‘A year. I remember we got married in July and in July it was I got sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘I wasn’t a well man. I worked in a garage. Then I got these backaches so I couldn’t work and had to lie down afternoons. Ellie, she worked in the First National Bank.’
‘I see,’ said Miss FremwelL
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘I’m an easy man to get on with. I don’t talk too much. I’m easy-going and relaxed. I don’t waste money. I’m economical. Even Ellie had to admit that. I don’t argue. Why, sometimes Ellie would jaw at me and jaw at me, like bouncing a ball hard on a house, but me not bouncing back. I just sat. I took it easy. What’s the use of always stirring around and talking, right?’
Miss Fremwell looked over at Mr Lemon’s brow in the moonlight. Her lips moved but he could not hear what she said.
Suddenly, she straightened up and took a deep breath and blinked around surprised to see the world out beyond the porch lattice. The sounds of traffic came in to the porch now, as if they had been tuned up, they had been so quiet for a time. Miss Fremwell took a deep breath and let it out.
‘As you yourself say, Mr Lemon, nobody ever got anywhere arguing.’
‘Right!’ he said. ‘I’m easy-going, I tell you –’
But Miss Fremwell’s eyes were lidded now and her mouth was strange. He sensed this and tapered off.
A night wind blew fluttering her light summer dress and the sleeves of his shirt.
‘It’s late,’ said Miss Fremwell.
‘Only nine o’clock!’
‘I have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘But you haven’t answered my question yet. Miss Fremwell.’
‘Question?’ She blinked. ‘Oh, the question. Yes.’ She rose from the wicker seat. She hunted around in the dark for the screen doorknob. ‘Oh now, Mr Lemon, let me think it over.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ he said. ‘No use arguing, is there?’
The screen door closed. He heard her find her way down the dark warm hall. He breathed shallowly, feeling of the third eye in his head, the eye that saw nothing.
He felt a vague unhappiness shift around inside his chest like an illness brought on by too much talking. And then he thought of the fresh white gift-box waiting with its lid on in his room. He quickened. Opening the screen door he walked down the silent hall and went into his room. Inside, he slipped and almost fell on a slick copy of True Romance Tales. He switched on the light, excitedly, smiling, fumbled the box open and lifted the toupee from the tissues. He stood before the bright mirror and followed directions with the spirit gum and tapes, and tucked it here and stuck it there and shifted it again and combed it neat. Then he opened the door and walked along the hall to knock for Miss Fremwell.
‘Miss Naomi?’ he called, smiling.
The light under her door clicked out at the sound of his voice.
He stared at the dark keyhole with disbelief.
‘Oh, Miss Naomi?’ he said again, quickly.
Nothing happened in the room. It was dark. After a moment he tried the knob, experimentally. The knob rattled. He heard Miss Fremwell sigh. He heard her say something. Again, the words were lost. Her small feet tapped to the door. The light came on.
‘Yes?’ she said, behind the panel.
‘Look, Miss Naomi,’ he entreated. ‘Open the door. Look.’
The bolt of the door snapped back. She jerked the door open about an inch. One of her eyes looked at him sharply.
‘Look,’ he announced proudly, adjusting the toupee so it very definitely covered the sunken crater. He imagined he saw himself in her bureau mirror and was pleased. ‘Look here, Miss Fremwell!’