Lib raced into the kitchen, demanding a reason for the shouting. He hefted the pot. “I’ll bet it’ll hold two gallons,” he said. “What a find!”

“It’s just an old pot Mother bought when we were in New England one summer. An antique. She thought it would look wonderful with a plant. It looked awful.”

“It’ll look beautiful hanging in the dining-room fireplace,” Randy said, “filled with stew.”

The old pot was the most useful object-indeed it was one of the few useful objects-he found in the McGovern house. Twenty minutes later Dan Gunn returned, alone and worried. “Bubba Offenhaus,” he said, “can’t help us. Bubba would like to bury himself. He’s got dysentery. Running at both ends. He and Kitty were certain it was radiation poisoning. Symptoms are pretty much alike, you know. Both of them were in panic. He’ll get over it in a few days, but that’s not helping us now.” Randy said, “So what do we do?”

Dan looked at Bill McGovern, fully dressed now but still unwashed and unshaven, for there was no water in the house except a jug, for drinking, that Randy had brought to them the day before. Dan said, “I think that’s up to you to decide, Bill.” “What is there to decide?” Bill asked.

“Whether to bury your wife here or in the cemetery. You don’t have a plot in Repose-in-Peace but I’m sure Bubba won’t mind. Anyway, there’s nothing he can do about it, and you can settle with him later.”

Bill McGovern turned to his daughter. “What do you say, Elizabeth?”

“Well, of course I think Mother deserves a proper funeral in a cemetery. It seems like the least we can do for her. And yet “ She turned to Randy. “You don’t agree, do you, Randy?”

Randy was glad that she asked. Intervening in this private and personal matter was brutal but necessary. “No, I don’t agree. It’s six miles to the cemetery. We’d have to make the trip in two cars because of the-because of Lavinia. That’s twenty-four miles’ worth of gasoline, round trip, and we can’t afford it. We will have to bury Lavinia here, on the grounds.”

“But how-” Lib began.

“Where do you keep the shovels, Bill?” “There’s a tool shed back of the garage.”

While handing a shovel to Dan, and selecting one for himself, Randy examined the other tools. There was a new ax. It would be very useful. There were pitchforks, edgers, a scythe, a wheelbarrow. He would bring Malachai over before dark and they would divvy up the McGovern tools. In everything he did, now, he found he looked into the needs of the future.

Between house and river, a crescent-shaped azalea bed flanked the west border of the McGovern property. The bitter blue grass had been carefully tended, and the bed was shaded from afternoon’s hot sun by a live oak older than Fort Repose. Looking around, Randy could find no spot more suitable for a grave. He stepped off six feet and marked a rectangle within the crescent. He and Dan began to dig.

After a few minutes Randy removed his sweater. This was no easy job. Dan stopped and inspected his plans. He said, “I’m getting ditch digger’s hands. Very bad for a surgeon.” They continued to dig, steadily, until it was awkward working from the surface. Randy stepped into the deepening grave. They had made a discovery. A grave designed to accommodate one person must be dug by one person alone.

When Randy paused, winded, Bill McGovern stepped down and took the shovel, saying, “I’ll spell you.”

From above, Lib watched. Presently she said, “That’s enough for you, Dad. Remember the blood pressure. I don’t want to lose you too.” She stepped into the hole and relieved him of the shovel. After he climbed out, panting and white-faced, she thrust the shovel savagely into the sand. As she dug, her stature increased in Randy’s eyes. She was like a fine sword, slender and flexible, but steel; a woman of courage. It was not gentlemanly, but Randy allowed her to dig, recognizing that physical effort was an outlet for her emotions. When her pace slowed he dropped into the hole and took the shovel. “That’s enough. Dan and I will finish. You and your father had better go back to the house and get on with your packing.”

“You don’t want us to help you carry her out, do you?” “I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

Dan reached down and lifted her out of the hole.

When the grave was finished, they wrapped Lavinia’s emaciated body in her bed sheets, Her coffin was an electric blanket and her hearse a wheelbarrow. They lowered her into the five-foot hole and packed in the sand and loam afterwards, leaving an insignificant mound. Randy knew that when spring came the mound would flatten with the rains, the grass would swiftly cover it, and by June it would have disappeared entirely.

Randy called the McGoverns. There was no service, no spoken word. They all stood silent for a moment and then Bill McGovern said, “We don’t even have a wooden marker for her, or a sliver of stone, do we?”

“We could take something out of the house,” Randy suggested, “a statue or a vase or something.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Lib said. `The house is my mother’s monument.”

This of course was true. They turned from the grave and back to their work.

That evening Bill McGovern, with some eagerness, walked to the Henrys’ house and talked to Malachai. Together they went along the river bank to Sam Hazzard’s house and conferred with him on a plan for supplying power for the Admiral’s short-wave receiver.

Dan Gunn drove to Fort Repose to visit the homeless, some of them sick or burned, lodged in the school.

Randy and Lib McGovern sat alone on the front porch steps, Lib’s elbows on her knees, her chin supported by her hands, Randy’s arms encircling her shoulders. She was speaking of her mother. “I’m sure she never really comprehended what happened on The Day, or ever could. Perhaps I am only rationalizing, but I think her death was an act of mercy.”

Randy heard someone running up the driveway and then he saw the figure and recognized Ben Franklin. “Ben!” he called. “What’s the matter?”

Ben stopped, out of breath, and said, “Something’s happened at Miss Wechek’s!”

Randy rose, ready to get his pistol. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was just walking by her house and I heard somebody scream. I think Miss Wechek. Then I heard her crying.”

Randy said, “We’d better take a look, Lib. You stay here, Ben.”

Yellow candlelight shone from Florence’s kitchen. They went to the back door. Florence was wailing and Randy entered without bothering to knock.

As he opened the screen door green and yellow feathers fluttered around his feet. Florence’s head rested on her arms on the kitchen table. She was dressed in a quilted, rose-hued robe. Alice Cooksey was with her, coaxing water to a boil on a Sterno kit. Randy said, “What seems to be the trouble?”

Florence raised her head. Her untidy pink hair was moist and stringy. Her eyes were swollen. “Sir Percy ate Anthony!” she said. She began to sob.

“She’s had a terrible day,” said Alice Cooksey. “I’m trying to make tea. She’ll be better after she’s had tea.”

“What all happened?” Randy asked.

“It really began yesterday,” Alice said. “When we woke up yesterday morning the angelfish were dead. You know how cold it was night before last, and of course without electricity there’s no heat for the aquarium. And this morning all the mollies and neons were dead. As a matter of fact nothing’s alive in the tank except the miniature catfish and a few guppies. And then, this evening-”

“Sir Percy,” Florence interrupted, “a murderer!”

“Hush, dear,” Alice said. “The water will be boiling in a moment.” She turned to Randy. “Florence really shouldn’t blame Sir Percy. After all, there’s been no milk for him, and very little of anything else. As a matter of fact, we haven’t seen Sir Perry in three or four days-I suppose he was out hunting for himself but a few minutes ago when Anthony flew home Sir Percy was on the porch.”