It was true then and it’s true now: just because there’s a Depression doesn’t mean people with jobs don’t work hard. They did and they do. Most of us live life as it comes, relegating uncertainty to the back of our minds when we can and concentrating on the travails of the day if there’s nothing more pressing. So a fellow who worked hard in the hard tall towers of Manhattan would want to drive home in floating, restful comfort, trying to forget about the Johnson contract. He’d earned it. The fact he was driving a Packard meant he’d deserved it. Rest. Yes. Rest.

So why did he feel so nervous as he approached the suburb where his wife’s friend lived? Why did he want to turn right and go to her house, as he wanted every time he drove home? Why was he gripped with the terrible, delicious certainty she would know why he’d come, and invite him right in? Why did his heart sink as he drove past, and commanded himself to think of hearth and home?

Rest. Hah. If only.