But by then, of course, the family that was going to last practically forever was down to but the three of them. Paul had died far away and alone in a strange place. The people there should have told us in time for us to get to him before he died.

We thought it was best for him to be there, in that place. I was never ashamed of him, even after what he did to himself. I never could really find out if Poppa was ashamed of Paul. I know John Tinker was. I hope Poppa wasn't ashamed of him, because if he was, Paul knew it. Even when he was at his worst, far away from everything and everybody, he was still aware of things like that.

We're just, none of us, at all like what we thought we would be, back there when the days were golden and long. The worst, I guess, was when Poppa began to fade on us. One moment his memory and his perception of time and place would be flawless, yet minutes later he would be totally confused about where he was, what day and year it was and who he was talking to.

They had to use guile and misdirection to keep him from contacting any of the pilgrims who came to visit the Tabernacle. He tried to run things as he always had, but he gave contradictory orders and orders that often made no sense, referring to problems solved and decisions made long ago.

John Tinker took over, carefully and quietly so as not to make the old man angry. The old man wanted to preach and they had him do some sermons on tape in the studio. They were disasters. His voice was beginning to go. He forgot his train of thought and could not find his place in his notes. But he was so important to the national congregation, the Church administration was afraid that if his condition became known they would lose membership. He had become a symbol of the Church. There were over fifteen hundred splendid hours of Matthew Meadows on tape. John Tinker and Mary Margaret sat in on long and exhausting editing sessions. The final selections, over seven hundred hours, were adjusted for color, and then dupes were made on archival-quality tape and stored in the air-conditioned vaults. The old radio tapes were far more numerous, and almost as useful.

And so he was still there, smiling out at his congregation from their living-room television sets, hearty and inspiring, giving his Bible lessons, reading from the Gospel, bringing new converts to the Eternal Church of the Believer. Whenever Mary Margaret saw one of the old broadcasts, it twisted her heart.

They had taken him to three medical centers where diseases of aging were being studied. They said he had had some small strokes, and there was some minor damage from that. But the significant problem was detectable by brain scan, that pattern and configuration which indicated Alzheimer's disease, the most disabling form of senility, progressive and irreversible.

Only a minor percentage of persons in their late sixties became senile, perhaps six to eight percent. And even in the nineties the percentage remained relatively small, peaking at perhaps twenty percent of those at very advanced age. Matthew Meadows, they said, was otherwise in remarkable physical condition for a man of sixty-nine. They could expect an increasing problem of communication, irrational behavior, confusion, more memory loss and, finally, a total impairment of memory and all mental processes, at which time it might be wise to institutionalize him.

After they had accepted the diagnosis, she and John Tinker had agreed that he could be cared for indefinitely at the Manse, in his own suite, surrounded by the great complex he had created. There was money enough. Equipment could be purchased and nurses employed who would keep his condition a secret known only to the family and their closest associates.

Now it seemed they might have to stop including him as a silent member of the trio at the altar. There was no problem about editing out any visible aberration from the tape while organizing it for broadcast, but it would be visible to the thousands at the Tabernacle and in the University auditorium, and they would speak about it in hushed tones to other thousands.

Watching his empty, sleeping face she thought about this new program John Tinker had devised, with the help of the Japanese computer specialist, Oshiro. They would rebuild the famous resonant voice of Matthew Meadows so that it could talk on the telephone to individual Church members. She had tried to talk John Tinker out of it. He said the apparent presence of the old man was essential to the health of the Church. She said it was an abomination, akin to having him stuffed and rigged with wires like a large puppet so that he could preach as well as speak. John Tinker had laughed at her.

Her father stirred and opened his eyes and looked without comprehension at the television screen. The Sunday-afternoon motorcycles were gone, replaced by a shapely young woman who stood poised against a pale sky, at the edge of a high platform. She jumped and, in slow motion, made an incredible series of spins and twists before she sliced neatly into the blue pool water.

He looked at her, and she saw the puzzled look in his eyes, and knew he was searching memory for her name.

"Ernie?" he said in his thin, uncertain voice.

The doctors had told them to be patient with him. Lately he had begun to think she was Ernestine, his elder sister, who had died of pneumonia several years before Mary Margaret had been born. She was surprised at how angry it made her to have him call her that. Ernestine was a few pictures in an old album, a fat young woman who frowned at the camera and who wore odd hats.

"It's Mary Margaret, Poppa."

"Of course. Mag. I'm sorry. Wasn't Ernie here yesterday? I remember she was telling me something about how a mouse got into Momma's sewing basket."

"Ernie hasn't been here in a long time."

"I messed my pants this morning," he said, making his voice small, looking down at the floor.

"I know."

"Willa told you! I told her not to tell."

"She had to tell us, Poppa. We had to ask her why you left the service the way you did."

"I left the service? Before it was over? Oh... I guess I did, because I had to go something terrible, Ernie."

"Mag."

"I'm sorry. I keep calling you Ernie. And... I guess she's dead. She's been dead a long, long time."

"Yes."

"They told me she went right to heaven to wait for the rest of us. I tried to imagine what it was like, where people could wait.

Momma said it was probably like a big golden bus station with gold benches and a door where people come through into heaven. I used to wonder if there would be so many waiting she wouldn't see us when we came through the gate. Ernie would never wear her glasses. She said that being fat was enough. I didn't eat any lunch today. Willa ordered up milk toast but it was too mushy. I couldn't eat it. It made me feel sick to look at it even. I had a milk shake."

"Was it good, dear?"

"It was very good. They have very good milk shakes here.

You like milk shakes. What you should do is move in here."

She sighed as she realized how many times they had gone through this same conversation. If she said she already lived there, he would become more confused and then he would become angry and frightened.

"I think that's a good idea, Poppa. Maybe I will move in here, if they have those good milk shakes."

That would be nice, Ernie. Then I could see you oftener.

Days go by when I don't see you at all, or see anybody except Willa."

"Well, until I can make arrangements to move in, I'll try to come and visit you oftener."

"Maybe I could come and see you. No, that isn't such a good idea. I'm safer in here. They can't get in here, but they keep trying."

"Who's trying to get in here, Poppa?"

"You know. I told you about them. The Antichrist. I don't want to talk about it. I told you that, too. How are the others?"

"The other who?"

"The other members of our family, Mag! What did you think I meant? Where's Paul? And where's your mother?"

"Paul is away. At school."

"He doesn't ever write me."

"He was never much for letter writing."

"I guess you're right."

She was afraid he was going to ask about her mother again, and there was no good way to handle it. She knew that if she lied, she merely added to his confusion. And the last time, when she had told him she was dead and how she died and how long she had been dead, he was overwhelmed by great waves of grief and loss, and he remembered how her dear face and body had dwindled to gray-yellow skin stretched over bone, how the radiology treatments had taken away her hair, her teeth, and any remaining will to live.

Poppa had always been opposed to doctors and hospitals, unable even to discuss them in any reasonable way. He said always that regular habits, a simple diet, a happy spirit and regular prayers to the Lord God would keep the body in fine fettle. Perhaps that would have worked with Momma too, but she could not cling to her happy spirit after Paul mutilated himself. It was as if all the family's luck and some of their shared love had rushed out with the blood from the severed arteries and veins. When he was put away, Momma mourned her last-born as if he had died, which in one sense he had. They had all planned to be so proud of him.

And it did not take long before she began to be tired, to lose weight, to lose the flesh tones of health. By the time Poppa relented and agreed to let her see the doctors, the things growing inside her had eaten away too much of her and she could not be saved, not by radiology, not by chemotherapy and not by earnest prayer.

But he did not ask about her mother, about Claire, his long-dead wife. He would probably ask about her the next time. She wondered how John Tinker handled it. They never visited him at the same time. It seemed to make him more confused to have them both there.

"Willa says there's going to be lamb stew for supper. That's really good news, Mag. I love lamb stew. With boiled onions in it. The real small kind. Are you going to come eat with us?"