"Painting again? Ted, really?"
"Not painting. I loathe painting. That's one reason I retired. Maybe
I'll buy a cheap ball club."
"Ted," she said despairingly, "what's wrong with _work_?" She came over
to take the deck chair next to his.
"Nothing," he said. "Unless it gets to be a disease. From the time I
was sixteen until I was thirty-eight, I worked like three men. That's
twenty-two years a man, and I've forty-four years of rest due me. If
I'm alive, at eighty-three, I'll go back to work."
"Nobody," she said wearily, "can ever get any sense out of you." She
looked down at the patio below. "Do you really think she's pretty, Ted?"
The blonde was now on her back.
"She has a fair figure. I haven't seen much of her face."
"I suppose," Ann said hesitantly, "I've failed you, somewhere."
"Well," Ted began.
But Ann rose hastily. "Heavens, I forgot I had soup on the stove." The
screen door slammed behind her.
His eyes went to the blonde, moved away, came back.
"Dreams, that's all you've got!"
Ted looked at the doorway, but it was vacant. He looked down at the
patio below, but the blonde was quiescent. Besides, the voice had been
closer.
And there was _nobody_ in view. There was one small, scrubby squirrel
looking at him from the base of the nutmeg tree. Squirrels don't talk.
Through the screen, Ted heard dimly the movements of Ann in the
kitchen, and below, the blonde had her eyes closed. Nobody, nobody,
nobody....
He said, "What do you mean, dreams?" and watched the squirrel closely.
"Don't be stupid," the voice said. The squirrel hadn't opened its mouth.
Ted rose, and looked through the screen door, but Ann was still in the
kitchen, her back to him. Down on her patio, the blonde didn't stir.