Female Greek Chorus: (As Aunt Mary.) My husband was such a good man – is. Is such a good man. Every night, he does the dishes. The second he comes home, he’s taking out the garbage, or doing yard work, lifting the heavy things I can’t. Everyone in the neighborhood borrows Peck – it’s true – women with husbands of their own, men who just don’t have Peck’s abilities – there’s always a knock on our door for a jump start on cold mornings, when anyone needs a ride, or help shoveling the sidewalk - I look out, and there Peck is, without a coat, pitching in. I know I’m lucky. The man works from dawn to dusk. And the overtime he does every year – my poor sister. She sits every Christmas when I come to dinner with a new stole, or diamonds, or with the tickets to Bermuda. I know he has troubles. And we don’t talk about them. I wonder, sometimes, what happened to him during the war. The men who fought World War II didn’t have “rap sessions” to talk about their feelings. Men in his generation were expected to be quiet about it and get on with their lives. And sometimes I can feel him just fighting the trouble – whatever has burrowed deeper than the scar tissue – and we don’t talk about it. I know he’s having a bad spell because he comes looking for me in the house, and just hangs around me until it passes. And I keep my banter light – I discuss a new recipe, or sales, or gossip – because I think domesticity can be a balm for men when they’re lost. We sit in the house and listen to the peace of the clock ticking in his well-ordered living room, until it passes.