Outside his window five-year-old Priscilla Hess, square and squat as a mailbox (red sweater, blue lumpy corduroy pants), looked around poignantly for someone to wipe her overflowing nose. There was a butterfly locked inside that mailbox, surely; would it ever escape? Or was the quality of mailboxes stuck to her forever, like her parents, like her name? The sky was sunny and blue. A filet of green Silly Putty disappeared into fat Priscilla Hess and he turned to greet his wife who was crawling through the door and her hands and knees. "Yes?" he said. "What now?" "I'm ugly," she said, sitting back on her haunches. "Our children are ugly." "Nonsense," Brian said sharply. "They're wonderful children. Wonderful and beautiful. Other people's children are ugly, not our children. Now get up and go back out to the smokeroom. You're supposed to be curing a ham." "The ham died," she said. "I couldn't cure it. I tried everything. You don't love me any more. The penicillin was stale. I'm ugly and so are the children. It said to tell you goodbye." "It?" "The ham," she said. Is one of our children named Ambrose? Somebody named Ambrose has been sending us telegrams. How many do we have now? Four? Five? Do you think they're heterosexual?" She made a moue and ran a hand through her artichoke hair. "The house is rusting away. Why did you want a steel house? Why did I think I wanted to live in Connecticut? I don't know." "Get up," he said softly, "get up, dearly beloved. Stand up and sing. Sing Parsifal." "I want a Triumph," she said from the floor. "A TR-4. Everyone in Stamford, every single person, has one but me. If you gave me a TR-4 I'd put our ugly children in it and drive away. To Wellfleet. I'd take all the ugliness out of your life." "A green one?" "A red one," she said menacingly. "Red with red leather seats." "Aren't you supposed to be chipping paint?" he asked. "I bought us an electric data processing system. An IBM." "I want to go to Wellfleet," she said. "I want to talk to Edmund Wilson and take him for a ride in my red TR-4. The children can dig clams. We have a lot to talk about, Bunny and me." "Why don't you remove those shoulder pads?" Brian said kindly. "It's too bad about the ham." "I loved that ham," she said viciously. "When you galloped into the University of Texas on your roan Volvo, I thought you were going to be somebody. I gave you my hand. You put rings on it. Rings that my mother gave me. I thought you were going to be distinguished, like Bunny." He showed her his broad, shouldered back. "Everything is in flitters," he said. "Play the piano, won't you?" "You always were afraid of my piano, she said. "My four or five children are afraid of the piano. You taught them to be afraid of it. The giraffe is on fire, but I don't suppose you care." "What can we eat," he asked, "with the ham gone?" "There's some Silly Putty in the deepfreeze," she said tonelessly. "Rain is falling," he observed. "Rain or something." "When you graduated from the Wharton School of Business," she said, "I thought at last! I thought now we can move to Stamford and have interesting neighbors. But they're not interesting. The giraffe is interesting but he sleeps so much of the time. The mailbox is rather interesting. The man didn't open it at 3:31 P.M. today. He was five minutes late. The government lied again." With a gesture of impatience, Brian turned on the light. The great burst of electricity illuminated her upturned tiny face. Eyes like snow peas, he thought. Tamar dancing. My name in the dictionary, in the back. The Law of Bilateral Good Fortune. Piano bread perhaps. A nibble of pain running through the Western World. Coriolanus. "Oh God," she said, from the floor. "Look at my knees." Brian looked. Her knees were blushing. "It's senseless, senseless," she said. "I've been caulking the medicine chest. What for? I don't know. You've got to give me more money. Ben is bleeding. Bessie wants to be an S.S. man. She's reading The Rise and Fall. She's identified with Himmler. Is that her name? Bessie?" "Yes. Bessie." "What's the other one's name? The blond one?" "Billy. Named after your father. Your Dad." "You've got to get me an air hammer. To clean the children's teeth. What's the name of that disease? They'll all have it, every single one, if you don't get me an air hammer." "And a compressor," Brian said. "And a Pinetop Smith record. I remember." She lay on her back. The shoulder pads clattered against the terrazzo. Her number, 17, was written large on her chest. Her eyes were screwed tight shut. "Altman's is having a sale," she said, "Maybe I should go in." "Listen," he said. "Get up. Go into the grape arbor. I'll trundle the piano out there. You've been chipping too much paint. " "You wouldn't touch that piano," she said. "Not in a million years." "You really think I'm afraid of it?" "Not in a million years," she said, "you phoney." "All right," Brian said quietly. "All right." He strode over to the piano. He took a good grip on its black varnishedness. He began to trundle it across the room, and, after a slight hesitation, it struck him dead.