Gini's pissed when she gets home: The kids are conked out under a quilt on the couch, TV still going strong in the dark. She calls out, and a man -- Walter McAddy! -- appears in the kitchen, wearing an apron and wielding a knife.
Gini: "George, Jesus. You scared me."
George Johnson: "I sent her home, made dinner."
Gini: "That is cereal."
George: "That is the fallback, after failed spaghetti."
George is back in St. Louis after an abortive attempt for his band to play Macelli's Imperial Dance Hall, in Cleveland. When they arrived, it had burnt to the ground, so he's lost days, hotel rooms, bus fare for four... Not that she was counting on the money, but either way she's not overjoyed to see him.
George: "Do you want some of this crappy awful food I made?"
Gini: "You'd make a terrible wife."
George: "That's something we have in common."
Gini: "Just don't get up on me. I still have two hours of reading."
George: "It's like ten PM. Let's have some sex."
Gini: "No TV on school nights, for starters, is a rule you already broke."
He kisses her neck, and reminds her about a time in Miami when they were too loud, and got thrown out of a hotel. (It's an interestingly literary detail, for such a tossed-off remark, but we won't know that for a couple of episodes.) She snorts, and tells him he's louder than she was. "I miss your noises," he says, and whispers them into the neck: Pretending to be her. And a short time later, she's right there with him.
The next morning is no good for anybody. Libby wakes to a nightmare, every appliance in the house turned on at once, the blender and the teakettle and the television and the hi-fi. Gini only thought she came home to madness.
In the middle of it, like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, stands Bill Masters, staring blankly, still asleep. Hair mussed and eyes open, narrowed neither in thought nor in fury, not thinking wildly, not closing himself off, cold, so she won't know what he's thinking: Just looking, looking at nothing at all. He's thirty years younger, when he sleeps.
Bill: "I used to sleepwalk a lot as a child. My father went to get the paper once, and I was sitting behind the wheel of his Plymouth, fast asleep. My hands were on the wheel."
Libby: "I recovered quickly, I'm good at that. But I'm still curious. Are you stressing out?"