Rachel had little to say. She greeted her husband's colleagues with smiling politeness, offering nothing. Mr. McKinley, for all his sprawling and his easy familiarity, was completely alert to his son, eyes always on the still face, jumping to anticipate Scotty's desires. It was a strained, silent lunch.

Rachel said, ``I'd better get him to bed.''

The doctors had suggested Scotty remain most of every afternoon in bed until he was stronger.

Since Mr. McKinley had to give a lecture, Rachel and Scotty drove home alone in the Plymouth. They did not speak much. Scotty gazed out at ugly gray slums and said softly, ``Look at those stupid kids.'' It was a Negro section of peeling row houses, store-front churches and ragged children. Rachel had to bend toward Scotty and ask him to repeat. He said, ``Nothing.'' And then: ``There are lots of kids around here.''

Scotty looked at the children, his mouth slightly opened, his eyes dull. He felt tired and full and calm.

The days seemed short, perhaps because his routine was, each day, almost the same. He rose late and went down in his bathrobe and slippers to have breakfast either alone or with Rachel. Virginia treated him with attention and tried to tempt his appetite with special food: biscuits, cookies, candies -- the result of devoted hours in the tiled kitchen. She would hover over him and, looking like her brother, anxiously watch the progress of Scotty's fork or spoon.