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always been sure of myself and my image,” Paul said. “Sublimely poor,” she
     murmured. “Wall-paper,” he said. They kissed. We trudged to bed then singing the to-bed
     song heigh-ho. She was lying there in her black vinyl pajamas. “He is certainly a
     well-integrated personality, Paul,” she said. “Yes,” we said. “He makes contact, you
     must grant him that.” “Yes,” we said. “A beautiful human being.” “Carrying the mace
     is a bit much, perhaps,” we said. “We are fortunate to have him in our country,” she
     concluded.
    THEN we went over to Paul’s place and took the typewriter. Then the problem was to
     find somebody to sell it to. It was a fine Olivetti 22, that typewriter, and the typewriter
     girls put it under their skirts. Then George wanted to write something on it while
     it was under their skirts. I think he just wanted to get under there, because he likes
     Amelia’s legs. He is always looking at them and patting them and thrusting his hand
     between them. “What are you going to write under there, George?” “I thought perhaps
     some automatic writing, because one can’t see so well under here with the light being
     strangled by the thick wool, and I touch-type well enough, but I can’t see to think,
     so I thought that . . .” “Well we can’t sell this typewriter if you’re typing on it
     under Amelia’s legs, so come out of there. And bring the carbon paper too because
     the carbon paper makes black smudges on Amelia’s legs and she doesn’t want that. Not
     now.” We all had our hands on the typewriter when it emerged because it had been in
     that pure grotto, Paul’s place, and tomorrow we are going to go there again and take
     the elevator cage this time, so that he can’t come down into the street any more,
     with his pretensions.
    “YES,” Bill said, “I wanted to be great, once. But the moon for that was not in my
     sky, then. I had hoped to make a powerful statement. But there was no wind, no weeping.
     I had hoped to make a powerful statement, coupled with a moving plea. But there was
     no weeping, except, perhaps, concealed weeping. Perhaps they wept in the evenings,
     after dinner, in the family room, among the family, each in his own chair, weeping.
     A certain diffidence still clings to these matters. You laughed, sitting in your chair
     with your purple plywood spectacles, your iced tea. I had hoped to make a significant
     contribution. But they remained stony-faced. Did I make a mistake, selecting Bridgeport?
     I had hoped to bring about a heightened awareness. I saw their smiling faces. They
     were going gaily to the grocery for peanut oil, Band-Aids, Saran Wrap. My census of
     tears was still incomplete. Why had I selected Bridgeport, city of concealed meaning?
     In Calais they weep openly, on street corners, under trees, in the banks. I wanted
     to provide a definitive account. But my lecture was not a success. Men came to fold
     the folding chairs, although I was still speaking. You laughed. I should talk about
     things people were interested in, you said. I wanted to achieve a breakthrough. My
     penetrating study was to have been a masterly evocation, sobs and cries, these things
     matter.I had in mind initiating a multi-faceted program involving paper towels and tears.
     I came into the room suddenly, you were weeping. You slipped something out of sight,
     under the pillow.
    “ ‘What is under the pillow?’ I asked.
    “ ‘Nothing,’ you said.
    “I reached under the pillow with my hand. You grasped my wrist. An alarm clock spread
     the alarm. I rose to go. My survey of the incidence of weeping in the bedrooms of
     members of the faculty of the University of Bridgeport was methodologically sound
     but informed, you said, by too little compassion. You laughed, in your room, pulling
     from under the pillow grainy gray photographs in albums, pictures of people weeping.
     I wanted to effect a rapprochement , I wanted to reconcile