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before. Terrible handwriting, according to Pop. ‘Mr. Schiller,’ Pop said to him, ‘can I tell you a story? It’ll only take a minute.’ Schiller said okay, and Pop then told Schiller his favorite printer story. It seems that when Horace Greeley was editor of the Tribune, there was only one old grizzled printer who could read his handwriting and set up his editorials. Of course, that was before the Linotype and everything was set by hand. So one day, the other printers took a chicken, dipped his feet in ink, and walked him back and forth over a sheet of paper. Then they gave the paper to the old printer, who wasn’t in on the joke, and told him it was Mr. Greeley’s editorial and he should go ahead and set it up. Well, slowly and painfully, the old man set up line after line of the chicken tracks, but finally he was stuck. So he took the paper up to Greeley, pointed to one of the chicken tracks, and said, ‘Hate to interrupt you, Mr. Greeley, but that there word confounds me.’ Greeley glanced at the chicken print and shouted, ‘Unconstitutional, you old fool!’ Now I must have heard Pop tell that story thirty times, and there was always someone broke up over it, but Pop says that Schiller never twitched a lip. He said to Pop, ‘Why do you tell me this, Mr. Spendler? Is it a comment on my handwriting?’ ‘Oh, no, sir,’ Pop said, ‘I thought you’d be amused.’ And Schiller said, ‘Why should I be amused? Everyone knew that Greeley made a fetish of his so-called defense of the Constitution.’”
    David stopped laughing and stared at his wife thoughtfully. “Are you going to tell me why you decided to tell me this strange story at midnight in this Connecticut wilderness?”
    â€œBecause you’re a pussycat.”
    â€œThat’s a sort of compliment, I guess, but not a reason.”
    â€œYou’ll figure it out. You’re pretty smart.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œDo you want to turn me in? Do they have Jewish annulments?”
    â€œNot tonight. You’d have to buy your way out, but tell me, Lucy, didn’t it ever bother you, having absolutely no religion?”
    She thought about it for a long moment. “I don’t think it ever really bothered me. There were times when I felt a little left out of things, but the anti-Semitic kids on the block, the Irish and Italian kids — they beat up on me the same as on the Orthodox kids, and of course I didn’t go around telling kids my mom and pop were atheists.”
    â€œIt didn’t trouble you — God, death, the universe?”
    â€œI think men brood over those things. Women have enough sense to manage the business of living day by day.”
    â€œYou know,” David said to her, “you puzzle me.”
    â€œA woman should. That’s what Mom told me. Keep your secrets and see that he has enough changes of socks and underwear.”
    â€œYou’re one of the most decent, straightforward, and ethical persons I’ve ever known —”
    â€œI’d much rather you said I was beautiful.”
    â€œThat too. Absolutely.”
    â€œThen can we turn off the light and make love?”
    He reached out and turned off the light. “Coming back to the city with me tomorrow?” he asked her.
    â€œNo. I’m going to clean up the parsonage and see whether people can live there.”
    â€œPeople have.”
    â€œSo they say. No more talk, David.”
    David left Leighton Ridge early the next morning, enough of a neophyte driver to enjoy navigating the narrow, twisting Connecticut lanes. By the time he reached the Black Rock Turnpike, on his way to the Merritt Parkway, he felt relaxed and assured. In New York, he discovered that the prayer-books had increased in price since before the war. The money the congregation had provided would buy thirty books, which he felt would be ample, in spite of the enthusiasm at