A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories by Ray Bradbury Page B

afternoons. Ellie, she worked in the First National Bank.”
    â€œI see,” said Miss Fremwell.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing,” she said.
    â€œI’m an easy man to get on with. I don’t talk too much. I’m easygoing 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.
    â€œAs you yourself say, Mr. Lemon, nobody ever got anywhere arguing.”
    â€œRight!” he said. “I’m easygoing, 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.
    â€œIt’s late,” said Miss Fremwell.
    â€œOnly nine o’clock!”
    â€œI have to get up early tomorrow.”
    â€œBut you haven’t answered my question yet, Miss Fremwell.”
    â€œQuestion?” She blinked. “Oh, the question. Yes.” She rose from the wicker seat. She hunted around in the dark for the screen-door knob. “Oh now, Mr. Lemon, let me think it over.”
    â€œThat’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 followeddirections 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.
    â€œMiss 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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œYes?” she said, behind the panel.
    â€œLook, 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.
    â€œLook,” 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!”
    She opened the door a bit wider and looked. Then she slammed the door and locked it. From behind the thin paneling her voice was toneless.
    â€œI can still see the hole, Mr. Lemon,” she said.

The First Night of Lent
    S o you want to know all the whys and wherefores of the Irish? What shapes them to their Dooms and runs them on their way? you ask. Well, listen, then.