eyes showing just a hint of surprise. He shook his
head in a bewildered fashion, the tears still eking from
beneath his lids.
"Who did this?"
"Daphne," I said. "Daphne."
"Daphne?"
"But I got to see Uncle Jean, Daddy. I sat with
him and spoke to him."
"You did?" he asked, his interest growing.
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"How is he?"
"He looks very good," I said, wiping the tears
off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "But he's
afraid of people and doesn't talk to anyone." Daddy nodded and lowered his head again. "Except, I got him to say something, Daddy." "You did?" he replied, his interest quickly
returning. "Yes. I told him to tell me something I
could bring back to you and he said 'jib.' What did he
mean, Daddy?"
"Jib? He said that?"
I nodded. Then I had to tell him the rest. "Afterward, he started to scream and held his
head in his hands. They had to take him back to his
room."
"Poor Jean," Daddy said. "My poor brother.
What have I done?" he asked in a heavy, flat voice.
One of the candles went out and a shadow came to
darken his eyes even more.
"What do you mean, Daddy? Why did he, say
'jib'? Is it what this young man sitting beside me
thought . . something to do with sailing?"
"Yes," Daddy said. He sat back, his gaze far-off
now. He looked like he could see into the past. And