‘Quit it, Morris,’ Lydia said on these occasions. ‘You can’t take a joke, you never could take a joke, sometimes I wonder how I could marry a man with absolutely no sense of humour. We go to Las Vegas,’ Lydia had said, addressing the empty kitchen as if an invisible horde of spectators which only she could see was standing there, ‘we see Buddy Hackett, and Morris doesn’t laugh once.’
Besides arthritis, warts, and migraines, Morris also had Lydia, who, God love her, had developed into something of a nag over the last five years or so… ever since her hysterectomy. So he had plenty of sorrows and plenty of problems without adding a broken back.
‘Morris!’ Lydia cried, coming to the back door and wiping suds from her hands with a dishtowel. ‘Morris, you come down off that ladder right now!’
‘What?’ He twisted his head so he could see her. He was on the second-highest step of his aluminium stepladder. There was a bright yellow sticker on this step which said: DANGER! BALANCE MAY SHIFT WITHOUT WARNING ABOVE THIS STEP! Morris was wearing his carpenter’s apron with the wide pockets, one of the pockets filled with nails and the other filled with heavy-duty staples. The ground under the stepladder’s feet was slightly uneven and the ladder rocked a little when he moved. His neck ached with the unlovely prelude to one of his migraines. He was out of temper. ‘What?’
‘Come down from there, I said, before you break your back.’
‘I’m almost finished.’
‘You’re rocking on that ladder like you were on a boat, Morris. Come down.’
‘I’ll come down when I’m done!’ he said angrily. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘You’ll break your back,’ she reiterated dolefully, and went into the house again.
Ten minutes later, as he was hammering the last nail into the rain-gutter, tipped back nearly to the point of overbalancing, he heard a feline yowl followed by fierce barking.
‘What in God’s name -?’
He looked around and the stepladder rocked alarmingly. At that same moment, their cat — it was named Lover Boy, not Morris — tore around the corner of the garage, its fur bushed out into hackles and its green eyes flaring. The Regans’ collie pup was in hot pursuit, its tongue hanging out and its leash dragging behind it Lover Boy, apparently not superstitious, ran under the stepladder. The collie pup followed.
‘Look out, look out, you dumb mutt!’ Morris shouted.
The ladder rocked. The pup bunted it with the side of its body. The ladder tipped over and Morris tipped with it, uttering a howl of dismay. Nails and staples flew out of his carpenter’s apron. He landed half on and half off the concrete driveway, and a gigantic agony flared in his back. He did not so much hear his spine snap as feel it happen. Then the world greyed out for awhile.
When things swam back into focus, he was still lying half on and half off the driveway in a litter of nails and staples. Lydia was kneeling over him, weeping. Rogan from next door was there, too, his face as white as a shroud.
‘I told you!’ Lydia babbled. ‘I told you to come down off that ladder! Now look! Now look at this!’
Morris found he had absolutely no desire to look. A suffocating, throbbing band of pain had cinched itself around his middle like a belt, and that was bad, but there was something much worse: he could feel nothing below that belt of pain — nothing at all.
‘Wail later,’ he said huskily. ‘Call the doctor now.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Rogan said, and ran back to his own house.
‘Lydia,’ Morris said. He wet his lips.
‘What? What, Morris?’ She bent over him and a tear splashed on his cheek. It was touching, he supposed, but it had made him flinch, and the flinch had made the pain worse.
‘Lydia, I also have one of my migraines.’
‘Oh, poor darling! Poor Morris! But I told you—’
‘I’ve got the headache because that potzer Rogan’s dog barked all night and kept me awake. Today the dog chases my cat and knocks over my ladder and I think my back is broken.’