Someone knocked on the door.
Leota squealed and rolled over and over making a quilted mummy of herself. ‘He’s in his tomb again, rapping to get out!’
The Oklahoma man switched on the lights and unlocked the door. A very jubilant little man in a dark suit, with wild blue eyes, wrinkles, grey hair and thick glasses danced in.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ declared the little man. ‘I’m Mr. Whetmore. I went away. Now I’m back. I’ve had the most astonishing stroke of luck. Yes, I have. Is my tombstone still here?’ He looked at the stone a moment before he saw it. ‘Ah, yes, yes, it is! Oh, hello.’
He saw Leota peering from many layers of blanket. ‘I’ve some men with a roller-truck, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll move the tombstone out of here, this very moment. It’ll only take a minute.’
The husband laughed with gratitude. ‘Glad to get rid of the damned thing. Wheel her out!’
Mr. Whetmore directed two brawny workmen into the room. He was almost breathless with anticipation. ‘The most amazing thing. This morning I was lost, beaten, dejected — but a miracle happened.’ The tombstone was loaded on to a small coaster truck.
‘Just an hour ago, I heard, by chance, of a Mr. White who had just died of pneumonia. A Mr. White, mind you, who spells his name with an I instead of a Y. I have just contacted his wife, and she is delighted that the stone is all prepared. And Mr. White not cold more than sixty minutes, and spelling his name with an I, just think of it. Oh, I’m so happy!’
The tombstone, on its truck, rolled from the room, while Mr. Whetmore and the Oklahoma man laughed, shook hands, and Leota watched with suspicion as the commotion came to an end. ‘Well, that’s now all over,’ grinned her husband as he closed the door on Mr. Whetmore, and began throwing the canned flowers into the sink and dropping the tin cans into a waste-basket.
In the dark, he climbed into bed again, oblivious to her deep and solemn silence. She said not a word for a long while, but just lay there, alone-feeling. She felt him adjust the blankets with a sigh. ‘Now we can sleep. The damn old thing’s took away. It’s only ten-thirty. Plenty of time for sleep.’ How he enjoyed spoiling her fun.
Leota was about to speak when a rapping came from down below again. ‘There! There!’ she cried, triumphantly, holding her husband. ‘There it is again, the noises, like I said. Hear them!’
Her husband knotted his fists and clenched his teeth. ‘How many times must I explain. Do I have to kick you in the head to make you understand, woman! Let me alone. There’s nothing — ‘
‘Listen, listen, oh, listen,’ she begged in a whisper.
They listened in the square darkness.
A rapping on a door came from downstairs.
A door opened. Muffled and distant and faint, a woman’s voice said, sadly, ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr. Whetmore.’
And deep down in the darkness underneath the suddenly shivering bed of Leota and her Oklahoma husband, Mr. Whetmore’s voice replied: ‘Good evening again, Mrs. White. Here. I brought the stone.’
The End
