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since I broke my glasses."
    "But you… You didn't have them fixed, Dad? After I gave you the money, and you promised-" Dusty broke off, abruptly. "All right," he said. "All right. You go in and see the optometrist tomorrow, have him give me a ring here at the house and tell me what the bill will be. I'll get a money order for you to give him when you pick up the glasses."
    "Fine," the old man murmured.
    "Now, I'll give you a shave myself. Or, no" – Dusty took a dollar from his wallet and added some change to it "you can use a haircut, too. This will take care of it. You run along right now, Dad."
    "Well" – Mr. Rhodes looked down at the money-"hadn't I better wait until the groceries…?"
    "I'll take care of them myself. I don't want to go to bed, anyway, until you get back from the barber shop."
    "Well, now, there's no need to-"
    "I'll be waiting," Dusty said firmly. "I want to be sure you – that they give you a good job."
    His father looked at him thoughtfully, the kind of appraising look he had used to give him, back before the trouble had come up, when Dusty's conduct had fallen below standard. Curious, disappointed, but not condemnatory nor surprised.
    Dusty stared back at him stolidly.
    Mr. Rhodes stood up, shoved the money into the pocket of his stained baggy trousers, and left the house.
    The laundry and cleaning men came, men the man from the grocery store. Dusty was in the kitchen, still unpacking and putting away the groceries, when his father returned from the barber shop.
    The barber had done his work well. Except for his clothes, Mr. Rhodes might have been Professor Rhodes, principal of Central High School. Dusty was pleased by the transformation, but also annoyed. It confirmed his belief that his father could, if he only chose to, escape the slough of senility into which he seemed to be sinking.
    "Well," he said, curdy, "I hope we've got enough here to last a while."
    "This meat, Bill" – Mr. Rhodes shook his head. "Why did you get so much? It'll spoil before we can use it."
    "I can't be waiting around here every morning while they bring a pound or two, can I?" Dusty rammed the package of meat into the refrigerator. "I can't hang around town in the morning until the stores open. I'm tired when I get off work. I want to 'get home and get to bed:"
    "Cornmeal," murmured the old man. "And flour. We never use anything like that, Bill."
    "Well" – Dusty's lips pressed.together-"I did the best I could. I didn't suppose there'd be any use in asking you what we needed. When I leave it to you, we usually wind up without anything."
    "No coffee," said Mr. Rhodes, worriedly. "No fresh milk. Or bread. No-"
    "All right!" Dusty yanked a five-dollar bill from his wallet and flung it on the table. "That ought to take care of it! Now, I'm going to bed."
    "You don't want something to eat first?"
    "I've already eaten. Ate downtown. I – honest to God, Dad, I-"
    "You shouldn't have bought so much, Bill." The old man shook his head. "All this stuff, and you eating at home so seldom. You'd better let me do the buying after this."
    "How the hell can I? Goddammit, I keep handing money out to you and -."
    He broke off, choking down the angry words, ashamed of himself; seeing the futility of talk. His father's mouth had drooped open in that loose, imbecilic way. His eyes were vacantly bewildered. Swiftly, as he always did when the perplexing or troublesome loomed, he had retreated behind the barrier of helplessness.
    "Sorry," Dusty said gruffly. "Have a good day, Dad."
    And he entered his bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
    Well, hell, he thought, with a kind of sullen remorsefulness. Probably he can't help it; maybe it's the way it has to be. He's had too much to cope with in too short a time. He's all right, as long as things run along smoothly, but the minute any trouble starts…
    Dusty drew the shades, and turned on the electric fan. He took a few puffs from a cigarette, tapped it out in the ash tray and stretched out