He produced the newspaper with a dry whack as he slipped his coat into the closet like an abandoned ghost and sailed through the house, scanning the news, his nose guessing at the identity of supper, talking over his shoulder, his wife following. There was still a faint scent of the train and the winter night about him. In his chair he sensed an unaccustomed silence resembling that of a birdhouse when a vulture’s shadow looms; all the robins, sparrows, mockingbirds quiet. His wife stood whitely in the door, not moving. “Come sit down,” said John Martin. “What’re you doing? God, don’t stare as if I were dead. What’s new? Not that there’s ever anything new, of course. What do you think of those fathead city councilmen today? More taxes, more every goddamn thing.” “John!” cried his wife. “Don’t!” “Don’t what?” “Don’t talk that way. It isn’t safe!” “For God’s sake, not safe? Is this Russia or is this our own house?!” “Not exactly.” “Not exactly?”
