MR. SHAPIRO CAME WHISTLING DOWN THE STREET, SWINGING HIS briefcase cheerfully. Getting dark early these days, he thought; mustn’t forget to tell Marjorie what Hargreaves said to me today. “Hi, fellows,” he said to the kids sitting on the curb, their faces turned around to watch him go down the street. Streetlights are on already, he thought, sure gets dark early these days. He trotted briskly up the steps of number 1018, saw that the door was open a crack, let himself in, and slammed the door behind him.
“Dear?” he called experimentally toward the kitchen at the end of the hall.
The sound of the can opener stopped, and she said, “That you, dear? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Good,” said Mr. Shapiro, and stopped at the hall closet to hang up his coat. Gray hat’s getting sort of shabby, he thought, looking at it where it sat on the shelf; wish I could persuade Marjorie to hang up her coat in here instead of leaving it on the bed. Have to speak to Marjorie about getting a new gray hat. Wonder what’s for dinner.
“Dinner almost ready, dear?” he called as he passed the kitchen door.
Dining room looks pretty good, he thought, on his way to the living room. He took an olive from the dish on the table, then stood looking at the table, thinking: Something different, something. New long scratch in my chair, must be the kid; something else different, though. New dishes? New silverware? Clean tablecloth? That’s it, best tablecloth. Company for dinner? Only three places … Probably the laundry didn’t come.
Must speak to Marjorie about the laundry, he thought, going into the living room, three of my handkerchiefs last week … “’Lo, fella.” The little boy in the middle of the living room floor was making a toy dump truck go back and forth, back and forth, and barely looked up. “’Lo,” he said.
“Got a kiss for Daddy?” Mr. Shapiro asked.
“No,” the little boy said.
Mr. Shapiro sat down in his chair. Something wrong, he thought. The whole house is on edge tonight. Pictures a little crooked, chairs not quite in place, carpet a little more faded near the window. Bridge club come today? he thought; no, that’s Thursday. Girl, that’s it. Girl came to clean.
“Dinner almost ready?” he called out.
“Yeah, when’s dinner?” the little boy yelled. “When’s dinner, Mom?”
“It’ll be on the table in a minute.”
“Meat loaf tonight,” the little boy said.
“Good,” Mr. Shapiro replied absently. He was looking at the books on the table next to his chair. They Were Expendable—must have brought that home from the office, he thought, must have brought that home a few nights ago and meant to read it. Ought to read that book tonight, talking about it at lunch today.
“Dinner’s on the table!”
“Yaaay,” the little boy shrieked, shooting past Mr. Shapiro, who walked slowly through the dining room. “Got to wash my hands,” he explained to the kitchen door.
“One night in your life you might wash your hands before I …” Her voice followed him into the bathroom, and he closed the door gently on it.
When he reached the dinner table and pulled back his chair, his eyes fell onto the bowl at his place.
“Didn’t we have tomato soup last night?” he asked. He lifted his eyes to the woman at the head of the table, and then turned to the little boy. They were staring at him.
The woman rose. “I thought you were early tonight,” she said blankly.
“Why …” said Mr. Shapiro. He put down his napkin, went over to the hall closet, and took out his coat and hat. Gray hat looks a little shabby, he thought. The woman and the little boy watched him until the door closed behind him.
Mr. Shapiro went swiftly down the steps and then up the steps of number 1016. He let himself in with his key and slammed the door behind him.
“Dear?” he called out. “The funniest thing …”
The sound of the can opener stopped, and she said, “That you, dear? Dinner’s almost ready.”