Syzygy

Guiltily she closed the fridge. "I thought you might be hungry, dear."

"I'm too mad to be hungry." He snapped on the television set irritably, switching from one newscast to another without listening to any. He was wearing the hapi coat she had brought back for him from a conference in Japan, and his bony knees were bare; after the last time she had applied her sovereign remedy for stress it had not seemed worthwhile to dress again. "I've got political IOUs to pick up all over this state," he declared. "I'm going to see that the governor does something!"

He plucked a Christmas card off the tree and began scribbling on the back of it—names of his proteges and allies, the political family he had built up over forty years of teaching and working. There were four former students in the state legislature, and a dozen more in government jobs. At least as many more in the even more powerful position of lobbyists or special-interest pleaders. "I'm not going to let this pass," he said, and then, "Now who the hell's that?"

It was nearly midnight, no time for the doorbell to ring. Meredith peered through the spyhole anxiously before she opened the door, but of course there was nothing to be seen but formless wet shapes on the patio. A muffled voice called, "Hello, Grandmerry."

It was Dennis, and there was someone with him—good heavens, that black man from the Jupes; good heavens ' again! and with a little girl holding his hand. She opened the door and, without entering, her grandson asked, "Can I ask you for a favor?"

Sam got up and peered to the door. "Come inside and ask it, boy! You're going to drown out there."

They came in, Dennis looking worried, the black man self-possessed and wary, the little girl even more self- possessed and not wary at all. "I wasn't sure you'd let me in," Dennis told his grandfather, who grunted without answering. "But that place we've been living in is no good now—"

"It never was any good!"

"—anyway, we can't leave Afeefah there now. They've been asking for emergency volunteers on the radio, and Saun and I want to go out and help. So can we leave Feef here for the night?"

"Well, of course you can!" cried Meredith, smiling at the little girl, who studied her thoughtfully before allowing her a small smile in return.

Saunders Robinson patted his daughter on the head and steered her toward the woman. "We appreciate that a lot. And, look, I'm really sorry about what happened at the TV station. We had no idea."

Sam Houston Bradison was not a person to hold a grudge. "It wasn't your fault, although—" He stopped himself and changed what he was going to say. "If you two are going out to dig ditches you'll want better clothes than you've got on. Come on, let's see what we can find."

Meredith felt her heart warm toward her grandson. Was it a sort of penance Dennis was paying, for having been part of that lunatic bunch? If so, she approved it. And she realized what it meant: they would be out all the night, building dikes, cleaning runoff channels; no fun for anyone.

"What you got to do is, you got to put it in the boiling water, you know?"

Meredith realized she was still holding the packet of frozen chipped beef. "My mind was wandering—Feef? Am I saying it right?"

"My name is Afeefah, and it means 'chaste'. But you can call me Feef. "

"I thought I'd better make you something to eat."

The little girl shook her cornrows. "We ate. We been eating, one place or another, last couple hours, nowhere else to go."

"Sure you had a place to go, Afeefah. You're very welcome here! How about a glass of milk?"

She shook her head again. "Black people can't 'tabolize milk," she said seriously. "Anyway, there's somebody in your driveway."

"Oh, really?" Meredith peered out the kitchen window, but there was only Dennis's car to see. Still, she could hear a motor. "Somebody lost and turning around, I guess. I Well! Let's make up a bed for you, shall we? I bet you're tired, this time of night. "

Afeefah corrected her politely, "I most usually stay up later than this." But she trailed along happily enough as Meredith pulled out clean sheets and pillowcases. It was really very pleasant having her around, poor little thing! They could hear the men moving around in the mud room, finding boots and heavy-duty pants, but Afeefah did not seem anxious to be with her father, or worried about staying all night with total strangers—white strangers, to boot. And helpful, too. She stretched across the bed to catch one side of the sheet and carefully tucked it in, then, without being told, began stuffing pillows into the cases.

Meredith sought for a compliment. "How pretty your hair looks."

The girl acknowledged the validity of the remark. "I done it myself," she pointed out, in the interests of accuracy.

"You did it beautifully. Are you sure you wouldn't like something to eat?"

It took only a moment to establish that Afeefah was really fond of Twinkies, and of course there was always plenty of that sort of thing in Meredith's larder. It was good having a child in the house again, Meredith thought after she had told Afeefah where to find the junk food. At least twice a month she and her husband had debated getting rid of this house and moving to something smaller, now that there so seldom was anyone to occupy any of the children's, or later the grandchildren's, rooms; but at times like this she was grateful for them. She switched on the bedside radio, not so much for company as to make sure it worked in case Afeefah wanted it, and, of course, got a weather report. She paused with the coverlet in her hands to listen. The wind was from the south at fifteen to twenty- five miles an hour, pumping up moisture from the sea; the system was stalled. But at least—for the first time in many days—there did not seem to be another storm waiting its turn out over the Pacific. There was a worrisome low far out past the International Date Line, but with any luck at all it might not hit. At least, the coast would have a chance to dry out a little.

So the governor might make it through in the morning after all—sometime tomorrow, anyway. And then Sam would have a chance to—to do what, exactly? Her husband's discipline was political science. It was a good enough thing to study, but it led you to assume that everything wrong in the world could be made right by the right kind of election or the right kind of laws. And was there really any way to make storms and earthquakes illegal? Or was he just out for the blood of the Pedigrues?

She pulled the coverlet straight—more or less straight— and then stood up. Had that been the doorbell? Again? At this time?

Afeefah was there before her. As Meredith was hurrying to answer it Feef met her with a soggy brown-paper package in her hand. "He didn't want to come in," she said. "He just says to give this to this lady—" pointing to the name on the envelope.

It said in crabbed, foreign-looking printing: MRS RAINEY KETING PERSONAL. "How very strange," said Meredith. Outside she heard a car door slap tinnily closed, and when she looked out the little sports car was backing carefully out into the streaming street.

Lev Mihailovitch looked up at the house as he turned toward the freeway, hoping he had done the right thing. Was this Mrs. Dr. Bradison a black person? If not, was this child her maid's, perhaps?

But he didn't have any choice; the document was not truly of sensitive importance, but there were persons somewhere who thought it was. He could not simply mail it. And he had been turned away from the road to Mrs. Dr. Keating's apartment, and her telephone had not seemed to work—it did not matter; it was done. He concentrated on driving. This weather was unpleasant, although Moscow's winters were of course far worse. The car was even more unpleasant. At the rental place at the airport it had looked enough like the special-order car they had made for him at the Togliatti works in the Soviet Union to tempt him, but it was not the same; the shift did not operate in the same way, the windshield wipers were automatic instead of being turned with one hand while he drove with the other; all of its parts were strange. In any case, driving in Los Angeles was a terror.