined him-Dan in two years, Marcus the year after that. (Sixty-eight was the age they had agreed upon.) Then Claude and Richard could run things on their own. There was no point in working yourself straight into the grave. Still, Two seemed bored and listless as he sat sunk in a corner of the threadbare couch. His father nodded opposite him. His father was so aged that he had reached a saturation point; no new wrinkles had been added in years. He looked not much different from the way he had at seventy. Not much different from Two, as a matter of fact. They might have been brothers. This was how they all ended up, then: arriving at some sort of barrier and sitting down to wait for death, joined eventually by others who had started out later. In the end, the quarter-century that divided their generations amounted to nothing and was swept away. Lucy passed a hand over her own wispy, corrugated forehead. She looked at Two, a handsome man whom she had determined to call Justin back when they were courting, but finally she had given in and called him what his family did. They won, as they always had. Everything was leveled, there were no extremes of joy or sorrow any more but only habit, routine, ancient family names and rites and customs, slow careful old people moving cautiously around furniture that had sat in the same positions for fifty years.

But just as she felt herself sinking into a marsh of despair, she heard Duncan's light quick step across the porch. She saw him fling the screen door open-such a tall boy, or man rather, with his eyes lit from within and that awning of fair hair flopping over his high, pure, untouched forehead. She rose and smoothed her skirt down and held her purse more rightly to her stomach. "Duncan, darling," she said. His kiss was as hurried as ever, brief and light as a raindrop, but she felt her heart floating softly upward and she was certain that this time everything was going to go wonderfully.

For lunch Justine served baked ham, potatoes, and snap beans. Everyone was pleasantly surprised. "Why, Justine," said Two, "this is excellent.

This ham is very tasty."

"Oh, Grandfather did that."

"Hmm?"

They stared at her. She seemed perfectly serious. Her grandfather was absorbed in salting his beans and could not be contacted.

For dessert they had a layer cake with nine large candles on it and three small ones. Lucy watched closely while it was sliced. "Is it a mix, dear?" she asked.

"Oh, no."

"You made it from scratch?"

"Grandfather made it."

This time, he looked up. He gave them a shy, crooked smile and then lowered his white eyelashes. "Why, Father Peck!" Lucy said.

"I did the ham too," he said. "She tell you that?"

"Yes, she did."

"Also the potatoes. I baked them first, you see, then scooped them out .

. . found it in Fannie Farmer. Some people call them potato boats."

Two looked at his watch.

"The cake is what is known as a war cake," said the grandfather. "It makes do with considerably less butter and eggs than we would normally use, you see. After all, we're living in reduced circumstances."