The call comes.
He knows what it portends. His hand hovers above the receiver, as though by resisting its summons he might keep Babe with him. And even in this he is mimicking Babe: Babe, who would not answer a telephone for fear of what might be communicated; Babe, who was too much hurt by the world.
He listens to the message.
He hangs up.
He cannot speak. No words are adequate.
Seconds pass. Minutes.
To utter is to make real. To articulate is to accept.
Ida approaches, and by her presence unlocks his tongue.
—My pal is dead.