A stranger on the block could never have noticed any difference between Mr Newman’s house and the others. They stood in a flat-topped line, attached two-story brick, with the garages built in beneath the high front porches. Before each house grew a slender elm which was neither thicker nor much thinner than its neighbor, all of them having been planted in the same week some seven years ago when the development was finished. To Mr Newman, however, there were certain vital differences. Standing for a moment beside his garbage can, he glanced up at his shutters which he had painted a light green. The other houses all had dark green shutters. Then his eye moved to his window screens, which he had hinged at the sides so that they opened like doors instead of swinging out from the top as the others on the block did. Many times he had wished, improvidently, that the house had been built of wood so that there would be more surface to paint. As it was, he could only work around his car which stood on concrete blocks in the garage. On Sundays before the war he would take the car out and go over it lightly with a waxed cloth, brush out the interior, and drive his mother to church. Without admitting it, however, he enjoyed the car much more now when it was on blocks, for it is well known that rust is a terrible menace to an unused machine. On these war Sundays he took the immaculate storage battery, which he kept in the basement, and installed it in the car and ran the engine for a few moments. And then he disconnected the battery and hauled it back into the cellar, and walked round the car looking for rust spots, and turned the wheels a little with his hands to keep the bearing grease mobile, and generally did each Sunday what the manufacturer had advised doing twice a year. At the end of the day he enjoyed washing his hands with Gre-Solvent, and sitting down to a good dinner, feeling the presence of his muscles and his good health.

Glancing at the garbage can now to be sure it was covered tightly, he walked down the street in his earnest way. But despite his even stride and the confident, straight-ahead set of his head, he felt his insides moving and to quiet himself he thought of his mother, who was sitting now in his kitchen waiting for the day maid to arrive and make her breakfast. She was paralyzed below the hips and spoke of nothing but pain and California. He tried to involve his mind in her, but as he neared the subway his abdomen became quite taut and he was glad for the necessity of halting a moment at the corner candy store where he bought his paper. He said good morning to the proprietor and paid his nickel, careful not to touch the man’s hands with his own. He would not have been especially horrified to have touched them but he did not like the idea of it. He fancied a certain odor of old cooking coming from Mr Finkelstein. He did not want to touch the odor. Mr Finkelstein said good morning as usual and Mr Newman walked the few yards around the corner, paused an instant to firmly grasp the handrail of the subway stairs and made his way down.