We looked at each other for a long moment of time. Her jaw moved slowly and rhythmetically as her teeth chewed up a plum. She looked as bright and happy as a cow chewing the cud.
“Hello,” I said, and it irritated me that my voice had gone husky.
Her fat fingers chased after a plum, found one and hoisted it into sight.
“It’s Mr. Malloy, isn’t it?” she said, as polite as a minister’s wife meeting a new member of the congregation.
“That’s right,” I said. “The last time we met we didn’t have the time to get matey. Who are you?”
She chewed for a moment, turned the stone out into her cupped hand and transferred it to the paper sack.
“Why, I’m Mrs. Salzer,” she said.
I should have guessed that. She really couldn’t have been anyone else.
“I don’t want to seem personal,” I said, “but do you like your husband, Mrs. Salzer?”
The vague look was chased away by surprise which in turn gave way to a look of weak pride.