The atmosphere was hot and close.
Probably a storm blowing up, he thought. It's too damned hot to cut the lawn. I'll skip it for tonight. Might be cooler tomorrow.
The moment he had made the decision he felt more relaxed in mind. How quiet and empty the bungalow felt, he thought, returning to the hall. He wandered into the lounge and finished the whisky in his glass, and without thinking, splashed more whisky into the empty glass and carried it into the kitchen.
This was going to be another dull evening, he thought as he opened the refrigerator to see what Carrie, the coloured help, had left him for supper. A glance at the empty shelves told him she had forgotten to prepare anything, and he slammed the door shut. There were cans of food in the pantry, but he didn't feel like eating out of a can.
Shrugging impatiently, he went back to the lounge and put on the television.
The prancing blonde in a frilly little skirt who appeared on the screen held his attention. He sat down and watched her. She reminded him of the slim blonde he had seen on the street that morning. He watched an indifferent programme for half an hour or so and during that time he twice got up to refill his glass. At the end of the programme, and before a new one began, he snapped off the television, got to his feet and began to pace slowly up and down.
Parker's flat-footed cliche kept going through his mind: what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve about.
He looked at his watch. In another hour it would be dusk. He went over to the whisky bottle. There was only a little left now, and he emptied what there was into the glass. The previous drinks he had had were now affecting him, and he felt in an increasingly reckless mood.
Why stay in tonight? he asked himself. Why not give Parker's girl a trial? She takes care of lonely guys, Parker had said. That's what he was, wasn't he?
He carried his drink into the bedroom, set it down on the dressing-table, pulled off his shirt and took a new one from a drawer.
What was her telephone number?
He closed his eyes while he tried to think, and discovered he had drunk more whisky than he had thought.
Riverside 33344.
Everything depends on her voice he said to himself and what she says. If she sounds awful, I can always hang up. If no one answers, then I will cut the lawn. That's a bet.
Buttoning up his shirt, he went into the lounge and dialled the number. He listened to the burr-burr-burr on the line, aware that his heart was now beating rapidly.
She's not there, he said to himself after a few moments and he felt both relieved and disappointed. Well, this lets me out. I'll skip it and cut the lawn; but he was reluctant to replace the receiver.
Then suddenly there was a click over the line, and his heart missed a beat and then raced.
A girl's voice said, 'Hello?'
'Is that Miss Carson?' he asked cautiously.
'That's right. Who's calling?'
He could almost hear a smile in her bright, gay voice.
'I guess you wouldn't know me. A friend of mine . . .' He broke off, floundering.
'Oh.' The girl laughed. It was a nice, friendly laugh and Ken felt suddenly at ease. 'Well, don't be shy. Do you want to come on over?'
'That was the idea, but perhaps you are tied up?'
'I'm not. How long will you be?'
'I don't know where you are.'
The girl laughed again.
'25 Lessington Avenue. Do you know it?'
'That's off Cranbourne Street, isn't it?'
'That's right. I'm on the top floor; only heaven is higher. Have you a car?'
'Yes.'
'Don't leave it outside. There's a parking lot at the corner.'
Lessington Avenue was on the other side of the town to where Ken lived. It would take him twenty minutes to get there.
'I could get over by nine,' he said.
'I'll be waiting. You'll find the front door open. Just walk up.'
'I'll do that.'
'Until nine o'clock then. Good-bye for now.'
The line went dead, and he slowly replaced the receiver.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Even now he hadn't committed himself, he thought. I needn't go. I have still time to make up my mind.
