It was a warm August evening in New York, about 11 p.m. We had all just come from seeing Marcel Marceau’s “Last Concert in America” (the first one of several; he changed his mind a few times) and were digest- ing this visual feast of silent communication, so the crowd was talking softly and going slowly. Except for one man.
This fella had his arm around a glitzy woman. They both were walk ing with a swagger, and his sarcasm knifed into my awareness: “I’m going to get on the train now, and go home to Connecticut. The little woman will have the kids in bed, and she’s going to say, ‘Oh, Honey, how hard you work, staying in the office this late, what can I get you?’” I spun away from my husband and in-laws and right into his face,