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her head barely reached his shoulder blades, Claudine reached out and pulled Gerard down for a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again, too,” she responded, her voice light. “But I do feel the tiniest bit old seeing this young lady here with you. I can still remember the time you came home to tell everyone about her!”
    This made Retty and Gerard tense up, and Maggie could feel her father’s unease almost palpably in the room with them. What on earth happened in this house twenty-five years ago? she wondered yet again.
    Claudine gave a faint smile, then continued, “Well, time enough for chatting about old times later. Someone wants to see you.” She turned toward the center of the room and nodded her head.
    For the first time, Maggie was more aware of her surroundings. She and Retty stood in a corner of the room, just inside the door. The room seemed large, though perhaps the lack of furniture—save a king-sized bed, a bedside table, and a couple of chairs—lent the impression of space. The lighting was dim, the curtains pulled against the glare of the early afternoon sun, and the color scheme did nothing to lessen the gloomy feeling. Everything seemed to be some combination of gray and mauve—a tribute, Maggie learned later, to the school colors of her grandfather’s college, Mississippi State University. At the moment she found the whole scene rather unsettling.
    A thin, frail figure dominated the bed. His skin was deathly white against the mauve of the bedspread, but Henry McLendon lay there with fires banked, waiting impatiently for them to approach. Quietly, both Maggie and Gerard moved forward to stand by the side of the bed. With a shock, Maggie found the outlines of her father’s face carved into the hideously old contours of her grandfather’s visage, and the image frightened her. What had once been the fullness of flesh had shrunk away to reveal the uncompromising sharpness of the bones beneath, and Henry McLendon’s face was now nothing but planes and angles. Yet from this physical wreck burned a fierce energy; she could see it in his eyes. Henry McLendon had not yet made up his mind to die, and that was enough for now.
    Those brilliant eyes glanced at Gerard, then moved on to Maggie’s face. In them she read an appeal she couldn’t answer, for she knew that, if only for a moment, he was seeing someone else, probably her grandmother. Please, God, Maggie thought, not Lavinia! Then the eyes dimmed, and the old man blinked.
    When he spoke, the voice came out strong, like a leather whip cracking in the air. “You’re a little early, I haven’t given up yet.”
    Maggie flinched as if he’d reached out to strike her. Gerard, surprisingly, laughed aloud. “You old bastard,” he said with affection, though his voice was strained.
    Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off her grandfather’s face. Though his expression changed very little, she would have sworn that her father’s reply had pleased him. His words confirmed it. “I see you didn’t go completely soft teaching poetry.”
    “It kept me from going insane writing wills and drawing up contracts, not to mention bilking widows and orphans of their property,” Gerard conceded tartly.
    Henry chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that Maggie mistook for a cough at first. “He always did have brass,” he confided to her. “Even as a toddler. Your grandmother had quite a time trying to potty train him.” He smiled. “He had to be tough, in this family. Else he’d’ve been eaten alive, and not just by his father. I’m glad to see he stayed that way. What about you?”
    Still dazed by mental images of her father’s toilet training, Maggie didn’t know quite what to reply. "I’ve lived with him for nearly twenty-six years,” she said. “Does that qualify me?” Now I'm beginning to sound like the rest of them, she thought.
    Henry laughed again. “You’ll do, my girl! You’ll do.” He extended a hand to her, urging her to sit on