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Will you take the garbage when you go out? My wife said this without turning from the sink where she was washing the dishes from breakfast It’s in the hall You’ll see it as you go Of course, I said Don’t I always? Her back remained impassive and she did not reply Her hair was still matted from sleep and she was in her bathrobe I leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek She jerked away and muttered something about not having brushed her teeth, about splashing the hot water   I withdrew and went into the hall The children were playing on the floor in the living room The youngest was in his diaper It was already October and he should have been in a romper, he should have been wearing some kind of clothing Instead, he sat nearly naked on the dirty carpet, his diaper heavy with urine, while his sister wore nothing more than thin pajamas   They looked up when I passed and I raised my hand in greeting They were conspiratorial in a way that gave them an air of unlikely dignity After scrutinising me for a long moment, they resumed their playing The baby was beginning to crawl He lay sprawled out on his stomach, waving his arms and legs ineffectually Behind me, I could hear my wife scouring the pots and pans, the gush of hot water from the tap I picked up the garbage bag and walked down the hall Bye, I called out, as the door closed   The bag was heavy, its contents soft and shifting, as though it contained liquid I caught a whiff of cooking oil and I worried that the bag might burst as I carried it down the stairs, already the plastic was stretching thin at the neck I picked it up and carried it in my arms in order to avoid an accident It was awkward carrying it down like this, I could not see past its bulk, and several times I almost stumbled as I descended the first flight of stairs   We lived on