ABSTRACT
dan shaper had the court-given right to spend Christmas vacation with his children. He drove in this midwinter weather from New York to Cleveland through the wintry length of turnpike—slush and flats of New Jersey, sudden black mountains of Pennsylvania with their marred white tunnels, then slithering down through Ohio foothills—and not a stoplight after Manhattan until he approached Cleveland, his arm still embracing the wheel. He stopped for coffee at a Howard Johnson’s, the coffee given by a pimply waitress, and then in the men’s room studied the machine which, for an investment of eleven cents, cranked forth the Lord’s Prayer engraved on a penny. A dime for labor, one cent for material.
