"Can't we just stash it away in the garage somewhere?" he said. "It looks like any old carton."

If he

"You don't think your Uncle Joe's the puttering-around type? just happened to open it and see the photographs, he might get ideas, Deep River or no Deep River."

"That's true," said Bob.

"Then the books.

We'll have to

get them out of the way. Aunt Anna may be a reader. "

Bob's eyes clouded over. I recognized the trouble signal. I tried to think of something helpful and cooperative.

"You' re always making objections," he said. "You don't want them to come. I knew that right away as soon as I told you. I didn't complain when your mother was here last year."

He stopped abruptly and I could feel the tension in him building up. He looked slender, boyish, and angry.

"Bob," I said, "I-" "Oh, shut up!"

He picked up a flowerpot, smashed it into pieces on the brick pavement, turned, went into the house, and slammed the screen door. After a moment, I followed him, as I always do, my shoulder aching. He was by the view window, hands in pockets.

"Look, Bob," I said, "I know what we can do. We'll go through the books, take out the ones they shouldn't see, put them in Pandora's box, on top of the photos, and ask Tom and Bill to keep the whole works for us while your aunt and uncle are here. Please, Bob, don't be like that."

I stood beside him. It was a clear, north-wind Sunday. Far

one

away the buildings of San Francisco looked like little white cubes against tiny hills and the Golden Gate bridge was a toy against the blue.

I could feel Bob relaxing.

"Tom and Bill won't want them, " he said in his natural voice. "They're afraid of their own shad-

ows.

"How about Frank and Henry?" "Maybe, but I doubt it."

"I know!" I said. "Felix and Randy. Randy' 11 love them. Why don't I give them a ring?"

"Isn't it too early?"

"It's nearly one. They're surely up by this time, even Randy." I was right.

“Honey,” Randy said, "we'll come right over this afternoon."

"There's no hurry," I said. "But we'd like to see you. You can help us go through the books. Aunt Anna and Uncle Joe won't be here for a couple of weeks."

Aunt Anna was plumpish, hair partly gray, rimless spectacles, friendly eyes, a pleasant laugh; Uncle Joe, small, gray-haired, wiry, a leathery, sun-tanned skin, hands that had done work, a slow speech, and humor a bit on the heavy side. They were both in their mid-sixties. Uncle Joe had recently sold his hardware store in Deep River; they had rented their house, bought a new Lincoln, and were going to take it easy the rest of their lives. Bob said they had some other property. Before they had been with us an hour I was calling them Anna and Joe.

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