Time Enough For Love

DA CAPO-III

Maureen

Mr. Theodore Bronson né Woodrow Wilson Smith aka Lazarus Long left his apartment on Armour Boulevard and drove his car, a Ford landaulet, to a corner on Thirty-first Street, where he parked it in a shed behind a pawnshop-as he took a dim view of leaving an automobile on the Street at night. Not that the car had cost Lazarus much; he had acquired it as a result of the belief of an optimist from Denver that aces back to back plus a pair showing could certainly beat a pair of jacks-Mr. "Jenkins" must be bluffing. But Mr. "Jenkins" had a jack in the hole.

It had been a profitable winter, and Lazarus expected a still more prosperous spring. His guess about a war market on certain stocks and commodities had usually been correct, and his spread of investments was wide enough that a wrong guess did not hurt him much as most of his guesses were right- they could hardly be wrong since he had anticipated stepped-up submarine warfare, knowing what would eventually bring this country into the war in Europe.

Watching the market left him time for other "investments" in other people's optimism, sometimes at pool, sometimes at cards. He enjoyed pool more, found cards more rewarding. All winter he had played both, and his plain and rather friendly face, when decorated with his best stupid look, marked him as a natural sucker-a look he enhanced by dressing as a hayseed come to town.

Lazarus did not mind other pool-hall hustlers, or "mechanics" in card games, or "reader" cards; he simply kept quiet and accepted any buildup winnings offered him, then "lost his nerve" and dropped out before the kill. He enjoyed these crooked games; it was easier-and pleasanter-to take money from a thief than it was to play an honest game to win, and it did not cost as much sleep; he always dropped out of a crooked game early, even when he was behind. But his timing was rarely that bad.

Winnings he reinvested in the market.

All winter he had stayed "'Red' Jenkins," living at the Y.M.C.A. and spending almost nothing. When the weather was very bad, he stayed in and read, avoiding the steep and icy streets. He had forgotten how harsh a Kansas City winter could be. Once he saw a team of big horses trying gallantly to haul a heavy truck up the steep pitch of Tenth Street above Grand Avenue. The off horse slipped on the ice and broke a leg-Lazarus heard the cannon bone pop. It made him feel sick, and he wanted to horsewhip the teamster-why hadn't the fool taken the long way around?

Such days were best spent in his room or in the Main Public Library near the Y.M.C.A.-hundreds of thousands of real books, bound books he could hold in his hands.. They tempted him almost into neglecting his pursuit of money. During that cruel winter he spent every spare hour there, getting reacquainted with his oldest friends-Mark Twain with Dan Beard's illustrations, Dr. Conan Doyle, the Marvelous Land of Oz as described by the Royal Historian and portrayed in color by John R. Neil, Rudyard Kipling, Herbert George Wells, Jules Verne- Lazarus felt that he could easily spend all the coming ten years in that wonderful building.

But when false spring arrived, he started thinking about moving out of the business district and again changing his persona. It was becoming difficult to get picked as a sucker either at pool or at poker; his investment program was complete; he had enough cash in Fidelity Savings & Trust Bank to allow him to give up the austerity of the Y.M.C.A., find a better address, and show a more prosperous face to the world-essential to his final purpose in this city: remeeting his first family-and not much time left before his July deadline.

Acquiring a presentable motorcar crystallized his plans. He spent the next day becoming "Theodore Bronson": moved his bank account one street over to the Missouri Savings Bank, and held out ample cash; visited a barber and had his hair and mustache restyled; went to Browning, King & Co., and bought clothing suitable to a conservative young businessman. Then he drove south and cruised Linwood Boulevard, watching for "Vacancy" signs. His requirements were simple: a furnished apartment with a respectable address and facade, its own kitchen and bathroom-and in walking distance of a pool hall on Thirty-first Street.

He did not plan to hustle in that pool hall; it was one of two places where he hoped to meet a member of his first family. Lazarus found what he needed, but on Armour Boulevard rather than Linwood and rather far from that pool hall. This caused him to rent two garaging spaces-difficult, as Kansas City was not yet accustomed to supplying housing for automobiles. But two dollars a month got him space in a barn close to his apartment; three dollars a month got him a shed behind the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlour.

He started a routine: Spend each evening from eight to ten at the pool hall, attend the church on Linwood Boulevard that his family had attended (did attend), go downtown mornings when business required-by streetcar; Lazarus considered an automobile a nuisance in downtown Kansas City, and he enjoyed riding streetcars. He began profit-taking on his investments, coverting the proceeds into gold double eagles and saving them in a lockbox in a third bank, the Commonwealth. He expected to complete liquidation, with enough gold to carry him through November 11, 1918, well before his July departure date.

In his spare time he kept the landaulet shining, took care of its upkeep himself, and drove it for pleasure. He also worked slowly, carefully, and very privately on a tailoring job: making a chamois-skin vest that was nothing but pockets, each to hold one $20 gold piece. When completed and filled and pockets sewed shut, he planned to cover it, inside and out, with a suit vest he had used as a pattern. It would be much too warm, but a money belt was not enough for that much gold-and money that clinked instead of rustling was the only sort he was certain he could use outside the country in wartime. Besides, when filled it would be almost a bulletproof vest- one never knew what lay around the next corner, and those Latin-American countries were volatile.

Each Saturday afternoon he took conversational Spanish from a Westport High School teacher who lived nearby. All in all he kept pleasantly busy and on schedule.

That evening after locking his Ford landaulet into the shed back of the pawnshop, Lazarus glanced into a bierstube adjoining it, thinking that his grandfather might have a stein of Muehiebach there before going home. The problem of bow to meet his first family easily and naturally had occupied his mind from time to time all winter. He wanted 'to be accepted as a friend in their (his!) home, but he could not walk up the front steps, twist the doorbell, and announce himself as a long-lost cousin-nor even as a friend of a friend from Paducah. He had no connections with which to swing it, and if he tried a complex lie, he was certain his grandfather would spot it.

Thus he had decided on a pianissimo double approach: the church attended by his family (except his grandfather) and the hangout his grandfather used when he wanted to get away from his daughter's family.

Lazarus was sure of the church-and his memory was confirmed the first Sunday he had gene there, with a shock that had upset him even more than the shock of learning that he was three years early.

He saw his mother and had momentarily mistaken her for one of his twin sisters.

But almost instantly he realized why: Maureen Johnson Smith was the genetic mother of his identicals as certainly as she was his own mother. Nevertheless, it had shaken him, and he was glad to have several hymns and a long sermon in which to calm down. He avoided looking at her and spent the time trying to sort out his brothers and sisters.

Twice since then he had seen his mother at church and now could look at her without flinching and could even see that this pretty young matron was compatible with his faded image of what his mother ought to look like. But he still felt that he would never have recognized her had it not been for his sharp recollection of Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee. He had illogically expected a much older woman, more as she had been when he left home.

Attending church had not resulted in his meeting her, or his siblings, although the pastor had introduced him to other parishioners. But he continued to drive his automobile to church against the day when it might be polite to offer her and his siblings a ride home-six blocks over on Benton Boulevard; the spring weather would not always be dry.

He had not been as certain of his grandfather's hangout. He was sure that this was where "Gramp" used to go ten or twelve years later-but did he go here when Woodie Smith was (is) not yet five?

Having checked the German beer parlor-and noted that it had suddenly changed its name to "The Swiss Garden"-he went into the pool hall. Pool tables were all in use; he went back to the rear, where there was one billiard table, a card table, and one for chess or checkers; no pool game being available, it seemed a good time to practice some "mistakes" at three-cushion.

Gramp! His grandfather was alone at the chess table; Lazarus recognized him at once.

Lazarus did not break stride. He went on toward the cue rack, hesitated as he was about to pass the chess table, looked down at the array. Ira Johnson looked up-seemed to recognize Lazarus, seemed about to speak and then to think better of it.

"Excuse me," said Lazarus. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No harm," said' the old man. (How old? To Lazarus he seemed both older and younger than he ought to be. And smaller. When was he born? Almost ten years before the Civil War.) "Just fiddling with a chess problem."

"How many moves to mate?"

"You play?"

"Some." Lazarus added, "My grandfather taught me. But I haven't played lately."

"Care for a game?"

"If you want to put up with a rusty player."

Ira Johnson picked up a white pawn and a black, put them behind his back, brought them out in his fists. Lazarus pointed, found that he had chosen the black.

Gramp started setting up pieces. "My name is Johnson," he offered.

"I'm Ted Bronsón, sir."

They shook hands; Ira Johnson advanced his king's pawn to four; Lazarus answered in kind.

They played silently. By the sixth move Lazarus suspected that his grandfather was re-creating one of Steinitz's master games; by the ninth he was sure of it. Should he use the escape Dora had discovered? No that would feel like cheating-of course a computer could play better chess than I man. He concentrated on playing as well as possible without attempting Dora's subtle variation.

Lazarus was checkmated on white's twenty-ninth move, and it seemed to him that the master game had been perfectly reproduced-Wilhelm Steinitz against some Russian, what was his name? Must ask Dora. He waved to a marker, started to pay for the game; his grandfather pushed his coin aside, insisted on paying for the use of the table, and added to the marker, "Son, fetch us two sarsaparillas. That suit you, Mr. Bronson? Or the boy can fetch you a beer from those Huns next door."

"Sarsaparilla is fine, thank you."

"Ready for revenge?"

"After I catch my breath. You play a tough game, Mr. Johnson."

"Mrrrmph! You said you were rusty."

"I am. But my grandfather taught me when I was very young, then played me every day for years."

"Do tell. I've a grandson I play. Tyke isn't in school yet, but I spot him only a horse."

"Maybe he would play me. Even."

"Mrrmph. You'll allow him a knight, same as I do." Mr. Johnson paid for -the drinks, tipped the boy a nickel. "What business are you in, Mr. Bronson?-if you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all. In business for myself. Buy things, sell things. Make a little, lose a little."

"So? When are you going to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"Sorry, sir, I unloaded that last week. But I can offer you a bargain in Spanish Prisoners."

Mr. Johnson smiled sourly. "Guess that'll teach me."

"But, Mr. Johnson, if I told you I was a pool-hall hustler, you wouldn't let me play chess with your grandson."

"Might, might not. Shall we get set up? Your turn for white."

With the first move allowing him to control the pace. Lazarus made a slow, careful buildup of his attack. His grandfather was equally careful, left no openings in his defense. They were so evenly matched that it took Lazarus forty-one moves and much skull sweat to turn his first-move advantage into a mate.

"Play off the tie?"

Ira Johnson shook his head. "Two games a night is my limit. Two like that is over my limit. Thank you, sir; you play a fine game. For a man who is 'rusty." He pushed back his chair. "Time for me to head for the stable."

"It's raining."

"So I noticed, I'll stand in the doorway and watch for the Thirty-first Street trolley."

"I have my automobile here. I'd be honored to run you home."

"Eh? No need to. Only a block from the car line at the other end, and if I get a little damp, I'll be home and can get dry."

(More like four blocks and you'll be soaked, Gramp.) "Mr. Johnson, I'm going to crank up that flivver anyhow, to go home myself. It's no trouble to drop you anywhere; I like to drive. In about three minutes I'll pull up in front and honk. If you're there, fine. If you aren't, I'll assume that you prefer not to accept rides from strangers, and will take no offense."

"Don't be touchy. Where's your automobile? I'll come with you."

"No, please. No need for us both to go out in the rain for a one-man job. I'll slide out the back through the alley, then I'll be at the curb almost before you reach the front door." (Lazarus decided to be stubborn; Gramp could smell a mouse farther than a cat could-and would wonder why "Ted Bronson" kept a garage at hand when he claimed to live a driving distance away. Bad. How are you going to handle this, Bub? You've got to tell Gramp a passel of lies or you'll never get inside that house-your own home!-to meet the rest of your family. But complexity is contrary to the basic principle of successful lying, and Gramp is the very man who taught you that. Yet the truth could not serve and keeping silent was just as useless. How are you going to solve this? When Gramp is as suspicious as you are and twice as shrewd.)

Ira Johnson stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bronson; I'll be at the front door."

By the time Lazarus had his landaulet cranked, he had settled on tactics and outlined a long-range policy: (a) Drive around the block; this wagon should be wet; (b) don't use this shed again; better to have this puddle jumper stolen than to leave a hole in your cover story; (c) when you surrender the shed, see if "Uncle" Dattelbaum has an old set of chessmen; (d) make your lies fit what you've said, including that too-hasty truth about who taught yot~ to play chess; (e) tell as much truth as possible even if it doesn't sound good-but, damn it, you should be a foundling...and that doesn't fit having a grandfather, unless you invent complexities, any one of which might snap back and catch you out.

When Lazarus sounded the klaxon, Ira Johnson darted out and- scrambled in. "Where now?" asked Lazarus.

His grandfather explained how to reach his daughter's home and added, "Pretty ritzy rig to call a 'flivver.'"

"I got a good price for the Brooklyn Bridge. Should I swing -up to Linwood or follow the car tracks?"

"Suit yourself. Since you've unloaded the bridge, you might tell me about these 'Spanish Prisoners.' Good investment?"

Lazarus concentrated a while on getting his vehicle headed down the tracks while avoiding the tracks themselves. "Mr. Johnson, I evaded your question about what I do for a living."

"Your business."

"I really have hustled pool."

"Again, your business."

"And I ran out and let you pay the table fee a second time, as well as letting you pay for the pop. I did not intend to."

"So? Thirty cents, plus a nickel tip. Knock off five cents the streetcar would have cost me. That makes your half fifteen cents. If it worries you, drop it in his cup the next time you pass a blind man. I'm getting a chauffeured ride on a wet night. Cheap. This is hardly a jitney bus."

"Very well, sir. I wanted to get straight with you...because I enjoyed the games and hope to play you again."

"The pleasure was mutual. I enjoy a game where a man makes me work."

"Thank you. Now to answer your question properly: Yes, I've hustled pool-in the past. It's not what I do now. I'm in business for myself. Buying things, selling things-but not the Brooklyn Bridge. As for the 'Spanish Prisoner' con, I've had it tried on me. I deal in the commodities market, grain futures and such. I do the same with stock margins. But I won't try to sell you anything, I'm neither a broker nor a bucket-shop operator; instead I deal through established brokers. Oh, yes, one more thing-I don't peddle tips. Give a man what seems to me a good tip-and he loses his shirt and blames me. So I don't."

"Mr. Bronson, I had no call to ask about your business. That was nosy of me. But it was meant to be a friendly inquiry."

"I took it as friendly, so I wanted to give it a proper answer."

"Nosy, just the same. I don't need to know your background."

"That's just it, Mr. Johnson, I don't have a background. Pool hustler."

"Not much wrong with that. Pool is an open game, like chess. Difficult to cheat."

"Well...I do something that you might regard as cheating.

"Look, son-if you need a father confessor, I can tell you where to find one. I am not one."

"Sorry."

"Didn't meant to be blunt. But you do have something on your mind."

"Uh, nothing much perhaps. It has to do with having no background. None. So I go to church-to meet people. To meet nice people. Respectable people. People a man with no background otherwise could never meet."

"Mr. Bronson, everybody has some background."

Lazarus turned down Benton Boulevard before answering. "Not me, sir. Oh, I was born-somewhere. Thanks to the man who let me call him 'Grandfather'-and his wife-I had a pretty good childhood. But they're long gone and-shucks, I don't even know that my name is 'Ted Bronson."

"Happens. You're an orphan?"

"I suppose so. And a bastard, probably. Is this the house?' Lazarus stopped one house short of his-their home.

"Next one, with the porch light on."

Lazarus eased the car forward, stopped again. "Been nice meeting you, Mr. Johnson."

"Don't be in a hurry. These people-Bronson?-who took care of you. Where was this?"

"'Bronson' is a name I picked off a calendar. I thought it sounded better than 'Ted Jones' or 'Ted Smith.' I was probably born in the southern part of the state. But I can't prove even that."

"So? I practiced medicine down that way at one time. What county?" (I know you did, Gramp-so let's be careful with this one.) "Greene County. I don't mean I was born there; I just mean I was told I came from an orphanage in Springfield."

"Then I probably didn't deliver you; my practice was farther north. Mrrph. But we might be kinfolk."

"Huh? I mean 'Excuse me, Dr. Johnson?'"

"Don't call me 'Doctor,' Ted; I dropped that title when I quit delivering babies. What I mean is this: When I first saw you, you startled me. Because you are the spit 'n'image of my older brother, Edward...who was an engineer on the St. Looie and San Francisco...till he lost his air brakes and that ended his triflin' ways. He had sweethearts in Fort Scott, St. Looie, Wichita, and Memphis; I've no reason to think he neglected Springfield. Could be."

Lazarus grinned. "Should I call you 'Uncle'?"

"Suit yourself."

"Oh, I shan't. Whatever happened, there's no way to prove it. But it would be nice to have a family."

"Son, quit being self-conscious about it. A country doctor learns that such mishaps are far more common than most people dream. Alexander Hamilton and Leonardo da Vinci are in the same boat with you, to name just two of the many great men entitled to wear the bend sinister. So stand tall and proud and spit in their eyes. I see the parlor light is still burning; what would you say to a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you-or disturb your family."

"It'll do neither. My daughter always leaves the pot on the back of the range for me. If she happens to be downstairs in a wrapper-unlikely-she'll go flying up the back stairs, then reappear instantly down the front stairs, dressed fit to kill. Like a fire horse when the bell rings; I don't know how she does it. Come on in."

Ira Johnson unlocked the front door, then called out as he opened it: "Maureen! I have company with me."

"Coming, Father." Mrs. Smith met them in the hall, moving with serene dignity and dressed as if she expected callers. She smiled, and Lazarus suppressed his excitement.

"Maureen, I want to present Mr. Theodore Bronson. My daughter, Ted-Mrs., Brian Smith."

She offered her hand. "You are most welcome, Mr. Bronson," Mrs. Smith said in warm, rich tones that made Lazarus think of Tamara.

Lazarus took her hand gently, felt his fingers tingle, had to restrain himself from making a deep bow and kissing it. He forced himself to give only a hint of a bow, then let go at once. "I am honored, Mrs. Smith."

"Do come in and sit down."

"Thank you, but it's late, and I was merely dropping your father off on my way home."

"Must you leave so quickly? I was simply darning stockings and reading the 'Ladies' Home Journal'-nothing important."

"Maureen, I promised Mr. Bronson a cup of coffee. He fetched me home from the chess club and saved me a soaking."

"Yes, Father, right away. Take his hat and make him sit down." She smiled and left.

Lazarus let his grandfather seat him in the parlor, then took advantage of the moments his mother was out of sight to quiet down and to glance around. Aside from the fact that the room had shrunk, it looked much as he remembered it; an upright piano she had taught him to play; fireplace with gas logs, mantel shelf with beveled mirror above; a glass-fronted sectional bookcase; heavy drapes and lace curtains; his parent's wedding picture framed with their hearts & flowers marriage license, and balancing this a reproduction of Millet's "Gleaners," and other pictures large and small; a rocking chair, a platform rocker with a footstool, straight chairs, arm chairs, tables, lamps, all crowded and in an easygoing mixture of mission oak and bird's-eye maple. Lazarus felt at home; even the wallpaper seemed familiar-save that he realized uneasily that he had been given his father's chair.

An archway, filled by a beaded portiere, led into the living room, now dark. Lazarus tried to recall what should be in there and wondered if it would look just as familiar. The parlor was immaculately neat and clean, and kept that way, he knew, despite a large family, by the living room being used mainly by children while this room was reserved for their elders and for guests. How many kids now? Nancy, then Carol, and Brian Junior, and George, and Marie-and himself-and since this was early 1917 Dickie had to be about three, and Ethel would still be in diapers.

What was that behind his mother's chair? Could it be?- Yes, it's my elephant! Woodie you little devil, you know you aren't supposed to play in here, and everything must go back into your toy box before you go up to bed; that's a flat rule. The toy animal was small (about six inches high), made of stuffed cloth, and gray with much handling; Lazarus felt resentment that such a treasure-his!-was entrusted to a young child...then managed to laugh at himself even though the emotion persisted. He felt tempted to steal the toy. "Excuse me. You were saying, Mr. Johnson?"

"I said I was temporarily delegated in loco parentis; my son-in-law has gone to Plattsburg and-" Lazarus lost the rest of the remark; Mrs. Smith returned in a soft rustle of satin petticoats, carrying a loaded tray. Lazarus jumped to relieve her of it; she smiled and let him.

By golly, that was the Haviland china he had not been allowed to touch until after he got his first long pants! And the "company" coffee service-solid silver serving pot, cream pitcher, sugar bowl and tongs, the Columbian Exposition souvenir spoons. Linen doilies, matching tea napkins, thin slices of pound cake, a silver dish of mints-how did you do this in three minutes or less? You're certainly doing the prodigal proud! No, don't be a fool, Lazarus; she's doing her father proud, entertaining his guest-you are a faceless stranger.

"Children all in bed?" inquired Mr. Johnson.

"All but Nancy," Mrs. Smith answered, serving them. "She and her young man went to the Isis and should be home soon."

"Show was over half an hour ago."

"Is there any harm in their stopping for a sundae? The ice-cream parlor is on a brightly lighted corner right where they catch their streetcar."

"A young girl shouldn't be out after dark without a chaperon."

"Father, this is 1917, not 1890. He's a fine boy...and I can't expect them to miss an episode of their serial-Pearl White and very exciting; Nancy tells me all about it. With a William S. Hart feature tonight, I understand; I would have enjoyed seeing that myself."

"Well, I've still got my shotgun."

"Father."

Lazarus concentrated on remembering to eat cake with a fork.

"She's trying to bring me up," Gramp said grumpily. "Won't work."

"I'm sure Mr. Bronson is not interested in our family problems," Mrs. Smith said quietly. "If they were problems. Which they are not. May I warm your coffee, Mr. Bronson?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"That's right, he isn't. But Nancy should be told soon. Maureen, take a close look at Ted. Ever seen him before?"

His mother looked over her cup at Lazarus, put it down and said, "Mr. Bronson, when you came in, I had the oddest feeling. At church, was it not?"

Lazarus admitted that such could have been the case. Gramp's brows shot up. "So? I must warn the parson. But even if you did meet there-"

"We did not meet at church, Father. What with herding my zoo I barely have time to speak to Reverend and Mrs. Draper. But now that I think about it, I'm sure I saw Mr. Bronson there last Sunday. One does notice a new face among old familiar ones."

"Daughter, as may be, that wasn't what I meant. Who does Ted look like? No, never mind-doesn't he look like your Uncle Ned?"

His mother again looked at Lazarus. "Yes, I see a resemblance. But he looks even more like you, Father."

"No, Ted's from Springfield. All my sins were farther north."

"Father."

"Daughter, quit worrying about me rattling the family skeleton. It's possible that- Ted, may I tell it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Johnson. As you said, it's nothing to be ashamed of-and I'm not."

"Ted is an orphan, Maureen, a foundling. If Ned weren't warming his toes in hell, I'd ask him some searching questions. The time and place is right, and Ted certainly looks like our kin."

"Father, I think you are embarrassing our guest."

"I don't. And don't you be so hoity-toity, young lady. You're a grown woman, with children; you can stand plain talk."

"Mrs. Smith, I am not embarrassed. Whoever my parents were, I am proud of them. They gave me a strong, healthy body and a brain that serves my needs-"

"Well spoken, young man!"

"-and while I would be proud to claim your father as my uncle-and you as my cousin-if it were so-it seems more likely that my parents were taken by a typhoid epidemic down that way; the dates match well enough."

Mr. Johnson frowned. "How old are you, Ted?"

Lazarus though fast and decided to be his mother's age. "I'm thirty-five."

"Why, that just my age!"

"Really, Mrs. Smith? If you hadn't made clear that you have a daughter old enough to go to the picture show with a young man, I would have thought you were about eighteen."

"Oh, go along with you! I have eight children."

"Impossible!"

"Maureen doesn't look her age," agreed her father. "Hasn't changed since she was a bride. Runs in the family; her mother doesn't have a gray hair today." (Where is Grandma?-oh, yes, so don't ask.) "But, Ted, you don't look thirty-five either. I would have guessed middle twenties."

"Well, I don't know exactly how old I am. But I can't be younger than that. I might be a bit older." (Quite a bit, Gramp!) "But it's close enough that when I'm asked I just put down the Fourth of July, 1882."

"Why that's my birthday!"

(Yes, Mama, I know.) "Really, Mrs. Smith? I didn't mean to steal your birthday. I'll move over a few days-say the first of July. Since I'm not certain anyhow."

"Oh, don't do that! Father-you must bring Mr. Bronson home for dinner on our joint birthday."

"Do you think Brian would like that?"

"Certainly he would! I'll write to him about it. He'll be home long before then in any case. You know Brian always says, 'The more, the merrier!' We'll be expecting you, Mr. Bronson."

"Mrs. Smith. that's most kind of you, but I expect to leave on a long business trip on the first of July."

"I think you have let Father scare you off. Or is it the prospect of eating dinner with eight noisy children? Never mind: my husband will invite you himself-and then we will see what you say."

"In the meantime, Maureen, stop crowding him; you've got him flustered. Let me see something. You two stand up, side by side. Go ahead, Ted; she won't bite you."

"Mrs. Smith?"

She shrugged and dimpled, then accepted his hand to get up out of her rocking chair. "Father always wants to 'see something.'"

Lazarus stood by her, facing his grandfather, and tried to ignore her fragrance-a touch of toilet water, but mostly the light, warm, delicious scent of sweet and healthy woman. Lazarus was afraid to think about it, was careful not to let it show in his face. But it hit him like a heavy blow.

"Mrrrph. Both, of you step up to the mantel and look at yourselves, in the glass. Ted, there was no typhoid epidemic down that way in 'eighty-two. Nor 'eighty-three."

"Really, sir? Of course I can't remember." (And I shouldn't have tossed in that flourish! Sorry, Gramp. Would you believe the truth? You might...out of all the men I've ever known. Don't risk it, Bub, forget it!)

"Nope. Just the usual number of dumb fools too lazy to build their, privies a proper distance from their wells. Which I feel certain could not describe your parents. Can't guess about your mother, but I think your father died with his hand on the throttle, still trying to gain control. Maureen?"

Mrs. Smith stared at her reflection and that of their guest. She said slowly, "Father...Mr. Bronson and I look enough alike to be brother and sister."

"No. First cousins. Although with Ned gone there's no way to prove it. I think-"

Mr. Johnson was interrupted by a yell from the front staircase landing: "Mama! Gramp! I want to be buttoned up!"

Ira Johnson answered, "Woodie, you rapscallion, get back upstairs!"

Instead the child came down-small, male, freckled, and ginger-haired, dressed in Dr. Denton's with the seat flapping behind him. He stared at Lazarus with beady, suspicious eyes. Lazarus felt a shiver run dawn his spine and tried not to look at the child.

"Who's that?"

Mrs. Smith said quickly, "Forgive me, Mr. Bronson." Then she added quietly, "Come here, Woodrow;"

Her father said, "Don't bother, Maureen. I'll take him up and blister his bottom-then I'll button him."

"You and what six others?" the boy child demanded.

"Me, myself, and a baseball bat."

Mrs. Smith quietly and quickly attended to the child's needs, then hurried him out of the room and headed him up the stairs. She returned and sat down. Her father said, "Maureen, that was just an excuse. Woodie can button himself. And he's too old for that baby outfit. Put him in a nightshirt."

"Father, shall we discuss it another time?"

Mr. Johnson shrugged. "I've overstepped again. Ted, that one's the chessplayer. He's a stem-winder. Named for President Wilson, but he's not 'too proud to fight.' Mean little devil."

"Father."

"All right, all right-but it's true. That's what I like about Woodie. He'll go far."

Mrs. Smith said, "Please excuse us, Mr. Bronson. My father and I sometimes differ a little about how to bring up a boy. But we should not burden you with it."

"Maureen, I simply won't let you make a 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' out of Woodie."

"There's no danger of that, Father; he takes after you. My father was in the War of 'Ninety-eight, Mr. Bronson, and the Insurrection-"

"And the Boxer Rebellion."

"-and he can't forget it-"

"Of course not. I keep my old Army thirty-eight under my pillow, my son-in-law being away."

"Nor would I wish him to forget; I am proud of my father, Mr. Bronson, and hope that all my sons will grow up with his same spirit. But I want them to learn to speak politely, too."

"Maureen, I would rather have Woodie sass me than be timid with me. He'll learn to speak politely soon enough; older boys will take care of that. A lesson in manners punctuated with a black eye sticks. I know from experience."

The discussion was interrupted by the jingle of the doorbell. "That should be Nancy," Mr. Johnson said and got up to answer. Lazarus heard Nancy say good-night to someone, then stood up himself to be introduced, and was not startled only because he had already picked out his eldest sister at church and knew that she looked like a young edition of Laz and Lor. She spoke to him politely but rushed upstairs as soon as she was excused.

"Do sit down, Mr. Bronson."

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith, but you were staying up until your daughter returned. She has, so I will leave."

"Oh, there's no hurry; Father and I are night owls."

"Thank you very much. I enjoyed the coffee and the cake, and most especially the company. But it is time for me to say good-night. You have been most kind."

"If you must, sir. Will we see you at church on Sunday?"

"I expect to be there, ma'am."

Lazarus drove home in a daze, body alert but thoughts elsewhere. He reached his apartment, bolted himself in, checked windows and blinds automatically, stripped off his clothes, and started a tub. Then he looked grimly at himself in the bathroom mirror. "You stupid arsfardel," he said with slow intensity. "You whirling son of a bitch. Can't you do anything right?"

No, apparently not, not even something as simple as getting reacquainted with his mother. Gramp had been no problem; the old goat had given him no surprises-other than being shorter and smaller than Lazarus remembered. He was just as grumpy, suspicious, cynical, formally polite, belligerent-and delightful-as Lazarus had remembered.

There had been worrisome moments when he had "thrown himself on the mercy of the court." But that gambit had paid off better than Lazarus had had any reason to hope-through an unsuspected family resemblance. Lazarus not only had never seen Gramp's elder brother (dead before Woodie Smith was born), but he had forgotten that there ever was an Edward Johnson.

Was "Uncle Ned" listed with the Families? Ask Justin. Never mind, not important. Mother had put her finger on the correct answer: Lazarus resembled his grandfather. And his mother, as Gramp had pointed out. But that had resulted only in conjectures concerning dear old Uncle Ned and his "trifling ways," ones that Mother did not mind listening to, once she was certain that her guest was not embarrassed.

Embarrassed? It had changed his status from stranger to "cousin." Lazarus wanted to kiss Uncle Ned and thank him for those "trifling ways" that made kinship plausible. Gramp believed the theory-of course; it was his own-and his daughter seemed willing to treat it as a possible hypothesis. Lazarus, it's just the inside track you need-if you weren't such a blithering idiot!

He tested the bath water-cold. He shut it off and pulled the plug. A promise of hot water all day long had been one inducement when Lazarus had rented this musty cave. But the janitor turned off the water heater before he went to bed, and anyone looking for hot water later than nine was foolish. Well, he qualified as foolish, and perhaps cold water would do more for his unstable condition than hot-but he had wanted a long, hot soak to soothe his nerves and help him think.

He had fallen in love with his mother.

Face it, Lazarus. This is impossible, and you don't know how to handle it. In more than two thousand years of one silly misadventure after the other this is the most preposterous predicament you ever got into.

Oh, sure, a son loves his mother. As "Woodie Smith," Lazarus had never doubted that. He had always kissed his mother good-night (usually), hugged her when he saw her (if he wasn't in a hurry), remembered her birthday (almost always), thanked her for cookies or cake she left out for him whenever he was out late (except when he forgot), and sometimes had told her he loved her.

She had been a good mother. She had never, screamed at him (or at any of them) and, when necessary, had used a switch at once and the matter was over with-never that Wait-till-your-father-gets-home routine. Lazarus could still feel that peach switch on his calves; it had caused him to levitate, better than Thurston the Great, at a very early age.

He recalled, too, that as he grew older, he found that he was proud of the way she looked-always neat and standing straight and invariably gracious to his friends-not like some of the mothers of other boys.

Oh, sure, a boy loves his mother-and Woodie had been blessed with one of the best.

But this was not what Lazarus felt toward Maureen Johnson Smith, lovely young matron, just his "own" age. That visit this night had been delicious agony-for he had never in all his lives been so unbearably attracted, so sexually obsessed, by any woman any where or when. During that short visit Lazarus had been forced to be most careful not to let his passion show-and especially cautious not to appear too gallant, not be more than impersonally polite, not by expression or tone of voice or anything else risk arousing Gramp's always-alert suspicions, not let Gramp suspect the storm of lust that had raged up in him as soon as he touched her hand.

Lazarus looked down at proof of his-passion, hard and tall, and slapped it. "What are you standing up for? There's nothing doing for you. This is the Bible Belt."

It was indeed! Gramp did not believe in the Bible or live by Bible-Belt standards, yet Lazarus felt sure that, were he to provoke it by breaching those standards, Gramp would shoot him quite dispassionately, on behalf of his son-in-law. Possibly the old man would let the first shot go wide and give him a chance to run. But Lazarus was not willing to bet his life on it. Gramp acting for his son-in-law might feel duty bound to shoot straight-and Lazarus knew how straight the old man could shoot.

Forget it, forget it, he was not going to give either Gramp or his father any reason to shoot, or even to be angry-and you forget it too, you blind snake! Lazarus wondered when his father would be home, and tried to remember how he looked-found his memory blurred. Lazarus had always been closer to his Grandfather Johnson than to his father; not only had his father often been away on business, but also Gramp had been home in the daytime and willing to spend time with Woodie.

His other grandparents? Somewhere in Ohio- Cincinnati? No matter, his memory of them was so faint that it did not seem worthwhile to try to see them.

He had completed all that he had intended to do in Kansas City-and if he had the sense God promised a doorknob, the time to leave is now. Skip church on Sunday, stay away from the pool hall, go down Monday and sell his remaining holdings-and leave! Climb into the Ford-no, sell it and take a train to San Francisco; there catch the first ship south. Send Gramp and Maureen polite notes, mailed from Denver or San Francisco, saying that he was sorry but that business trip, etc.-but Get Out of Town!

Because Lazarus knew that the attraction had not been one-sided- He thought that he had kept Gramp from guessing his emotional storm...but Maureen had been aware of it-and had not resented it. No, she had been flattered and pleased. They had been on the same frequency at once, and without a word or any meaningful glance or touch, her transponder had answered him, silently...then, as opportunity made it possible, she had answered overtly, once with a dinner invitation-which Gramp had tromped on-and she had promptly tromped back in a fashion that made it acceptable by the mores. Then a second time, just as he was leaving, with the also fully acceptable suggestion that she would expect to see him in church.

Well, why should a young matron, even in 1917, not be pleased-and flattered, and unresentful-to know that a man wanted most urgently to take her to bed and treat her with gentle roughness? If his nails were clean...if his breath was sweet...if his manners were polite and respectful-why not? A woman with eight children is no nervous virgin; she is used to a man in her bed, in her arms, in her body-and Lazarus would have bet his last cent that Maureen enjoyed it.

Lazarus had no reason then, or in his earlier life, to suspect that Maureen Smith had ever been anything but "faithful" by the most exacting Bible-Belt standards. He had no reason to think that she was even flirting with him. Her manner had not suggested it; he doubted if it ever would. But he held a deep certainty that she was as strongly attracted as he was, that she knew exactly where it could lead-and he suspected that she realized that nothing but chaperonage would stop them.

(But a father in residence and eight children, plus the contemporary mores concerning what can and can't be done, constituted a lot of chaperonage! Llita's chastity belt could hardly be more efficient.)

Let's haul it out into the middle of the floor and let the cat sniff it. "Sin?" "Sin" like "love" was a word hard to define. It came in two bitter but vastly different flavors. The first lay in violating the taboos of your tribe. This passion he felt was certainly sinful by the taboos of the tribe he had been born into-incestuous in the first degree.

But it could not possibly be incest to Maureen.

To himself? He knew that "incest" was a religious concept, not a scientific one, and the last twenty years had washed away in his mind almost the last trace of his tribal taboo. What was left was no more than that breath of garlic in a good salad; it made Maureen more enticingly forbidden (if such were possible!); it did not scare him off. Maureen did not seem to be his mother-because she did not fit his recollection of her either as a young woman or as an old woman.

The other meaning of "sin" was easier to define because it was not clouded by the murky concepts of religion and taboo: Sin is behavior that ignores the welfare of others.

Suppose he stuck around and managed somehow (stipulate safe opportunity) to bed Maureen with her full cooperation? Would she regret it later? Adultery? The word meant something here.

But she was a Howard, one of the early ones when marriage between Howards was a cash contract, eyes wide open, payment from the Foundation for each child born of such union-and Maureen had carried out the contract, eight paid-for children already and would stay in production for, uh, about fifteen more years. Perhaps to her "adultery" meant "violation of contract" rather than "sin"-he did not know.

But that is not the point, Bub; the real question is the only one that has ever stopped you when temptation coincided with opportunity-and this time he could consult neither Ishtar nor any geneticist. The chance of a bad outcome was slight when there were so many hurdles in the way of any outcome. But it was the exact risk that he had always refused to take: the chance of placing a congenital handicap on a child.

Hey, wait a minute! No such outcome could result because no such had resulted. He knew every one of his siblings, alive now or still to be born, and there had not been a defective in the lot. Not one. Therefore no hazard.

But- That was grounded on the assumption that his "no paradoxes" theory was a law of nature. But you've long been aware that the "no-paradoxes" theory itself involves a paradox-one that you've kept quiet about so as not to alarm Laz and Lor and the rest of your "present" (that present, not this one) family; to wit, the idea that free will and predestination are two aspects of the same mathematical truth, and the difference is merely linguistic, not semantic: the notion that his own free will could not change events here-&-now because his freewill actions here-&-now were already a part of what had happened in any later "here-&-now."

Which in turn depended on a solipsistic notion he had held as far back as he could remember- Cobwebs, all of it!

Lazarus, you don't know what trouble you might cause. So don't! Get out of town now and don't come back to Kansas City at all! Because, if you do, you're certain to try to get Maureen's bloomers off...and she's going to breathe hard and help. From there on only Allah knows-but it could be tragic for her and tragic for others, and as for you, you stupid stud, all balls and no brain, it could get your ass shot off...just as the twins predicted.

In which case, since you are not going to see your family again, there is no sense in waiting in South America for this war to end. You've seen enough of this doomed era; ask the girls to come pick you up now.

Was her waist really that slender? Or did she lace it in? Shucks, it didn't matter how she was built. As with Tamara, it simply did not matter.

Dear Laz and Lor,

Darlings, I've changed plans. I've seen my first family, and there isn't anything else I want to do in this era- nothing worth sweating out most of two years in a backwater while this war drags on to its bloody and useless finish. So I want you to pick me up now, at the impact crater. Forget about Egypt; I can't get there now.

By "pick me up now" I mean Gregorian 3 March 1917-repeat, third day of March one thousand nine hundred and seventeen Gregorian, at that meteor impact crater in Arizona.

Much to tell you when I see you. Meanwhile-

My undying love,

Lazarus

Was it her voice? Or her fragrance? Or something else?