“An excellent idea!” said the razor. “You advertising men are so shrewd. Tell me, do you think that after what happened to you this morning you will find anything else in the salt- and pepper-shakers besides salt and pepper?”
“No,” said Filmore without enthusiasm.
“Do you want to know what to do?”
“Of course I want to know,” Filmore replied, suddenly angry. “It’s hard to believe that Elvira could possibly. . . .”
“I’m sure it’s no skin off my back,” said the razor with detachment.
“All right, all right,” said Filmore. “What should I do, just in case?”
“First of all,” the razor said, “I’d eat out from now on.”
“Yeah. What else?”
“Watch your step. Keep your eyes open. I don’t think you really believe me. Perhaps by the next time we get together something will have happened to increase your confidence in me.”
Filmore mumbled something and began shaving.
“We’re having your favorite dish,” said Mrs. Filmore when Filmore came into the kitchen. “Stuffed peppers and Brussels sprouts.”
“I’m eating out,” growled Filmore as he headed for the door.
When Filmore woke up the next morning, he felt an icy winter draft on his face. The window at the head of his bed was open.
“What the hell is going on around here?” he roared. “You trying to make me catch pneumonia or something, Elvira? Why did you open that window?”
Mrs. Filmore, who had sat bolt upright in her bed at Filmore’s opening blast, said, “I didn’t open your window, George.” She said it quietly.
“How the hell did it get open, then?” he demanded. “It was shut when I fell asleep last night.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps you opened it in your sleep.”
“I’ll lock the damned thing,” Filmore growled.
“I’ll get your breakfast,” his wife said.
“Don’t bother,” said Filmore quickly. “I . . . I’ll get a bite to eat at the office. Got to lose a little weight.”
Filmore got dressed and went into the bathroom. He plugged in his electric razor.
“What do you think now?” the razor inquired.
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be talking,” Filmore said. “I thought maybe you were a one-day wonder.”
“What do you think now?” the razor repeated. “Sleeping with your bedroom window open is a good way to catch a cold. With luck, it could turn into pneumonia.”
“You think Elvira opened that window?”
“Are you a sleepwalker?” asked the razor.
“How the hell would I know if I’m asleep at the time?”
“An astute observation,” said the razor. “Have you ever awakened suddenly in the middle of the night and found yourself at the refrigerator?”
“No.”
“Has your wife ever told you before that you walk in your sleep?”
“No.”
“Then we may never know for sure how that window got open,” said the razor.
“But you think it was Elvira, don’t you?” said Filmore, pressing his point.
“I’m just calling your attention to the second of two rather unusual occurrences in as many days,” replied the razor.
“But an open window is such a long shot,” Filmore protested. “The chances are one in a thousand that I would catch pneumonia and die, even if I am susceptible to colds.”
“I agree,” said the razor. “Poisoning your food would be the best way of killing you, but you’re eating out now. There aren’t many imaginative courses of action left after that one is removed.”
“This is silly,” Filmore said. “This whole idea is silly. Why should Elvira suddenly want to kill me?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the razor with a touch of sarcasm. “But what makes you think this is sudden?”
“Well, it was only yesterday morning that she tried to feed me the poisoned eggs.”
“Poisoned eggs?”
“You know what I mean. The eggs that upset my stomach.”
“Of course,” said the razor. “Tell me, didn’t you experience a rude awakening one night last week?”
“Yes, I did,” said Filmore slowly. His tone suggested dawning comprehension, new insight. Actually, his mind was racing backward in time, trying to recall if there were any other occasions on which he had almost been done in.
“How did that come about?” interrupted the razor.
“I woke up during the night, and I was choking. The damned pillow was over my face. I assumed that I got it that way myself. I toss around a lot at night.”
“Where was your wife at the time?” the razor asked.
“I thought she was in her bed. It was dark. I didn’t hear or see anything. I wasn’t looking for anything.”
“Then you probably did it yourself, just as you said,” the razor concluded. “I wouldn’t worry. Just sleep without a pillow from now on. For your own safety.”
“I’ve got to think about this,” said Filmore, not at all convinced. “This is a hell of a thing.”
“Take your time,” said the razor. “But think with your eyes open.”
Before Filmore had a chance to leave the house, his wife asked him if he would go down to the basement and turn up the temperature on the water heater. She was going to do her washing that morning, she explained.
He started down the basement stairs and looked down just in time to prevent himself from taking the step that would have been his last. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and his eyes widened in horror. There, on the next step, right where he would have put his foot down, was a banana peel. He could hear his skull cracking open on the concrete floor of the basement. He could see his brains oozing out.
“Lord almighty,” he whispered.
Sidestepping the banana peel, he went quickly into the basement and turned up the heater. Then he charged back up the stairs, skipping completely the step on which the banana peel lay, and headed for the bathroom.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” said his wife, placidly, as he dashed through the kitchen.
“Brush my teeth,” he mumbled.
He closed the bathroom door behind him and clutched the razor frantically in both hands.
“It’s true,” he whispered desperately. “It’s all true. My God, she is trying to kill me!”
“Get a hold of yourself,” said the razor.
“What should I do?” pleaded Filmore. “Elvira is trying to kill me!”
“I’m glad you finally realized it,” the razor said.
“I can’t go on dodging her forever. Tell me what to do.”
“Well, I can’t tell you what she’s going to do next,” said the razor, “but seeing your life is in jeopardy, you have every right to remove the danger. Don’t you agree?”
“What do you mean?”
“As you have so perspicaciously pointed out,” said the razor, “you can’t go on eluding your wife’s little traps forever. Therefore, the wisest course of action would be to beat her to the punch.”
A satanic gleam crept into Filmore’s eyes.
“By thunder, you’re right,” he said. “You got any ideas?”
“Does your wife drive?”
“Yeah. So what? She has her car; I have my car.”
“That’s fine,” said the razor. “Perhaps she’ll be driving to the market tomorrow?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“There are devices, you know, that can be attached to the engine of a car such that when the car is started, it blows sky high.” The razor paused for a moment. “Isn’t that intriguing?” it said at last.
“Beautiful,” said Filmore slowly. “I’ll be at the office when it happens. You know, I feel better already. Thank you.”
“Nothing at all,” said the razor.
Filmore did not come home for supper that evening. Mrs. Filmore absorbed this patiently. She had long ago learned to patiently endure Filmore’s many eccentricities.