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She looked around the dark room, and then down at Mr. McGrory, who was asleep on his stomach.
“Herb!”
After a moment, without moving, Herb replied, “What?”
“Get up, for God’s sake!”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Get up, Herb, damn you!”
Mrs. McGrory turned on the lamp on her bedside table as Mr. McGrory sat up.
The first thing Mr. McGrory noticed was the shattered mirror.
“Jesus, what happened to the mirror?”
“How would I know?”
“It’s busted.”
“I can see that. What happened?”
Mr. McGrory ran over the possibilities.
“It could have been a sonic boom,” he theorized.
“Sonic boom?”
“You know, when an airplane goes faster than sound.”
“Oh, God, Herb! Sometimes…”
“Well, you tell me,” he said.
“Get up and see if anything else is wrong,” she said. “Don’t cut your feet on the broken glass.”
“Jesus!”
“Do it now, Herb!”
Two minutes later, after taking a cautious tour of their apartment, Mr. McGrory returned to announce that the only thing that seemed to be wrong was the mirror.
“You didn’t hear anything?” Joanne asked, significantly, nodding toward the wall with the broken mirror.
Several times, the McGrorys had heard the sounds of Cheryl Williamson entertaining gentleman callers in her bedroom. Once they had had to bang on the wall to request less enthusiasm.
Mr. McGrory smiled and said, “Could be…” and then made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, into which he then inserted, with a pumping motion, the index finger of his right hand.
“You’re disgusting,” Joanne said, and then added: “This time, it’s too much. The mirror is busted. I’m going to go over there and read the riot act to her.”
“No, you’re not,” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then I’m going to call the cops. I won’t have this!”
