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           AndIwentonwhistlingbacktothestreetandovertoPorlockandpastthegreathousestoElmandsotomyown—theHawleyhouse.

           IfoundmyMaryintheeyeofastorm,quietandslowlyrotatingherselfwithdebrisandgreatwindssurgingaroundher.Shedirectedthedevastationinherwhitenylonslipandslippers;hernew-washedhairclusteredoncurlersonherheadlikealargelitterofsucklingsausages.Ican’trememberwhenwehadbeenouttodinneratarestaurant.Wecouldn’tafforditandhadlostthehabit.Mary’swildexcitementflutteredthechildrenontheedgesofherpersonalhurricane.Shefedthem,washedthem,issuedorders,rescindedorders.Theironingboardwasstandinginthekitchenwithmydearandvaluedclothingpressedandhangingonthebacksofchairs.Marywouldpauseinhergalloptoswipetheironatadressshewaspressing.Thechildrenwerealmosttooexcitedtoeat,buttheyhadtheirorders.

           Ihavefivesuitscalledbest—agoodnumberforagroceryclerktohave.Ifingeredthemonthechairbacks.TheywerecalledOldBlue,SweetGeorgeBrown,DorianGray,BuryingBlack,andOldDobbin.

           "WhichoneshallIwear,cuddles?"

           "Cuddles?Oh!Well,it’snotformalandit’sMondaynight.I’dsayitwouldbeSweetGeorgeorDorian,yes,Dorian,that’sformalenoughwithoutbeingformal."

           "Andmypolka-dotbowtie?"

           "Ofcourse."

           Ellenbrokein."Papa!You’renotgoingtowearabowtie!You’retooold."

           "Iamnot.I’myoungandgayandgiddy."

           "You’llbealaughingstork.