hand was still upraised, ready to strike again.

Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a new concept.

He seized one of the books on the hassock.

"Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the name of this book?"

"The—The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," said Mom through her sobs.

He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision.

"And the name of this?"

"Tarzan of The Apes." Mom's voice was a barely audible croak.

"Who's the author?"

"Edgar Rice Burroughs."

"And this one?"

"The Wizard of Oz."

"Who wrote it?"

"L. Frank Baum."

He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage.

"Edith." He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith, you can read!"

Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with rivulets of tears.

"I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone—not even Ronnie. I haven't read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've tried to be a good wife—"

"A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked away.

Mom continued, "I—I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like Ronnie. You know how young 

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