Raymond grinned in anticipation of his own forthcoming joke. “I should think they’d call ‘em Morphy beds.” Then, at her blank stare. “You know — short for Morpheus, god of sleep. Learned about him at high school.”

Cora still looked blank. Cora hardly ever understood Ray’s jokes, or laughed at them. He would turn, chuckling, to find her face a blank. Not even bewildered, or puzzled, or questioning. Blank. Unheeding. Disinterested as a slate.

Three days later Cora developed an acute pain in her side. She said it was nothing. Just worn out with the work, and the worry and the aggravation, that’s all. It’ll be all right.

Ray went with her to look at the Sheridan Road apartment. It was one hundred and fifty dollars.