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Aunt Mary was dead now. Uncle Charley lived on, was going to meet Robert for lunch in the Atlantic House, a restaurant across the street from the bank. Charley roamed all over Cape Cod in a big, sad old Chrysler, knocking on strangers’ doors. He was a straight-commission salesman of aluminum combination storm windows and screens.

“I hope your uncle likes me,” said Nancy.

“He will,” said Robert. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I worry about everything,” said Nancy.

The Merchants’ Trust Company of Cape Cod, as Robert’s financial guardian, had certain duties to perform on Robert’s twenty-first birthday. They had to get him to sign many documents, and they had to give him an accounting of their custodianship going back twelve years.

The bank was expecting him at one-thirty.

There wasn’t anything in particular that Robert’s other guardian, his Uncle Charley, the guardian of his person, had to do on the same day. Under law, Charley’s responsibility for the boy’s person simply evaporated on that day.

That was that—automatically.

But Charley couldn’t let it go at that. After all, Charley had no other children, he loved Robert, and he thought that raising the boy was the best thing he and his wife had done with their lives. So Charley planned to make a sentimental little ceremony of surrendering Robert’s person before the boy went into the bank.

Charley didn’t know about Robert’s marriage, so Charley’s plan was for just two people.

Charley went into the Atlantic House a half an hour before Robert was supposed to arrive. Charley went into the bar side of the restaurant, and he picked a small table for two.

He sat down and waited.

Several people in the bar knew Charley, and they nodded to him. Those who knew Charley well were surprised to see him on the bar side, because Charley hadn’t dared to take a drink for eight years. He hadn’t dared to drink because he was an alcoholic. One small beer was enough to start Charley on a toot that could last for weeks.

A new waitress who didn’t know Charley took his order, went over to the bar, announced the order loud and clear. “Bourbon on the rocks,” she said. She said it emptily. She didn’t know that she was announcing big news, announcing that Charley Brewer, after eight dry-as-dust years, was going to have a drink.

Charley got his drink.

Ned Crosby, the owner of the Atlantic House, came right along with it. When the waitress put the drink in front of Charley, Ned slipped into the chair facing him.

“Hello, Charley,” said Ned, gently, watchfully.

Charley thanked the waitress for the drink, took his own sweet time in acknowledging Ned. “Hello, Ned,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to give up that chair pretty soon. My boy’s going to walk in here any minute.”

“The drink for him?” said Ned.

“For me,” said Charley. He smiled serenely.

Both men were in their late forties, both were going bald, both were alcoholics. They had been boozing buddies years before. They had sworn off booze at the same time, had gone to their first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous together.

“Today’s the boy’s twenty-first birthday, Ned,” said Charley. “Today he is a man.”

“Good for him,” said Ned. He pointed to the drink. “That accounts for the celebration.”

“That accounts for it,” said Charley simply. He made no move to touch the drink. He wasn’t going to drink it until Robert walked in.

Strangers looking at Charley and Ned would have guessed that Ned was broke and Charley was prosperous. They would have guessed exactly wrong. Ned, dumpy and humble, wearing rumpled sports clothes from plain pipe racks, took thirty thousand dollars a year out of the Atlantic House. Charley, tall and elegant, sporting a British mustache, made about a tenth that much selling storm windows and screens.

“That a new suit, Charley?” said Ned.

“It’s one I’ve had a while,” said Charley. The suit, dark, expensive, and gentlemanly, was in point of fact sixteen years old, dated back to the days when Charley had really been the rich man