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though each one of them was a small bell, sixty-five of them all striking, the sounds growing ever fainter. Her mother was only half there on the other end of the wire; the rest of her was walking back down the hospital corridor to her father.
    â€œWhen will you call?” asked Emma.
    â€œAs soon as I can,” said her mother. Then the phone went silent; her mother was entirely gone.
    She went to the window that looked out on the bay. The water was as red as blood in the sunset. The far islands bloomed like blood-red roses. She turned away to the dining room. Aunt Bea was playing a hand of solitaire. Her fingers tapped the back of each card before she put it down. Tap, tap, tap, her fingers clicked like fast heartbeats.
    â€œSupper,” announced Uncle Crispin. Emma went in. The table reminded her of something she’d read in a story long ago. There were balls of wool, playing cards laid out for solitaire, the brown teapot, empty cups, the newspaper with the filled-in crossword puzzle, Aunt Bea’s silver pen, and three plates and flatware. She remembered. It was a bit like the Mad Hatter’s tea party in Alice in Wonderland. Aunt Bea looked as sleepy as the dormouse but her hands were moving, touching the plate in front of her, the pen, the wool, with restless fingers.
    The roast chicken and baked yams were good. Uncle Crispin told Emma about one of his students, an elderly woman whose arthritis had nearly disappeared because of the exertion of playing the violin.
    â€œWhat the violin requires is talent,” Aunt Bea interrupted shrilly.
    â€œIt needs physical strength, too,” Uncle Crispin said. For a little while, Aunt Bea ate and was silent. Still, Emma found herself waiting as though for a loud alarm clock to ring. She wasn’t as startled as she might have been, earlier in the day, when Aunt Bea exclaimed loudly and scornfully, “Canned peas!”
    â€œAt least, they’re French canned peas,” Uncle Crispin observed with a smile.
    â€œAt least …” Aunt Bea mocked. But she smiled, too.
    When the saucers of chocolate ice cream were set down on the table, Aunt Bea looked at Emma. “Have you seen the Connecticut estate?” she asked.
    Emma looked at her blankly.
    â€œThe house my father built for your grandmother?” she asked more loudly, as though Emma were deaf.
    Emma shook her head. “They both died before I was born,” she said.
    â€œWell, of course, I knew that,” Aunt Bea declared. “You’re grandmother made him build that place—using my poor, dead mother’s wealth. Everybody knew that! I admit it was a beautiful house. My father had style and your grandmother had push. I was at Smith College then. They never invited me—not once—to visit there.”
    â€œThat isn’t quite true, Bea,” Uncle Crispin reproached her. “You’ve often told me about spending Christmases there.”
    â€œThose are fairy tales,” Aunt Bea said self-righteously. “I was just a lonely girl. Can you blame me for making up stories? It’s too pathetic! I thought Philip might have taken you, Emma, to see the place where he grew up. God knows what sort of people own it now. I’m sure it’s worth a fortune.” She swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and scraped the saucer fiercely. “All I inherited was this nightmare of a cabin.”
    â€œThis is a fine house,” Uncle Crispin disagreed. “We’re lucky to have it, and the bay and the countryside are splendid.”
    â€œIt’s a nightmare,” Aunt Bea said insistently, “and the countryside is nothing but a tired suburb.”
    Emma helped to clear the table. Aunt Bea grabbed up her cards and spread them out in another hand of solitaire, slapping the table with them.
    In the kitchen, Uncle Crispin washed and Emma dried. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor. A moment later, television voices murmured