Martha and that woman are outside now, walking around the yard, looking at the house, making those sculpting gestures women use when they're going to do everything over. Howard ignores them. He wants to present the right appearance—dignified, industrious, responsible for his house. Suddenly, he has an urgent need to pee. He starts to unzip, but realizes it won't do. Ladies present, and he uses the term loosely. He climbs down the ladder and goes in to the bathroom. When he comes out again, he can't find the scraper. He goes back into the house and picks it up off the kitchen counter. No wonder he's a little absent minded, with his own daughter trying to sell his house out from under him. Also, he's excited about this idea of a trip to see Pete. And Janey, too, of course. The Chevy's up to it, there's a few thousand miles in her yet. Fifty-eight was maybe the last good year for cars.

As he steps back up onto the ladder, Howard remembers that he doesn't have his car any more. Martha took it, made him give it up. Not the old Chevy—that Pinto, that imitation car. It's humiliating for a man to be driven around by a chit of a girl who's hardly got her license. Christ, he taught Martha to drive!

Here she comes again, probably wants to make him stop working. At least she's gotten rid of that spy, that vulture woman. Real estate is without a doubt the most degraded profession in the United States today. He scrapes on, covertly watching Martha's approach. He keeps forgetting how old she's gotten. Alice kept her looks a whole lot better. It's a mistake the way these women try to stay thin. It makes them look like old hens.

"We'd better call it a day, Dad. Look at that sky."

Howard looks up. "Hell, Martha. This is New England. Sky can look like that for days and not do a thing."

"I don't know, Dad. It smells like rain to me. Anyway, I've put away your groceries and left some Trick or Treat stuff on the hall table. I've got to get home now, and I want to put the ladder away. You shouldn't use it when I'm gone—it's not safe."

"I was up on ladders before you were born, girl. Don't go fussing around me like an old hen." Howard turns his face away and keeps scraping.

"Dad."

He ignores her. He has work to do.

"Dad. What's that you've got in your hand?"

Howard looks at the scraper. It must be bent or something. He can't see it properly; the light's getting bad.

"That's the cheese slicer, Daddy. I left it on the kitchen counter. You're trying to scrape paint with a cheese slicer."

Howard looks again. The wire that cuts the cheese, and that roller dingus. No wonder it felt funny in his hand. He sticks the damn thing in his pocket and comes down the ladder. Carefully, his legs all at once a little shaky. Looking past Martha, he pretends to check the sky. "Reckon it might rain." He hears his own stringy, old man's voice, and hates it. "Well, go on if you're going. I'll put the danged ladder away."