"It was as though my hand was taken away," Lester said wonderingly.
Ginny stooped down and took A.P. gently in her arms. As she straightened, the small form stirred and opened his eyes.
"He's all right, isn't he?" a voice asked hopefully.
Slowly, A.P.'s head lolled heavily to the side. In his eyes there was a totally new expression, or, rather, a new lack of expression. The young man with the glasses held the telephone forward.
"Evans is still waiting for an answer, A.P.," he said.
A.P.'s gaze seemed to penetrate the telephone and go beyond it. His lips parted with a slack toothlessness that had not before been apparent. Suddenly he began to cry, and his voice raised in a thin, distinctly babyish howl.
"Oh, no!" the young man whispered, and the telephone slowly slipped from his hand.
Six years later, in another house and another suburb, where there was no Mrs. Hilliard next door and their child was known merely as 'little Freddie Holmes,' Lester and Ginny lived in quiet obscurity. If there were those in the world who remembered the formidable A.P. they never mentioned it publicly, presumably loathe to admit that they had ever placed themselves at the command of a mere infant. Now, shifting uneasily in his chair, Lester looked up worriedly as Ginny returned from the hallway. He watched as she moved toward him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"It's all right," Ginny said. "He's only listening to the music on the radio."