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with paintings on the wall in elaborate gilded frames could find nothing wrong； then what could emergency technicians do； people trained to leap on chests and pound at static hearts？
I picked him up and set him against the steering wheel； facing me； his feet on my thighs。 The huge lament continued； wave on wave。 It was a sound so large and pure I could almost listen to it； try consciously to apprehend it； as one sets up a mental register in a concert hall or theater。 He was not sniveling or blubbering。 He was crying out； saying nameless things in a way that touched me with its depth and richness。 This was an ancient dirge all the more impressive for its resolute monotony。 Ululation。 I held him upright with a hand under each arm。 As the crying continued； a curious shift developed in my thinking。 I found that I did not necessarily wish him to stop。 It might not be so terrible； I thought； to have to sit and listen to this a while longer。 We looked at each other。 Behind that dopey countenance； a plex intelligence operated。 I held him with one hand； using the other to count his fingers inside the mittens； aloud； in German。 The inconsolable crying went on。 I let it wash over me； like rain in sheets。 I entered it； in a sense。 I let it fall and tumble across my face and chest。 I began to think he had disappeared inside this wailing noise and if I could join him in his lost and suspended place we might together perform some reckless wonder of intelligibility。 I let it break across my body。 It might not be so terrible； I thought； to have to sit here for four more hours； with the motor running and the heater on； listening to this uniform lament。 It might be good； it might be strangely soothing。 I entered it； fell into it； letting it enfold and cover me。 He cried with his eyes open； his eyes closed； his hands in his pockets； his mittens on and off。 I sat there nodding sagely。
On an impulse I turned him around； sat him on my lap and started up the car； letting Wilder steer。 We'd done this once before； for a distance of twenty yards； at Sunday dusk； in August； our street deep in drowsy shadow。 Again he responded； crying as he steered； as we turned corners； as I brought the car to a halt back at the Congregational church。 I set him on my left leg； an arm around him； drawing him toward me； and let my mind drift toward near sleep。 The sound moved into a fitful distance。 Now and then a car went by。 I leaned against the door； faintly aware of his breath on my thumb。 Some time later Babette was knocking on the window and Wilder was crawling across the seat to lift the latch for her。 She got in； adjusted his hat； picked a crumpled tissue off the floor。
We were halfway home when the crying stopped。 It stopped suddenly； without a change in tone and intensity。 Babette said nothing； I kept my eyes on the road。 He sat between us； looking into the radio。 I waited for Babette to glance at me behind his back； over his head； to show relief； happiness； hopeful suspense。 I didn't know how I felt and wanted a clue。 But she looked straight ahead as if fearful that any change in the sensitive texture of sound； movement； expression would cause the crying to break out again。
At the house no one spoke。 They all moved quietly from room to room； watching him distantly； with sneaky and respectful looks。 When he asked for some milk； Denise ran softly to the kitchen； barefoot； in her pajamas； sensing that by economy of movement and lightness of step she might keep from disturbing the grave and dramatic air he had brought with him into the house。 He drank the milk down in a single powerful swallow； still fully dressed； a mitten pinned to his sleeve。
They watched him with something like awe。 Nearly seven straight hours of serious crying。 It was as though he'd just returned from a period of wandering in some remote and holy place； in sand barrens or snowy ranges—a place where things are said； sights are seen； distances reached which we in our ordinary toil can only regard with the mingled reverence and wonder we hold in reserve for feats of the most sublime and difficult dimensions。
17
Babette said to me in bed one night； 〃Isn't it great having all these kids around？〃
'There'll be one more soon。〃
〃Who？〃
〃Bee is ing in a couple of days。〃
〃Good。 Who else can we get？〃
The next day Denise decided to confront her mother directly about the medication she was or was not taking； hoping to trick Babette into a confession； an admission or some minimal kind of flustered response。 This was not a tactic the girl and I had discussed but I couldn't help admiring the boldness of her timing。 All six of us were jammed into the car on our way to the Mid…Village Mall and Denise simply waited for a natural break in the conversation； directing her question toward the back of Babette's head； in a voice drained of inference。
〃What do you know about Dylar？〃
〃Is that the black girl who's staying with the Stovers？〃
〃That's Dakar；〃 Steffie said。
〃Dakar isn't her name； it's where she's from；〃 Denise said。 〃It's a country on the ivory coast of Africa。〃
〃The capital is Lagos；〃 Babette said。 〃I know that because of a surfer movie I saw once where they travel all over the world。〃
〃The Perfect Wave〃 Heinrich said。 〃I saw it on TV。〃
〃But what's the girl's name？〃 Steffie said。
〃I don't know；〃 Babette said； 〃but the movie wasn't called The Perfect Wave。 The perfect wave is what they were looking for。〃
'They go to Hawaii；〃 Denise told Steffie； 〃and wait for these tidal waves to e from Japan。 They're called origamis。〃
〃And the movie was called The Long Hot Summer；〃 her mother said。
〃The Long Hot Summer；〃 Heinrich said； 〃happens to be a play by Tennessee Ernie Williams。〃
〃It doesn't matter；〃 Babette said； 〃because you can't copyright titles anyway。〃
〃If she's an African；〃 Steffie said； 〃I wonder if she ever rode a camel。〃
'Try an Audi Turbo。〃
〃Try a Toyota Supra。〃
〃What is it camels store in their humps？〃 Babette said。 〃Food or water？ I could never get that straight。〃
〃There are one…hump camels and two…hump camels；〃 Heinrich told her。 〃So it depends which kind you're