“I will come before nine,” I say. She runs my bankcard through the machine and marks the order slip
“Paid in Advance.”
“Here’s your copy,” she says. “Don’t lose it—though someone smart enough to write down the tire size is probably smart enough not to lose his order slip.”
I walk back out to the car breathing easier. It is easy to fool people into thinking I am like everyone else in encounters like this. If the other person likes to talk, as this woman did, it is easier. All I have to say are a few conventional things and smile and it is done.
Mr. Crenshaw is in our hall again when I get back, three minutes before the end of our official lunchtime.
His face twitches when he sees me. I do not know why. He turns around almost at once and walks away. He does not speak to me. Sometimes when people do not speak, they are angry, but I do not know what I have done to make him angry. I have been late twice lately, but neither time was my fault. I did not cause the traffic accident, and I did not cut my own tires.
It is hard to settle down to work.
I am home by 7:00, with my own tires on all four wheels and Danny’s spare in the trunk along with mine.
I decide to park next to Danny’s car although I do not know if he is home. It will be easier to move his spare from one car to another if they are close together.
I knock on his door. “Yes?”His voice.
“It is Lou Arrendale,” I say. “I have your spare in my trunk.”
I hear his footsteps coming to the door. “Lou, I told you—you didn’t have to rush. But thanks.” He opens the door. He has the same multi-toned brown/beige/rust carpet on the floor that I have, though I covered mine with something that didn’t make my eyes hurt. He has a large dark-gray video screen; the speakers are blue and do not match as a set. His couch is brown with little dark squares on the brown; the pattern is regular, but it clashes with the carpet. A young woman is sitting on the couch; she has on a yellow, green, and white patterned shirt that clashes with both the carpet and the couch. He glances back at her. “Lyn, I’m going to go move my spare from Lou’s car to mine.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound interested; she looks down at the table. I wonder if she is Danny’s girlfriend.
I did not know he had a girlfriend. I wonder, not for the first time, why a woman friend is called a girlfriend and not a woman friend.
Danny says, “Come on in, Lou, while I get my keys.” I do not want to come in, but I do not want to seem unfriendly, either. The clashing colors and patterns make my eyes tired. I step in. Danny says, “Lyn, this is Lou from upstairs—he borrowed my spare yesterday.”
“Hi,” she says, glancing up and then down.
“Hi,” I say. I watch Danny as he walks over to a desk and picks up his keys. The desk is very neat on top, a blotter and a telephone.
We go downstairs and out to the parking lot. I unlock my trunk and Danny swings the spare tire out. He opens his trunk and puts it in, then slams his trunk. It makes a different sound than mine does.
“Thank you for your help,” I say.
“No problemo,” Danny says. “Glad to be of service. And thanks for getting my spare back to me so quickly.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. It does not feel right to say “you’re welcome” when he did more to help me, but I do not know what else to say.
He stands there, looking at me. He does not say anything for a moment; then he says, “Well, be seeing you,” and turns away. Of course he will be seeing me; we live in the same building. I think this means he does not want to walk back inside with me. I do not know why he could not just say that, if that is what he means. I turn to my car and wait until I hear the front door open and close.
If I took the treatment, would I understand this? Is it because of the woman in his apartment? If I had Marjory visiting me, would I not