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wheelchair and gave her a bold look.

    Horace was in his room, wearing a Wayne State University sweatshirt, gray corduroys, and tennis shoes. He was watching a quiz show and eagerly smoking when Margaret came in. He glanced at her and then went back to the activity of the contestants. On the screen, a woman in uniform was spinning a huge, multicolored wheel, and the studio audience was roaring, but Horace failed to share the excitement and watched the television set indifferently. Margaret picked up a newspaper from the chair by the window and arranged the flowerpots on the sill.
    “Good morning, dear,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
    Horace didn’t answer. Perhaps it would be one of those days. Lately he had been retreating into silence. Apparently he found it comforting. Margaret clucked, shook her head, and walked over to the television set, which she turned off.
    “It’s our anniversary,” she said. “I don’t want daytime television on our anniversary.”
    On the table next to Horace was a breakfast roll. A fly walked back and forth on it, as if on sentry duty. Margaret picked up the plate and took it out to the hallway, placing it on the floor next to the wall. When she came back, Horace was still staring at the dark television screen.
    She gazed at him for a moment. Then she said brightly, “Do you remember Mrs. Silverman, two floors up in the building, Horace? The apartment building? Where we moved after we sold the house? Mrs. Silverman, whose husband was so terribly bald? I’m sure you do. Well, anyway, several nights ago there was a great commotion, and it seemed that Mrs. Silverman was reading the paper, probably just the want ads, as she did usually, when she had one of those seizures of hers. She knocked over a tall glass of ginger ale. It left a stain on the rug, I think. They came for her and took her to the hospital, but the word in the building is that it may be curtains for Mrs. Silverman.”
    “The moving men,” Horace rasped.
    “Yes, Horace, the moving men. Someone in the building called for them. Sometimes they can help and other times they can’t. You are looking very scruffy today, Horace,” she said. “Where did you get that awful sweatshirt?”
    “Someone gave it to me,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
    “Who?” she asked. “Not that horrid little Mr. List?”
    “Maybe.” Horace shrugged.
    “I’d think you’d be ashamed to be in that sweatshirt. You were never a student at Wayne State. Never. You went to Oberlin.”
    “It’s warm,” Horace said. “And it’s green.”
    “Which reminds me,” Margaret announced, “that I thought they had put a new window into our bedroom last night. But I just forgot to pull down the shade. Oh. Someone called this morning.” She thought for a moment. “Penny.” She waited for him to show recognition, but he kept his face turned away from hers. “She called to wish us a happy anniversary. It’s our anniversary today, Horace.”
    “I know that,” he said. “I know that very well.”
    “Well, I’m glad. I brought you something.”
    “Lightbulbs?”
    “No. Not lightbulbs. I explained to you about the lightbulbs. You don’t need them. What do you need them for?”
    “Bliss,” Horace said.
    “For bliss? I doubt it. No. Well, what I brought you was this.” She handed him the chocolate bars. “Happy anniversary, dear. These were the best I could do. I am sorry. Age has brought us low. I would have presented you with a plant in the old days.”
    “These
are
the old days,” Horace said. He gazed down at the dark brown wrappers. “Thank you. Mr. List likes chocolate. So do I, but Mr. List likes chocolate more than I do.” Horace suddenly looked at her, and she flinched. “How’s Penny? And where’s Isaiah?”
    “Penny’s fine. She toasted marshmallows with David last night. And Isaiah’s lost his leaves because it’s late October.”
    Horace nodded. He appeared to think for a long time. Then he said, “I went out