her for church. It was the custom for him to meet her on the steps after Sunday School. She would be furious. And somehow he was afraid to face her, not because of her fury, so much, as because of what he might blurt out, how much of the truth, and of the consequences it would bring. No, he daren't face her. Stealthily he dressed, and, picking up his shoes, tiptoed from the house. He hurried up the street past the still-sleeping, so-familiar houses, the parked cars with dew darkening their roofs and hoods, past the bottle-jangling trucks of milkmen, so somehow cheerfully lonesome in the fresh, cool, early sunshine. For a few blocks he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder from time to time. His heart raced with fear. But when he reached Jacob Pincus' house, it stopped knocking. He caught his breath and smiled sourly at himself.

What was the point in fearing her? She couldn't stop this that he'd found with Mark. How could she? Unless he told her, she'd never guess. What would she know about such things? A small town girl all her life, never interested in books or thoughts—what would she know about it. It would be beyond her powers of imagination. She might suspect he drank or smoked: well so did most boys when they reached his age. She'd scold, but she'd get over it. No. If he didn't tell her what it was he and Mark had between them, she couldn't know. It was good forever.

He hurried quietly along the little walk beside Pincus' cottage and came to 'Mark's window at the back. He wanted to see him, hear his voice. Then, with his hand lifted to rap on the glass, he remembered how hard Mark workedfar harder than Floyd. If he'd been as tired out by yesterday as Floyd was, he needed to be let sleep. Smiling, Floyd turned away.

He waited for Mark in the Acme Cafe where he knew the boy ate breakfast. But eight came, and eight thirty, and ten of nine, and still there was no Mark. Floyd paid and went out and looked up and down the street. People hurried along toward their stores and offices, but not the dark, slight figure of Mark Morsov. Floyd waited another five minutes, then had to run to avoid being late for work at the hardware store.

But he was too worried to be of use there. All morning he loitered near the front windows, watching across the street where the dry-cleaning shop remained shut up tight, the steam presser gaping like the white mouth of a stranded fish. He couldn't eat the food set before him at the Acme at noon. He was sick with alarm. What had gone wrong? He couldn't phone. Pincus had only the phone at the shop. The afternoon was nearly impossible. He was proud of his ability to cut plateglass. This afternoon he shattered four panes.

"If you're sick, Floyd," Mr. Ringgold said, "why don't you go home?" "Yes yes, sir, I'm sorry. I guess I better."

But he didn't go home. Through the dying afternoon, he ran to Jacob Pincus' house, and rapped loudly on the door. The voice that called for him to come in wasn't Mark's. Somehow, he had known it wouldn't be. The old man was seated, sagging, gray stubble on his cheeks, in his armchair staring with bleary eyes at the television set.

"What do you want?"

He was hostile. He'd always been friendly before, full of wry jokes, despite his half-paralysis, sometimes shouting out to Mark to turn up the music he was playing in the back room, asking, What do you think-I'm too old for culture?

Floyd said, "Where's Mark?"

"Mark is gone. Home. Back to Chicago. You trying to tell me you didn't know that, maybe?"

17