As she sat in the drawing room while the children were being bathed it seemed as if she had not exchanged an interesting word with anyone all day. Into this stillness Gilbert came home. She perched forward on the edge of her chair showing him a bright look, ripe for conversation. She tried to think of what she had to say for herself, and watched as he placed his briefcase against the desk leg where he always placed it. His jacket sleeve had caught at the elbow and was hooked high on his arm. She knew Gilbert would not be interested that she’d laid new paper on the linen closet shelves, wouldn’t care about her having found the andirons for the library. Reading the other night about the American Revolution, she’d learned that Tommy Lattimore’s great-great-great-something or other had been at Concord Bridge. She mentioned this to Gilbert. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly and his head nodded gently, but there was no further conversation. How had his day been? He was at the bar, pouring a drink. He shrugged, clinking the ice cubes in his glass. Business as usual, he said.

Gilbert did not care for talk. As far as he could see, most people in the world talked too much already and he would rather not add to the din. At dinner parties Gilbert could sit through a whole course without exchanging a word with his dinner partner, not out of fury or disgust, but because he was the sort of man who couldn’t imagine that a person would rather chatter about nothing than silently enjoy eating his food. This attitude was in Boston perfectly acceptable. In addition, Gilbert was incapable of talking on the phone.

The children came down to say goodnight and Gilbert called Fay Sally, perplexing the girls. Fathers didn’t mix up names. At dinner Lilian gently inquired if there were something on his mind.

No, he said. The annoyed tone had come back.

They were eating pork and string beans and nice mashed potatoes which Maureen made creamy. The odd idea occurred to Lilian that were Maureen to stand behind the swinging door to the pantry, she would hear no conversation whatsoever coming from the dining room. Lilian had learned to sit silently through these moods of Gilbert’s, but on this particular day she found it difficult to do so. She thought of her parents and how they’d sat in silence too, but instead of making her feel more at home, it irritated her further.

Lilian regarded her husband’s form, slumped forward on the table. Hard day? she said.

Gilbert turned his pleading eyes to her. He set down his silverware as if it had grown unwieldy — he could no longer manage it. Lily, I feel crummy. Would you mind if I skipped dessert and went and lay down?

Dear, of course not. She stood up.

No, he said. You stay. Finish.