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and the force of the blow knocked her flat out on the bed, but she didn’t cry out Instead, she touched the bruise gently and stared up at him. “At least I’m fairly close to your size,” she said softly.
    He stared at her, then at his hand, and it seemed like an eternity before he realized what he had done. “My God,” he breathed. He went to the bathroom and ran the water until it was cold. Then he soaked a washcloth and brought it to her, handing it to Rose to press against her cheek, knowing that she wouldn’t let him touch her now.
    “I didn’t mean to do that.”
    “Didn’t you?” Her voice was listless, as if nothing mattered. “I suppose you don’t mean to do a lot of things you do.”
    “Rose, that isn’t fair.”
    “Life isn’t fair, Jack. Leave me alone.”
    He got up to leave the room. “Maybe it’s the curse,” he said, trying to keep his voice light “Maybe the old family curse has finally caught up with me.”
    “Maybe it’s caught up with both of us,” Rose said miserably. She watched him leave the bedroom, and wanted to call him back, wanted to hold him and be held by him. But she couldn’t. She turned off the light, rolled over, and tried to sleep.
    *    *    *
    Jack sank into his chair in the study and took a sip of the drink in his hand. He stared moodily out the window, watching the play of moonlight and shadows on the branches of the maple trees that broke the clean sweep of lawn from the house to the edge of the cliff beyond. The cliff looked inviting, but Jack knew that that was not one of the things that happened when he drank. Often he wished it were.
    The memory was still not clear. Perhaps it never would be, sodden as it was in alcohol.
    Rose was right; it was just about a year. It had been a Sunday, and it must have been a little over a year ago, for the leaves were still on the trees, glowing gold and red. Rose had gone off for a game of golf—who with? He couldn’t remember. There was so much of that day he couldn’t remember. He had been drinking, which wasn’t unusual for a Sunday, and in the afternoon he had decided to go for a walk. With Sarah.
    And then it was foggy. They had started off across the field, and Sarah had run ahead, calling to him to hurry. But he hadn’t hurried, and she had waited for him. They had talked, there in the field, but he couldn’t remember what they had talked about And then Sarah had asked him to take her to the woods. There were so many things in the woods she wanted to see, and she never got to go there. And so they had gone to the woods.
    He remembered carrying her out of the woods, but that was all.
    He listened to the clock strike, and watched the shadows dance on the window. It was an ugly dance, and he didn’t want to watch it. He looked at his drink, and tried to force himself not to refill it.
    Sarah slept restlessly, and the dream swept over her again, as it did every night, over and over, never ending.
    She was in a room, and the room was big. Therewas nothing in the room except Sarah and her toys. But she didn’t want to play with them. Then Daddy was there, and they were going out of the house together and into the field. She ran ahead of him and stopped to look at a flower. There was an ant on the flower, and she picked the flower to take back to her daddy. But she knew that if she tried to carry it, the ant would fall off. So she called him.
    “Daddy! Hurry!”
    But he hadn’t hurried, and she had waited for him. When he was finally there, the ant was gone, and the flower too, blown out of her hand on a gust of wind. It had gone to the forest, and she wanted to find it.
    “The flower’s in the woods, Daddy. Take me to the woods.”
    And so they went to the woods, and her daddy was holding her hand. She felt safe.
    They stepped out of the sunlight of the field into the deep shadow of the trees, and Sarah held her father’s hand even tighter. She looked around for the flower, and saw a bush. The flower