Why do you think I spend so much time in the laundry room? Why do you think I sigh and sigh this way? Of course it is!” If you were to ask George, he would say, “Is it in trouble? Why, I don’t believe so. You’d have to ask Phyllis, I guess. What do you mean, exactly, ‘in trouble’?” There was no fighting. Their life worked: their children fought and laughed with each other, did well in school, confessed readily to small crimes they committed, and endured with equanimity the small punishments for same. They knew this: if you were sent to your room, pretty soon everyone would join you up there anyway, lie on your bed and chat about things, forgive you. George and Phyllis exchanged necessary news of the day, smiled at their children’s inadvertent charm, watched television together in bed at night. Occasionally they had sex, although the last time they tried George looked up from kissing Phyllis’s stomach to find her staring at the ceiling and silently weeping. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?”
