Who Do You Think You Are

getting closer and they heard the boots on the gravel beside the track. Then the train began to move. It moved so slowly that they did not notice for a moment or so, and even then they thought it was just a shunting of the cars. They expected it to stop, so that the inspection could continue. But the train kept moving. It moved a little faster, then faster; it picked up its ordinary speed, which was nothing very great. They were moving, they were free of the inspection, they were being carried away. Simon never knew what had happened. The danger was past.
    Simon said that when he realized they were safe he suddenly felt that they would get through, that nothing could happen to them now, that they were particularly blessed and lucky. He took what happened for a lucky sign.
    Rose asked him, had he ever seen his friend and his sister again? “No. Never. Not after Lyons.”
    “So, it was only lucky for you.”
    Simon laughed. They were in bed, in Rose’s bed in an old house, on the outskirts of a crossroads village; they had driven there straight from the party. It was April, the wind was cold, and Rose’s house was chilly. The furnace was inadequate. Simon put a hand to the wallpaper behind the bed, made her feel the draft.
    “What it needs is some insulation.”
    “I know. It’s awful. And you should see my fuel bills.”
    Simon said she should get a wood stove. He told her about various kinds of firewood. Maple, he said, was a lovely wood to burn. Then he held forth on different kinds of insulation. Styrofoam, Micafil, fiberglass. He got out of bed and padded around naked, looking at the walls of her house. Rose shouted after him.
    “Now I remember. It was a grant.”
    “What? I can’t hear you.”
    She got out of bed and wrapped herself in a blanket. Standing at the top of the stairs, she said, “That boy came to me with an application for a grant. He wanted to be a playwright. I just this minute remembered.”
    “What boy?” said Simon. “Oh.”
    “But I recommended him. I know I did.” The truth was she recommended everybody. If she could not see their merits, she believed it might just be a case of their having merits she was unable to see.
    “He must not have got it. So he thought I shafted him.”
    “Well, suppose you had,” said Simon, peering down the cellarway.
    “That would be your right.”
    “I know. I’m a coward about that lot. I hate their disapproval. They are so virtuous.”
    “They are not virtuous at all,” said Simon. “I’m going to put my shoes on and look at your furnace. You probably need the filters cleaned. That is just their style. They are not much to be feared, they are just as stupid as anybody. They want a chunk of the power. Naturally.”
    “But would you get such venomous—” Rose had to stop and start the word again—“such venomousness, simply from ambition?”
    “What else?” said Simon, climbing the stairs. He made a grab for the blanket, wrapped himself up with her, pecked her nose. “Enough of that, Rose. Have you no shame? I’m a poor fellow come to look at your furnace. Your basement furnace. Sorry to bump into you like this, ma’am.” She already knew a few of his characters. This was The Humble Workman. Some others were The Old Philosopher, who bowed low to her, Japanese style, as he came out of the bathroom, murmuring memento mori, memento mori; and, when appropriate, The Mad Satyr, nuzzling and leaping, making triumphant smacking noises against her navel.
    At the crossroads store she bought real coffee instead of instant, real cream, bacon, frozen broccoli, a hunk of local cheese, canned crabmeat, the best-looking tomatoes they had, mushrooms, long-grained rice. Cigarettes as well. She was in that state of happiness which seems perfectly natural and unthreatened. If asked, she would have said it was because of the weather—the day was bright, in spite of the harsh wind—as much as because of Simon.
    “You must’ve brought home company,” said the woman who kept the store. She spoke with no surprise or malice or censure, just a comradely sort of envy.
    “When I wasn’t expecting it.” Rose dumped more groceries on the counter. “What a lot of bother they are. Not to mention expense. Look at that bacon. And cream.”
    “I could stand a bit of it,” the woman said.
    S IMON COOKED a remarkable supper from the resources provided, while Rose did nothing much but stand around watching, and change the sheets.
    “Country life,” she