Lydia drove on at a good pace, chain-smoking, listening to the radio, and occasionally talking at Mr. George or Greenacre. She had sunglasses on, and a visor cap set on her cropped white hair, and she was wearing a leather peace sign suspended on a strap around her neck—a gift from Lawrence. She felt jaunty, wearing it. When any black people went by in a car, or young people with their flowing hair, she grinned and made the peace sign.

Still, blacks resented liberals these days, she thought, “do-gooders.” So maybe she should stop the practice, as far as they were concerned. After all, if they didn’t like it, what was the point? A car passed by, with a black couple in front. Lydia gave the peace sign. The man smiled and returned the gesture. Lovely man, Lydia thought. Now I can go on doing it.

“Aren’t you ever going to quit reading?” she called back to Lawrence. No response. Well, he probably dozed off, she thought, let him sleep. “Wouldn’t you say, Greenacre?” No response there either, not even the flicker of an ear. She changed the radio station.

A half-hour went by. An Indiana dusk was beginning to fall. She wondered if they’d make it to the University of Iowa in time for her lecture and poetry reading. “We should stop for supper soon,” she called, keeping her eyes on the road. Then, “Greenacre, go wake Lawrence and tell him its almost time to eat.” Greenacre opened one eye. “Lawrence,” she called again. She switched off the radio. There were no sounds from the rear—no snoring or heavy breathing (or gasps, in case he’d had a heart attack). Silly, of course he hadn’t. He was years younger than she; doctor or no, his heart would last for years.

“Lawrence!” Be calm, she told herself. “Shall we put up at the next road park? Supper isn’t exactly gourmet food—hotdogs, rolls, salad—” Even as she went on speaking normally, she was pulling up at the side of the road. It was a four-lane highway, but traffic was light.

The trailer seemed filled to the ceiling with silence, stuffed with it like cotton. She felt as if it was packed in her mouth. “Get up, Lawrence. It’s time for supper,” she said. Her words sounded all woolly. She went back to him, her face rigidly smiling, and found him just sitting there, eyes open, mouth open; quite dead. In her mind she heard him say, “How’s Mr. George?” How long ago was that? He must have … must have … right after that, while she was giving the peace sign and calling back to him.