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.