artha had studied bridge columns and books
for recreation; against them were aligned Tim and Janet, who played with
the card sense developed over years of practice. The youngsters knew the
theories, their bidding was as precise as bridge bidding could be made
with value-numbering, honor-counting, response-value addition, and all
of the other systems. They understood all of the coups and end plays
complete with classic examples. But having all of the theory engraved on
their brains did not temporarily imprint the location of every card
already played, whereas Tim and Janet counted their played cards
automatically and made up in play what they missed in stratagem.

At eleven, Janet announced that she was tired, Tim joined her; James
turned on the television set and he and Martha watched a ten-year-old
movie for an hour. Finally Martha yawned.

And James, still floundering, mentally meandered back to his wish that it
were Christmas so that mistletoe would provide a traditional gesture of
affection, and came up with a new and novel idea that he expressed in a
voice that almost trembled:

"Tired, Martha?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, why don't I kiss you good night and send you off to bed."

"All right, if you want to."

"Why?"

"Oh--just--well, everybody does it."

She sat near him on the low divan, looking him full in the face but
making no move, no gesture, no change in her expression. He looked at her
and realized that he was not sure of how to take hold of her, how to
reach for her, how to proceed.

She said, "Well, go ahead."

"I'm going to."

"When?"

"As soon as I get good and ready."

"Are we going to sit here all night?"

In its own way, it reminded James of the equally un-brilliant
conversation between Janet and Tim on the homecoming after their first
date. He chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said in a slightly strained voice. "I'm thinking that here
we sit like a couple of kids that don't know what it's all about."

"Well," said Martha, "aren't we?"

"Yes," he said reluctantly, "I guess we are. But darn it, Martha, how
does a guy grow up? How does a guy learn these things?" His voice was
plaintive, it galled him to admit that for all of his knowledge and his
competence, he was still just a bit more than a child emotionally.

"I don't know," she said in a voice as plaintive as his. "I wouldn't know
where to look to find it. I've tried. All I know," she said with a
quickening voice, "i