“Joshua,” I called, “why don’t you go get out of your pajamas? We’ll be having breakfast soon.” “But we’re playing!” he objected. Jonathan looked down at him and put a hand on his head. “Uncle Dick’s right, Joshua,” he said. “We’ll play later.” Reluctantly, the boy turned and went into his room. The news moved on to other stories, and I flipped the set off. Jonathan came over to sit beside me on the couch. “I’m so sorry, Babe,” I said. “I think we should call the police.” “Call the police? Why? I don’t understand.” “Mr. Bement would never kill himself!” he said firmly. “Never! He loved life too much, and he knew he didn’t have very much of it left. He didn’t want to waste a day of it. We were making plans for the garden for next year. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t intend to be here. He never would have killed himself.” “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “But sometimes—well, people do unexpected things for reasons we can never know.
