On History Street, there are seventeen houses.

They were built in the early 1920’s, and have a sort of eerie elegance about them; blues and whites and grays surrounding classically dark shutters. Each house has its mother and its father and its blandly pretty children.

Eight houses have parents that leave for work everyday. There are eight stay-at-home mothers and one father who can’t find work. They tell their children to smile at his daughter, but never to go too close; they refuse to talk further about him. Fourteen houses have nannies, but Mr. Therman, who is called “lazy” and “underachiever”  in polite whispers at dinner parties, does not. The inhabitants of History Street find it somehow unnatural that a man should cook and clean while his wife slaves not over a stove, but over her paperwork. Six latchkey children live there, but that is another hushed and shameful subject; there are two women who work only part time and are home by three o’ clock.

Each house but for one has a dark blue door, almost black.

At eight o’ clock every morning, seventeen men leave for work. There is a dark, sensible car in each driveway, and it is this car that makes its way down the briefly crowded street. In six driveways, there are two dark and sensible cars; in ten, there is one brighter, sleeker car; in the house of the woman who wears too much make up and long-sleeved shirts, there is no car.

There is a bus stop two streets away. The latchkey children and several of the elementary-schoolers walk there in one safe group.

There is one girl, tall, with wild red hair, who refuses to take the bus. Her peers are driven by a parent, though the walk isn’t far; they are unable to unable to get up early enough, and while their chauffeurs warm up the car, they grab a piece of toast and down a glass of orange juice.

It is still dark outside, a quarter to seven and counting. Amanda Therman starts off, waving good-bye to her father and kissing her mother, who is rushing around so she can be at the office by seven-thirty. She walks in the middle of the street, sure that she will be safe; the dark watches over her just as the light does, and anyway, this is a dead end.

She finally ends up on the sidewalk as she reaches the busy main street.

Mr. Therman watches his daughter fondly; it’s extraordinary how her hair matches their door so perfectly. Though he doesn’t know it, in three weeks he will go to yet another  interview, but this time they will look at him, handsome in his dark suit, and his resumé, and they will enter his name in their computer and print his EMPLOYEE badge to make sure he gets past security.

Mrs. Carmichael sees it, too, and is suddenly tired of her turtle-necks and her layers of foundation. She paints her door the firey red of her husband’s anger that day. Tonight she will tell him to get out of the house, so her children can stop screaming. Tomorrow she will file for a divorce.

In six houses, parents are suddenly hit with redecorating bugs; they make it a project for their families and resolve to spend a little more time at home. Carolyn Pratcher looks at the bathtub and the razor, and she decides to pick up the soap instead.

One by one, the houses of History Street change. Later, Mr. Simon, who is courting the ex-Mrs. Carmichael and current Ms. Hassert with flowers and chocolate but mostly kindness, will remark on the coincidence. Ms. Hassert will laugh and Mr. Simon will be moved to propose; Ms. Hassert, who will not change her name this time around, will accept.

Forty years on, when Amanda Thurman’s granddaughter moves to 12 History Street, she will put a fresh coat of paint on her door.

Mrs. Ornis, who doesn’t wear turtlenecks but does wear sweaters, will see it.

And it will start again.

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Wasn’t that a lot cheerier than the last one? I still haven’t gotten the style right, but this one is closer. I will eventually!