A squirrel runs along the gutter above Howard's head, its cheeks bulged out with nuts or some such, and leaps onto a branch of the apple tree by the porch. it dawns on Howard that he's seen it before, back-and-forthing like a creature that's storing up for winter. But why would a squirrel be doing that when it isn't fall yet? Summer is the time for painting your house; you can't start in the fall, when snow might come even in October. He looks at the apple tree and frowns. He doesn't remember when it died, but there it is with hardly a leaf on it.

Then he notices, under the tree, the brown and rotting windfalls. He looks around the yard. The oak trees are rusty and the grass is starred with yellow maple leaves. The air is cool. He looks at his sleeve—his old black and red lumberjack shirt. It must be fall, then. But if so, why is he scraping the house? He is struck by the sharpness of this reasoning. He gives the scraper a rhetorical flourish: Why then, your Honor, is the defendant scraping his house? He sees Alice raking leaves out by the driveway and starts to ask her. Just in time, he remembers that it can't be Alice. It is Martha, the fuss-budget, who comes over a couple times a week to "keep an eye on things." That means stick her nose into his business. Mustn't let her know he got mixed up; she is always looking to make a case out of little things like that. He goes back to scraping. The red paint flakes off and leaves funny-shaped light splotches: a profile like the Old Man of the Mountain, a Christmas tree, a baby buggy, a dog, a woman lying down.

"Dad," says Martha, with that bossy look of hers, "why don't you take a break now? I've got to get the groceries and it's time for lunch. Come on in and I'll heat up that soup for you before I go."

"I can heat up my own soup, Martha. Decrepit as I am, I retain sufficient strength to turn the knob on a stove." That was a good one; you had to stay ahead of Martha.

"Well, it is lunch time. Don't you feel like taking a break?"

"When I feel like taking a break, I'll take one. Now scedaddle. I've got work to do."

"You don't have to do it, Dad. I mean, we can sell the house without new paint; this is a very desirable area now. Or we can hire someone to finish it. This really isn't such a good time to start painting, is it? I mean, tomorrow's the first of November."

He can't stand it when she takes that Voice of Sweet Reason tone. "Don't tell me when to paint my house, girl. You kids think when anything wears out you just throw it away and get a new one. Maintenance is a concept unknown to your generation."