Macon paused, halfway into his shirt.
‘Don’t you want to know?’ she asked him.
‘No.’ He put on the shirt and buttoned it up.
‘The trouble with you is, Macon---‘
It was shocking, the violent rush of anger he felt. ‘Sarah, don’t even start. By God, that kind of thing is just what’s wrong with being married. “The trouble with you is---“and “ I know you better than you know yourself—“’
‘The trouble with you is,’ she continued, ‘you think people should stay in their own closed boxes. You don’t believe in opening up, in sharing feelings, give and take.’
‘I certainly don’t,’ Macon said, putting on his tie.
‘You know what you remind me of? That telegram Harpo Marx sent his brother: No message. Harpo.’
Macon laughed. Sarah said, ‘You would think it was funny.’
‘Well? Isn’t it?’
‘It isn’t at all! It’s sad! Getting a telegram like that would make me wild with anger!’
After the supper he and Sarah walked home. The teenagers who had to be home by eleven o’clock were just returning, jumping out of cars shouting, ‘See you! Thanks! Call me tomorrow!’
Later in bed, with Sarah breathing softly beside him, Macon heard the older kids coming home for twelve o’clock, and after that there would be the one o’clock group, laughter and car doors shutting and porch lights going out all along the street. In the end, he would be the only one left awake.