She put the rat trap on the backseat and covered it with an old sheet, “for his privacy,” she said, and they drove off through the empty, silent streets. They drove through the downtown, with the swags of colored lights across the street. They drove past the park, with all the trees outlined in white lights. No other cars were out in this cold at this hour, and it seemed as if all this show had been put on just for them—Ethel, Sally, and the rat.

“There’s my street,” said Sally, and without thinking she turned and drove past the Harlands’ tired, old reindeer, past the Shaws’, who always just put up the one string of lights on the eaves of the porch, and past the Stewarts’, who had gone wild a few years back when the icicle lights first came out.

“Look,” said Sally, “the lamp is on in the living room, Dave must still be up. No Christmas decorations, poor Dave, his heart wouldn’t be in it. Look at him, there he is sitting in his easy chair with his cowboy hat on.”

“Why in the world is he wearing that big black cowboy hat?” said Ethel. “In the house, and this late at night.”

“Well, I guess just like me, Dave can’t sleep.”

“Looka there, who is that little girl?”

From the direction of the bedroom a young woman came into view. She leaned over the back of Dave’s chair, and a cascade of bright hair hid their kiss.

Sally sat there with the engine idling, staring. It was like watching something shameful on television where no matter how much you know you should, you just can’t make yourself turn it off.

“That’s not a little girl,” said Sally. “That’s the red-haired woman who mixes paint at the True Value Hardware.” She watched Dave’s hand slide down the side of the chair and fumble for the handle, and then with one smooth stroke, as if he were easing the gear-shift lever of a fine automobile into overdrive, he slid the chair into full recline. The black cowboy hat fell on the floor.

“Chuck Brinson told Dave one time he looked just like Ted Turner in that cowboy hat,” said Sally.