V
Stanley, baffled, looked at his wife.
“Richie did what?”
Sue Lacker said grimly, “Tried to set the draperies on fire.”
“What did he try to do that for?”
“I don’t know, but he had your lighter, and he tried to set the drapes on fire!”
“Uh—They didn’t burn, did they?”
She stared at him. “Stanley—”
“Did they burn, Hon?”
“No. They’re woven glass, or something, but he was trying to burn them!”
“Well—where is he now?”
“Watching the TV.”
“I don’t see that there’s anything I can do. I mean—what could I do?”
She looked at him. “But what do I do if he grabs that lighter again and gives me the look he gave me today?”
“What look?”
“I don’t know. Hellish. Defiant. Willful. An I’m-going-to-do-what-I-feel-like-and-you-be-damned look.”
“You’re overstrained, Hon. Did you—ah—did you punish him?”
“Punish him? I hit him as hard as I could, but he laughed.”
For an instant, something seemed to twist inside of him, a powerful impulse that rose almost to the point of action. He took a step toward the living room, then stopped. What next? Where was the script? Who had the scenario? He paused.
She looked at him hopefully.
He shrugged.
“Look, Hon, he didn’t actually do any damage. I’ll get rid of the lighter. And—ah—you keep him watching the TV. I don’t want to give him a trauma. And—uh—if he makes any trouble, I’ll talk to him, try to reason it out with him somehow.”
He went out, and she stood there, frowning.
—Just exactly what would happen if everybody tried to use unaided reason in a situation like this?