Uncle Antoine's Funeral - Chapters 8 through 12

Chapter 8

Tuesday, October 18, 1921

Antoine sat in the pre-dawn darkness on the sofa where Marguerite had died. He used to feel uncomfortable even looking at it, but after two years he’d grown used to sitting there, almost fond of it. It even made him smile when he thought about the great pride she had taken in it, how she cleaned it regularly, and fussed at Jimmy when he walked on it. Antoine always sat up a little straighter when he sat on it.

At fifteen Antoine had grown to his full adult height of five feet, eight inches. He was scrawny, weighing only one hundred and eighteen pounds, and he had taken to shaving his downy facial hair every Sunday before church.

Pierre came through the door at first light.

“Good morning, Papa,” he said.

Pierre jumped. “Dear God, Antoine.” He put his hand to his chest. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Waiting for you to come home.”

“Have you been up all night?”

“Mostly. I couldn’t get back to sleep after you left. How’s Mamman?’

“She’s fine. She had the baby around three.”

Antoine had overheard Pierre and Sarah discussing whether to have the baby at home or at the hospital. Both Antoine and Jimmy had been born at home, but Sarah wanted to have her baby in the hospital.

“And the baby?”

“She’s fine.”

“A girl?”

His father smiled wearily. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why ‘good’?”

Antoine shrugged. “Are you hungry?”

They made breakfast together, as they had done during the later stages of Sarah’s pregnancy: bacon, eggs and day-old bread, the routine was comforting.

“Are you going to work, Papa?”

“No. I told Garret to let the crew know.” Garret McGuire, Pierre’s friend from work, had driven Pierre and Sarah to hospital late the previous evening.

“Do I have to go to school today? I’m tired, too.”

“Will you make sure that Jimmy gets off to school?”

“Yes.”

Pierre nodded. “When Jimmy gets home from school, we’ll go to the hospital and see Sara and the baby. Yes?”

“Yes.”

Pierre quickly finished his breakfast and trudged off to bed. Antoine cleared the table. I should wash the dishes, he thought, but he was dizzy from lack of sleep. Instead he went and sat on the sofa. He did not lay down for fear of falling asleep; a half hour later he went to wake Jimmy.

Antoine looked down at the sleeping figure of his brother. Unlike Antoine, Jimmy was tall for his age and broad through the shoulders and hips. He was also good at all the neighborhood games – kick the can, tag, hide and go seek. He was the best marble player in his elementary school. Sixth graders had stopped playing him. It was embarrassing to be beaten by a second grader.

Antoine braced himself and shook Jimmy’s shoulder. He groaned and turned over, still asleep. He shook his brother again.

“Jimmy, it’s time to get up.”

“Go ‘way.”

Antoine sat on Jimmy and bounced up and down. “Stop,” he said loudly. “Stop.”

“Shush!” Antoine hissed. “Papa’s trying to sleep. Now get up. It’s time for school.”

“Papa’s asleep?” Jimmy asked, just starting to wake.

“He was up all night with Maman. She had the baby.”

“What is it?”

“A girl.”

“Darn,” said Jimmy.

“Don’t let Papa or Sarah hear you say that.”

“Where is Maman?”

“Don’t be an idiot. At the hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. Now wash up and get dressed. I’ll make some breakfast.”

Antoine repeated the breakfast he had shared with his father and put it on the kitchen table. He went back to the bedroom and found Jimmy, wearing pants and one sock, the other sock dangling from his right hand, his chin resting on his chest, eyes closed.

“Jimmy, wake up. Your breakfast is ready.”

He started. “I wasn’t asleep.”

“Really?”

“I was sitting up, wasn’t I?”

Antoine sat down on his own bed and watched his brother finish dressing.

While Jimmy ate his breakfast, Antoine ran water, piled the breakfast dishes into the sink, and began to wash them.

“Aren’t you going to school today?” asked Jimmy.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Papa woke me up before they went to the hospital and I never got back to sleep.”

“If you aren’t going, neither am I.”

“What would you do here all day by yourself? Wake me and Papa, probably. Besides you love school.”

“I do not!”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“You said a bad word!”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to say a lot more bad words if you don’t get out of here. Are you done with that plate?”

The three Trombley males took the street car, and got off a little past the hospital. Pierre went into the Western Union office and sent telegrams to the families in New York state and Canada. Then they backtracked to the hospital and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Pierre left Antoine and Jimmy sitting in a waiting area, and went into the maternity ward. He came back a few minutes later.

“Antoine, Sarah would like to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Go down the hall. It’s the first open door.”

Antoine stood and walked tentatively toward the ward. When he came to the open door, he peeked in. There were ten beds to the right with their heads against the wall. On the left were high windows giving the room plenty of light. There were women in six of the ten beds. Three appeared to be asleep; one was reading a magazine; the fifth was talking quietly with on older, gray haired man. Sarah waved to Antoine from the bed at the far end of the room. There was an empty bed between the Sarah and the woman with magazine.

Walking quietly, Antoine went to Sarah’s bedside; he saw that she was holding the baby; she was asleep with a little milk in the corner of her mouth.

“Antoine. Thank you for coming to see us.” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkled, the lines at the corners of her mouth seemed to have smoothed out.

Antoine nodded. “How are you, Maman?”

“Wonderful!” she said. “Oh, I’m sore and a little tired, but, really, fantastique.”

“Good.”

“What do you think of our baby? Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Yes.” In fact, he thought her quite ugly, like all babies.

“Ha,” laughed Sarah. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Um, no. I’m, I’m…”

“That’s alright. There will be plenty of time for that.” She looked at him for a moment. “What do you think we should name her?”

“I thought you had decided on ‘Marie’.”

“Yes, we did. But sometimes the baby comes and she doesn’t seem like a ‘Marie’. Do you think she seems like a ‘Marie’?”

“I, uh, I don’t know.”

“She seems like a perfect ‘Marie’ to me. So, we have ‘Marie’ and we have ‘Trombley’. But she needs a middle name. What do you think her middle name should be?”

Mystified, he shrugged and shook his head.

“Really? You have no ideas?”

“No.”

Sarah reached to her side table, but it was little awkward while holding the baby. “Would you get that piece of paper, s'il vous plaît?” she said, gesturing to the table.

He picked up the paper and handed it to her.

“Antoine, this is the application for Marie’s birth certificate. It has my suggestion for her middle name. But I want your permission to use it.”

“My permission?” She handed him the paper. He found the space for middle name and it said ‘Marguerite’. “Oh!”

“Yes. Look, Antoine, I know Marguerite was a wonderful mother because she left two wonderful sons in my care. Giving my daughter her name means that I would like to be as good a mother as she.”

Antoine nodded.

“So, do I have your permission?”

Antoine swallowed hard. “Yes, of course, Maman.”

“There’s one other thing. Baby girls and little girls, all girls, really, need protection. You are the big brother, and it is your job to protect Marie. Will you do that?”

“Of course, Maman.”

“And will you always be kind and gentle with her?”

“Yes, Maman.”

“I know you will. Now, please, give us a hug?”

 Antoine put his right arm around her shoulders and his left, more gently, around the sleeping baby. She kissed the side of his head.

“It’s a good name don’t you think?” she asked. “Marie Marguerite Trombley.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Now, would you be good enough to fetch your father and brother?”

He smiled, nodded and strode from the room.

Chapter 9

Monday January 9, 1922

Three months later, Antoine left East Akron High School after classes. It was a dark, bitter, blustery mid-January afternoon; he walked, eyes slitted the against driven snowflakes, to the street car stop. Rather than heading home, he took the street car up East Market Street twenty blocks to the First Presbyterian Church. He pulled open the heavy front door, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and walked down the hall to the bench outside the pastor’s office. He took off his coat and scarf, and sat down.

His family had belonged to this church his whole life. Dr. Roberts had been the pastor that entire time, and he had taught some of the classes Antoine had taken prior to becoming a member. 

The door to the office opened and a plump middle-aged woman wearing an elaborate, feathered hat and fur coat stepped into the hall. “Thank you for your time, Reverend.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Fairchild. I shall give your thoughts due consideration.” He watched her go round the corner and sighed. Then he turned to bench and smiled. “How are you today, Antoine?”

“Fine, Dr. Roberts.”

“Well, come on in.” Dr. Roberts was a tall, florid man with a thoughtful, placid demeanor. He wore a tan, corduroy blazer, dark brown slacks and an incongruous brown and yellow bow tie. His office was small and tidy, lined with bookshelves and smelling of tobacco. The desk was medium sized but looked rather small with him behind it. Antoine sat in one of the two wooden guest chairs.

“How’s your family? Everyone well?” asked Dr. Roberts.

“Yes, thank you. And you, sir?”

“Quite well, quite well.” He took his pipe out of his coat pocket, scraped the contents of the bowl into the ashtray and reloaded the pipe. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Antoine sit back in the chair.

“What’s on your mind, Antoine?” Antoine did not respond; Dr. Roberts took a match from the holder, struck it, and lit his pipe. Antoine became aware of the clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick.

“Is it about the baptism?”

‘Yes.” Dr. Roberts gestured for him to continue. “I’m, I’m afraid I’m going to ruin it.”

“Ruin it? I don’t see how.”

“Well, I don’t think I should be a sponsor.”

“It is a little unusual. But you are a member of the church, so I think it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“No?”

“I… I don’t believe.”

The Pastor struck another match and put it to his pipe, puffing hard until the tobacco was well lit. “What don’t you believe?” he asked kindly.

“That Christ died on the cross for my sins. That there’s a merciful God in heaven. Any of it.”

“I see. So, it’s a question of faith.”

“Yes. I’ve lost my faith.”

“No, Antoine, you haven’t. You can’t lose something you never had.”

“Pardon?”

“You lost your belief, not your faith. Your parents taught you about the life of Christ, and, because they loved and cared for you, you believed them and in him. When did you lose your belief?”

“When my first mother died.”

“Yes, the influenza.”

“I watched her die, or at least watched her dying. It was horrible.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“How could a loving God permit that?”

“That is a very good question. Perhaps the most important question. Antoine, have you read the Book of Job?”

“Yes.”

“It is the greatest example of faith in the Bible.”

“Yes?”

“Your mother’s death was the first trial of your life. Antoine, belief without hardship is meaningless. Belief in the face of evidence to the contrary is faith.” He paused. “Would you be surprised to learn that I have doubts?”

“You do?”

“Of course. It’s quite normal to have doubts. You would be even more surprised at the source of some of my doubts.” He was thinking of Mrs. Fairchild. “Sometimes my belief is stronger than other times. But I have dedicated my life to His word and His work. And that is a comfort to me.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Antoine, I’ve known many young people, and some older people, who have gone through a period serious doubt and then come back to Christ with a strong belief, a deep faith. They are among the best practicing Christians I know.”

Antoine pondered that. “I see.”

“Shall we come back the matter of your sponsorship?”

Antoine nodded.

“You feel that you are not qualified based on your current state of grace?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Do you think your mother, Sarah, I mean, is aware of your doubts?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

“You underestimate her. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she sees this sponsorship as a way to tie you to Marie and to the church.”

“Do you think?”

“It’s possible. Let me ask you another question. Would you ever, in word or deed, undermine Marie’s belief in the teachings of the church?”

“Oh, no! I would never do that.”

“Well, then, let your Mother and I worry about your qualifications. In my mind your current struggle makes you more qualified than many of the more upstanding citizens in the congregation.” Dr. Roberts smiled at Antoine, partly to reassure him, but mostly at the juxtaposition of Antione to the previous occupant of his chair.

The church had been chilly when they first arrived; they had come early to claim seats near the front. The pews filled, and as the service proceeded, the church warmed despite the high ceiling in the nave. Antoine sat thinking his own thoughts, ignoring the prayers and sermon, until the Doxology.   

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Amen

Antoine loved this hymn, not for the words, of course, but for its simple, transcendent melody and the rich harmony that rolled out from the choir and echoed in the congregation.

Standing in the pulpit, Dr. Roberts’ unamplified voice filled the sanctuary, “Now we come to one of the happier duties of my office. We are welcoming a new child to our rolls. Would the family of Marie Marguerite Trombley please come forward?”

Antoine stepped into the aisle and Sarah handed him Marie. They walked toward the altar with Antoine carrying Marie, per Sarah’s instruction. Dr. Roberts walked down to the bottom step of the altar; the Trombleys stopped just below him.

Dr. Roberts said, “Pierre, Sarah and Antoine, who is your Lord and Savior?”

They replied, “Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.”

Dr. Roberts, “Do you trust in him?”

Pierre, Sarah and Antoine, “I do.”

Dr. Roberts, “Do you intend this child to be his disciple, to obey his word and to show his love?”

Pierre, Sarah and Antoine, “I do.”

Dr. Roberts, to the congregation, “Our Lord Jesus Christ ordered us to teach those who are baptized. Do you, the people of the church, promise to tell this child the good news of the gospel, to help her know all that Christ commands, and, by your fellowship, to strengthen her family ties with the household of God?”

The congregation, in a single harmonious voice, “We do.”

Dr. Roberts took Marie from Antoine and stepped down to the open baptistry at his right. Holding the infant over the water, he said, “Marie Marguerite Trombley, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. May all the blessings of God’s covenant of Grace rest upon you.”

Dr. Roberts scooped a hand full of water and anointed Marie’s head.

“Let us pray. Give us, O Lord, the strength to do those things which we have promised and bless this child now to be baptized through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

The congregation, “Amen.”

Chapter 10

Wednesday October 24, 1922

Antoine sat on the passenger-side running board of the Model T; his left elbow rested on his knee, his left hand held his forehead and blood oozed between his fingers. His head throbbed and he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus.

“Is this your car, young feller?” Antoine looked up and saw a man dressed all in blue. A policeman?

“What?”

“I said, ‘Is this your car?’”

“Um, yes, mine and… Uh mine and…”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I don’t have a… a.”

The policeman took a notebook and pencil out of his hip pocket. “What’s your name?”

“Antoine Trombley.”

“Where do you live?”

“Reed Avenue.”

“Number?”

“What number?”

“The house number. What’s the house number?”

“Oh, um, 847?”

“How’d the car get up here?”

Antoine looked up and was surprised to see that the car was in a flower bed, five feet above street level, the front end resting in a broken hedge.

“I don’t know.”

A police car pulled up to the curb. “Officer Morrison,” called a man from the car, “can I be of some assistance?”

“Ah, Officer Kendrick, you’re just in time help me transport this desperado to the hoosegow.”

“Just put him in the car and I’ll take him in.”

“The hell you will. I got here first and this my arrest.”

“Have it your own way.”

Morrison turned to Antoine. “Come along young Mister Trombley.”

“What?”

Morrison took Antoine by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Antoine immediately fell to his knees and began to vomit.

“Is he drunk?” asked Kendrick.

Morrison gestured, what do you think? Antoine was choking and spitting. Morrison picked him up; blood was dripping down his face. Morrison took the handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wiped the blood, placed it on the wound, and put Antoine’s hand on the handkerchief.

“Hold that,” said Morrison.

He half carried Antoine to the car and laid him down on the back seat. The ride to the station was interminable for Antoine; every bump excruciating. At length the two officers helped Antoine into the police station.

“Hey, Stevenson, call the doc. This kid’s got a nasty cut on his forehead.”

Sergeant Stevenson looked down at Antoine from his desk. “How many times have I told you to be careful with the nightstick?”

“I didn’t touch him. Had an automobile accident; he was driving without a license and drunk to boot.”

Stevenson picked up the phone, “I’ll call around, see if I can find somebody.”

Morrison took Antoine to the bullpen, seated him in the guest chair, and sat down behind the desk. He took out his notebook and a form from the desk. He spent several minutes filling out an arrest report.

“Date of birth?”

“Uh, August 19, 1907.”

“A minor, eh.” Antoine made no response. “Well, things will go easier for you. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Antoine looked at him vacantly. Then said, “I want to see my father.”

“You’ll see him in good time, laddie. In the meantime, I want you tell me what happened.”

“I’m not saying anything until I see my father.”

“Very well, up you come, then.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a holding cell. We wouldn’t want you to wander off, now, would we.”

Morrison handed his report to Stevenson and guided Antoine through a door behind the Sergeant’s desk. There were three cells, all empty, each with a high barred window and an electric light bulb in the ceiling. Morrison guided him into the first, helped him lie down on one of the benches, and locked the cell on his way out.

Antoine put his arm over his face; the light from the windows hurt his eyes. Eventually, the light began to fade and before too long it was dark in the cell. Sometime later, Antoine could not say how long, the door to the holding area opened and the lights snapped on. A policeman escorted a middle-aged man carrying a bag to his cell.

“Officer, could you bring me that chair,” he said pointing to a wooden chair in the corner. The officer picked up the chair and unlocked the cell. The officer set the chair down facing the bench.

As he sat down, the man said “Sit up, son.” Antoine did as he was told. “Alright, let’s take a look at you.” He gently peeled back the handkerchief and the wound began to ooze again and he blotted it with the handkerchief. He turned to the policeman, “I’m going to need some soap and water.”

“Certainly, Doctor,” he replied and went to fetch them.

The doctor sat back. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Antoine Trombley.”

“Your father’s Pierre Trombley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is your father?”

“I don’t know.”

He examined the laceration. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“The report says you were in a car accident.”

“Maybe. I remember a car in a yard.”

“Mmm, yes, quite a nasty gash, it will need some stiches. Before I do that, though, would please look up at the light.” The doctor looked carefully in Antoine’s eyes. “Please follow my finger with your eyes only.” The doctor moved his finger back and forth. “How are you feeling? Sick to your stomach?”

Antoine nodded.

“Have you vomited?”

“I think so. Yes, I did.”

“Feeling confused, having trouble putting things together?

“Yes.”

“Remember the crash?”

“No.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Ah, lunch at school, I think.”

“Unbutton your shirt, please.” The doctor lifted his undershirt and looked at Antoine’s chest. He pressed on his ribs and sternum. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Let me smell your breath.” Antoine breathed into the doctor’s face. “Alright, let’s take care of this wound. I’m sorry, your first name again?”

“Antoine.”

“Antoine, I am going to apply a little anesthetic to your forehead. It will sting, but it will make cleaning up and suturing much more comfortable. Are you ready?”

Pierre walked through the door to the holding area as the doctor was applying the finishing touches to the bandage on Antoine’s forehead.

“Papa,” said Antoine, standing. He lost his balance and the doctor steadied him. Pierre walked through the open cell door.

“Here now, you can’t go in there,” said the officer accompanying Pierre. Pierre ignored him. Antoine took two unsteady steps and his father caught him as much as held him.

“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry.”

Pierre hugged him for a moment, then held Antoine at arm’s length to examine him. “Are you alright?”

“He will be in a couple days,” said the doctor.

Pierre looked at the other man in the cell for the first time. “Dr. McLaughlin!”

“Mr. Trombley.” Pierre offered the doctor his hand and they shook.

Pierre turned his attention back to Antoine. “When they told me you’d been drinking, I couldn’t believe it, but I see I was wrong.”

“He’s not drunk, Mr. Trombley. He has a concussion.”

“A concussion?”

“Yes. His head must have hit the dashboard of the car quite hard. His brain is bruised and swollen. He’s young, so he should recover quickly.” 

“I see.”

“It is an easy mistake to make; many of the symptoms are the same. Lack of balance, slurred speech, impaired cognition. However, there are couple of things that tell me it’s a concussion and not alcohol.”

“Yes?”

“At this level of intoxication, he would almost certainly smell of beer or spirits. He does not. Secondly, the pupil in his right eye, the side where he hit his forehead, is dilated. This is one of the primary symptoms of concussion. Used to see it all the time when I was playing football. Had one myself, actually. So, I’m personally acquainted with how Antoine is feeling.”

“I see,” said Pierre. He looked at Antoine. “Was that your car? The one you and Richard have been working on?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean, ‘I think so.’?”

“Mr. Trombley, Antoine does not remember the accident or the circumstances leading up to it. This is typical of concussion.”

“Still, what could have possessed you to drive that car? You promised me you wouldn’t drive it until you had a license.”

“I don’t think he was driving the car, Mr. Trombley. At least not at the time of the accident. His injuries are consistent with being a passenger not the driver.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve seen many victims of automobile accidents, and there’s a pattern. The front seat passenger tends to have more severe head injuries, and the driver usually has bruising to the chest where they impact the steering wheel. Antoine has a head injury and no bruising; therefore, he was the passenger not the driver.”

“Will you tell this to the Sergeant on duty?”

“Yes, of course, and I will testify in a trial, if it comes to that.”

“Can we talk to him now?”

“Don’t leave me, Papa,” said Antoine.

“I’m going to get you out of here. I’ll be right back.” Pierre turned to the doctor. “Let’s go.”

Pierre was obviously upset when he and Earl McLaughlin walked out of the police station together.

The doctor said, “That’s a damn shame,” he said.

“They wouldn’t even let me talk to him again. No visitors are allowed in the holding area, they said. Why did they let me in there in the first place?  What must he think?”

“That you’re doing the best you can. Let me take you home. You’ll just have to come back in the morning. My car is just down the street.”

Pierre allowed himself to be guided to the car; Earl unlocked the passenger door and Pierre climbed in. Earl walked around to driver’s side. Once in the car he asked, “Where to?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. McLaughlin, but I can’t go home. If I’m to get Antoine out of jail tomorrow, I need to know what happened.”

“How will you do that? At this time of night?”

“I’m going to Richard’s house.”

“Richard?”

“Yes, Richard Gilmore. The kids call him Dick. He and Antoine were fixing up an old Model T. If Antoine did not drive that car, then it was probably Richard.”

“Ah.”

“The Gilmores live within walking distance of our house. If you will just drop me there, I’ll be much obliged.”

“Of course. Just direct me as we go.”

They went south on Arlington, left at Austin Avenue and right onto Clement Street.

“Let’s see; it’s up here to the right, I think. Yes, this is it.” Earl parked the car with the right wheels in the grass and turned off the car. “What’re you doing?”

“It occurs to me that you might need my help.”

“You should head home; it’s late.”

“What difference can a few more minutes make?”

Pierre shrugged and they got out of the car; Pierre pounded on the front door of the dark house. He waited, then pounded again. He was about to strike the door again when a second-floor window opened and a dark figure leaned out.

“What the hell? Do you know what time it is?”

“Mr. Gilmore?” said Pierre.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Pierre Trombley, Antoine’s father. Did you know that the boys’ Model T was in an accident this afternoon?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I was hoping to speak with Richard to find out what he knows.”

“God dammit!” said Gilmore. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

Pierre and Earl waited silently. Shortly the downstairs lights came on and the door opened. Gilmore was dressed in a robe; Pierre could see Mrs. Gilmore behind him in similar attire.

“Come in,” said Gilmore, still trying to wake up.

“Shall I make some coffee?” asked Mrs. Gilmore.

“Not a social call, Gertie,” said Mr. Gilmore. “Who’s this?” he asked gesturing to Earl.

“Dr. McLaughlin; he’s a sort of witness, I guess.”

“A witness to what?”

“To this,” said Pierre spreading his arms.

Gilmore grunted, turned and led them into the living room. Richard was already seated in the middle of the sofa. Gilmore sat in the overstuffed chair furthest from the door and indicated that Pierre should sit in the chair closest to the door. Earl stood behind Pierre, hands resting on the back of the chair.

“Richard,” said Pierre, “What can you tell us about the accident this afternoon?”

“So, Antoine ratted me out.”

“No,” said Dr. McLaughlin. “Actually, Antoine hasn’t been able to tell us much about what happened.”

“Is Antoine okay?” asked Richard.

Earl shook his head. “He’s suffered a bit of a head injury. He’s a little confused at the moment.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Right as rain in a few days.”

“Dick,” growled Gilmore, “just tell us what happened.”

“Well, you know, we’ve been overhauling a four-cylinder engine we scavenged, and we got it and the new carburetor installed and running today. And, boy, did it ever sound great. We were jumping around and cheering and whistling. And I jumped behind the wheel and said, ‘Let’s take her for a spin’.

“But Antoine didn’t want to go. He wanted to wait for one of our dads. So, I called him some names, you know, like ‘chicken’, until he got in. We went up to Archwood and drove west. We turned right a couple blocks before Main. I guess I was going too fast because I lost control. We went over the curb and into a yard; we ran into a big bush and stopped. I couldn’t get the car started again. So, I yelled for Antoine to run, and I lit out of there.”

“How’d you get home?” asked his father.

“Walked.”

“Might as well get used to it. You’re going be doing a lot of it.”

Pierre turned to Mr. Gilmore. “I was wondering if you and Richard would come to the Main Street Police Station in the morning.”

“Can’t do it. Got work in the morning.”

“Well, so do I, but I’d like to get Antoine out of jail.”

“Jail?” said Gilmore and Richard in unison.

“Yes. He’s been charged with driving an unlicensed vehicle, driving without a license and driving while intoxicated. Then there’s property damage to the yard.”

“Dick, were you boys drinking?”

“No,” said the doctor. “The police mistook Antoine’s concussion symptoms for intoxication.”

Pierre continued, “Antoine bears some responsibility for this incident, but since Richard was driving, they can’t charge Antoine with those violations. I would like your help getting the charges dropped.”

Pierre walked Antoine to the front door of the house, then turned and walked back toward Arlington to catch the street car.

As Antoine stepped into the house, Marie screeched “Ton-ton.” The two-year-old reached up her arms.

Antoine leaned over to pick her up, but that sent a stabbing pain through his head. “Sorry, sweetie, not today.”

Sarah came out of the kitchen. “Antoine, oh, Antoine. Are you alright?” she said, giving him a hug. 

He winced “No, not really.”

“Come, come, sit down.” She led him to the sofa and they sat. “Oh, your poor head. Does it hurt very much?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had anything to eat? Let me fix you something.” She started to get up.

“No, Maman. I am a little sick to my stomach.”

“Oh, my poor boy. You know what I think of these automobiles. I want you to promise me you will never get into another automobile.”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

“No, of course not.”

“I need to lay down.”

He carefully stood up. She and Marie walked with him to his bedroom. They stopped at the door and watched him stumble to his neatly made bed and lie down. Sarah glanced with smile at the unruly mess on Jimmy’s side of the room. She looked back at Antoine, taking in the photos and painted postcards pinned neatly to the wall over his bed. She remembered the gleam in his eyes as he showed her the race cars and their drivers. There were also luxury automobiles such as a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, a Pierce-Arrow, a Packard Twin Six, and a Cadillac Suburban.

She frowned and shook her head. “Come, Marie,” she said quietly. “We need to let Antoine get some rest.”

Pierre came home from work and went directly to Antoine’s room. The blinds were drawn and the lights were out. Antoine was still lying on his bed.

“Are you sleeping?” Pierre asked quietly.

“No.”

Pierre motioned to the bed. “May I sit down?”

“Yeah. Just be careful.”

Pierre sat and put his hand on his son’s leg. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better. Head still hurts, though.”

“I talked to Mr. Gilmore again. We agreed to sell the car and use the proceeds to pay Richard’s fines and repair the lawn you damaged. If there is anything leftover, you will split it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t drive that car; I didn’t cause that accident.”

“Did you know it was wrong to take that car out on the road?” Antoine made no answer. “Well, did you?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly.

“You should have tried harder to stop Richard. At least you should not have gotten into the car. That was like giving him permission. There are important lessons here and I want to make sure you learn them.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t let your emotions override your better judgement, for one. And don’t let others make your decisions for you. Be your own man,”

Antoine nodded and groaned.

Pierre wanted to give his son a hug but restrained himself. He patted him on the chest instead. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse.”

“Thanks, Papa.” Pierre got up to leave. “Oh, Papa?”

“Yes?”

“You should probably tell me all this again tomorrow.”

“I will.”

Chapter 11

Wednesday April 29, 1970

When Alaine Dennard McLaughlin walked into the East Green mail center, it was just after lunch. He was a little under six feet tall, wore jeans, a plain, dark t-shirt, and wire-rim glasses. His dark hair was wavy, wiry, and hung almost to his shoulder. On the way to his mailbox he stopped to look at the bulletin board and found there was a new posting.

Need a Ride to East Lansing, MI the weekend

of May 1 – 3

Please contact Alison Kernan at:

The bottom of the paper had 10 neatly clipped tabs with her phone number. None of the tabs had been taken. He went to his mailbox which contained a telephone message slip. It was from his mother and said, “Please call as soon as possible.” He looked up at the wall clock and decided to wait until after his one o’clock.

On his way out of the building, he stopped and looked at the posting again. He looked thoughtfully at his sneakers. He looked up at the posting and tore off one of the tabs.

He walked past the bank of pay phones, out of the mail center and out to the lot where his car was parked. He got into the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment and rummaged around for his map of Ohio. The map included the southern half of Michigan’s lower peninsula. He studied the map briefly, then refolded it, put it in his geology text book, and headed for his class at Clippering Hall.

He slid into his customary seat just as the one o’clock bell rang. There were more than half a hundred students scattered around the large, auditorium style lecture hall. He saw that Alison Kernan was in her usual seat with Brenda Frazier and Sally Richardson. She was wearing bellbottom jeans and an orange, knit halter top. She sat tailor fashion in her seat with her feet tucked under her legs. She was sturdy with wide shoulders and hips, and a tiny waist. She had long, straight brown hair, blue eyes and a blithe smile.

He stole glances at her throughout the class, ignoring an utterly forgettable lecture about distinguishing between different kinds of chert. When the bell sounded at one-fifty, he walked to her seat, his heart pounding.

“Alison?” he asked.

“Yes,” she beamed.

“I’m Denny McLaughlin.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you at a couple Allie Stein’s parties.”

“Yeah, probably.” He showed her the torn-out tab. “I was wondering if you have ride yet?”

“Only to the bus station in Columbus.”

“Well, I have an aunt and uncle outside Detroit, and there’s going to be this family reunion thing…”

“So, you’re going to Michigan?”

“Yeah.”

“Very cool. When are leaving?”

“I was thinking after Geology on Friday.”

“Oh, that would be perfect!” Her eyes sparkled.

“After I saw your post, I went and looked at my road map. If you have a few minutes we could talk about the route and arrangements.”

“Sure.” She turned to her friends. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.” They gathered their things and left.

Denny sat down next to Alison and spread the map across the two lecture desks. He pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the map. “Here’s Athens. So, we’ll go northwest on 33, loop around Columbus, and go north on 23, then on 15 to I-75. North of Toledo we get back on 23. That will take us through Ann Arbor, to the intersection of 23 and I-96. I-96 is a straight shot between East Lansing and Farmington, where my aunt and uncle live.  Do you think you can get somebody to pick you up at this intersection?”

“My boyfriend has a car; I’m sure he can pick me up. I’ll call him to let him know.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he goes to Michigan State. That’s why I’m going to East Lansing.” She thought for moment. “When do you think we’ll get there?”

“I don’t know.” He studied the map for minute. “If we leave by two-thirty, seven-thirty or eight, maybe.”

“Oh, that would be great! I’ll split the gas with you. Cheaper than a bus ticket, for sure.” She got up and started to gather her things. “Got to go. I have a study group.”

“Alright.”

“Thanks a lot. I was dreading that bus ride.”

“No problem.”

“See you Friday.”

Denny walked into Read Hall and went to the pay phone near the front entrance. He dropped a dime into the slot and dialed ‘0’. The dime dropped into the change receptacle.

“Operator,” said a voice from the phone.

“I’d like to make a collect call.” He gave her the number and his name.

His mother answered the phone, accepted the charges and said “Hello, Alaine.”

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Your Uncle Antoine passed.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. When?”

“I found him yesterday morning, but he’d been dead for a day maybe.”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t exactly a shock. He’s been sick for a while.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

She was silent for moment. “I’m fine.”

He let it pass. “So, when’s the funeral?”

“Tuesday, but I was hoping you could come for the weekend.”

“Sorry, but I have a couple of papers due, and I’ve got this thing with this girl. But I’ll come up Monday after class.”

“Oh, that would be fine,” she said, obviously pleased. She always approved of things with girls. “We’ll talk when you get here on Monday.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Love you, Alaine.”

“Sure.”

He hung up the phone and sighed.

He climbed the stairs to his dorm room. The ceiling tiles in the third-floor hallway showed the scars of a game they called “hall ball”. In this game there were two or three players on each team standing at either end of the hall. At the start of the game each player was armed with a tennis racket and two tennis balls. The object of the game was to strike an opponent as hard as possible with a tennis ball. Once the game started it was a free-for-all with players dodging shots, retrieving tennis balls, and firing them back. There was no way to “win” the game. There was only the satisfaction of bruising an opponent. Strikers of the ball prized the odd, lucky shot to the groin.

The main hall ran east and west; at each end of main hall were short wings that ran north. His room was in the eastern wing. He unlocked the door, closed it behind him and walked to the large, east-facing window, which looked out onto a parking lot, the Hocking River and the forested hills beyond.

He had watched this scene through all the seasons – the end of summer weather in September; the gentle descent into the flames of autumn; the bitter winter’s naked branches against a white background; the tentative buds of early spring; and now the confident, vibrant green and the swollen, rushing river. He was planning to live off campus next school year; he would miss the view.

He sat down at his desk, and looked through the assigned reading for geology, history and business 302. He completed his Accounting homework. Then he laid down on the bottom bunk to read The French Lieutenant’s Woman for Modern British Lit. He was not ordinarily so diligent about school work, but finals were less than three weeks away. If he was going to be off campus for four of the next five days, he needed get caught up.

His roommate banged into the room carrying his bicycle.

“Hey, Bobby.” Said Denny.

“’S’up, man.”

“Not much. Where you been?”

Bobby grunted and waved in the direction of the hills through the window. The campus itself was relatively flat, and Bobby often crossed the river for a more challenging ride. He was well known for his reckless speed runs between classes and the residence hall, pedestrians be damned.

Bobby stuffed his bike in his closet. He sat down in his desk chair, not even breathing hard from his ride and carrying his bike up three flights of stairs. He was covered in perspiration, but his tight bronze curls were still neatly in place.

“You want to go see the campus movie tonight?” asked Bobby. “It’s On the Waterfront. Very cool flick.”

“Sorry, no can do. Got to go the library tonight to research my econ paper.”

“You got all weekend for that.”

“No, I don’t. Some stuff’s come up. I’m going out of town this weekend.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Well, for one thing my mom’s brother died yesterday.”

“Oh, sorry, man. Were you close?”

Denny shook his head. “Kind of hard to get to know. Far as I know, he was only close to my mom and some cousins near Syracuse. My dad did not get along with him. At all.”

Bobby shook his head. “Family.”

“Tell me about it.”

Denny was leaning against his car, which was parked outside Washington Hall. He’d been waiting for almost a half an hour. He didn’t like waiting

“Denny!” he looked up and saw Alison waving to him from the door of the residence hall.

“Ready to go?”

“Almost. I need some help getting my bags down the stairs.”

They went up to her fourth-floor room, where there was a large, old, leather suitcase, a large purse and large shopping bag on the bed.

“I thought you were just going for the weekend.”

She laughed, “You’re so funny.” Then she saw he wasn’t joking. “Well, you never know what you’re going to need.”

He picked up the suitcase and groaned.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s alright. We’ll get it there.”

“There’s an elevator, but it’s at the other end of the hall.”

“Better than trying to wrestle it down the stairs.”

He got it to the elevator, changing hands every fifty feet, and from the elevator to the car by the same process; together they hefted it into the trunk. Alison put her shopping bag next to her suitcase, and Denny closed the trunk.

 “What kind of car is this?” asked Alison.

“It’s a 1959 Rambler American.”

They got into the car.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.”

“It was my mom’s first car right after she learned to drive.”

“Is it safe?”

“Are you kidding? My mom drove us from Akron to Syracuse lots of times. Don’t worry, it’ll get us to Michigan and back, no sweat.”

Denny turned the key and the car started easily. He pulled out onto the street, the ride was good and the car fairly quiet. Alison sniffed but did not detect the odor of exhaust. She relaxed and sat back.

“So, your mom gave you this car.”

He snorted. “Not a chance. My mom doesn’t give stuff away. I bought this car from her when I was a senior in high school. I did get a ten percent family discount, though.” Denny guided the car through the outskirts of Athens to route 33. From there it was a straight shot northwest to Columbus.

“Do you like geology?’ asked Alison.

“Yeah, it’s cool. It tells us some important stuff, you know, like the age of the earth, ancient climates, how continents were formed. Not wild about identifying rocks, though.”

“Really? That’s the part I like.” Denny grimaced. “What’s your major?” she asked.

“Business and Economics.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You just don’t look like the business type. You know, short hair, buttoned-down collars, and all.”

 “Yeah, well, some of us are channeling our inner freak while we can.” Denny pulled into the left lane to pass an old, slow-moving pickup. “What major were you expecting?”

“Oh, Chemistry or Physics. Engineering maybe. You just seem like one of those brainiacs.”

“You mean ‘nerds’, don’t you?”

“Oh no. just really smart.”

“You’d be surprised at how stupid I am about some things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, spelling for one thing. Freshman year I got a ‘D’ on my first Western Civ test because the professor could not believe how terrible my spelling was. Then the next week she sent one of the guys in my class to me for tutoring.”

“I’m a great speller, maybe I could help you learn.”

“I’ve tried a lot of different things, but maybe you’d inspire me.” Denny pulled back into the right lane. “What’s your major?”

“Elementary Ed with a minor in Sociology.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“It’s nothing special. There’re lots of teachers.”

“My sixth-grade teacher changed my life. I thought I was stupid and lazy; she showed me that I was pretty smart. Don’t think I’d be in college if it weren’t for her.”

“Not sure I’m going to have that kind of impact. I just think it’s fun to work with kids.”

“And teach them stuff that will change their lives.”

“Well, maybe.”

Denny shrugged. “I think it’s pretty special.”

She laughed. “You don’t even know me.”

“Oh, I see you around. There’s always a crowd of people wherever you are.”

“That’s easy. You just go where they are.”

“Easy for you.”

She looked out her window at the southeastern Ohio hillsides. The grass along the highway was lush, long and beginning to choke out the early spring wild flowers. Her eyes searched the sky and tree line.

“Oh, look,” she said. “There’s a hawk.”

“Where?”

She pointed, “There, on that snag.”

“Snag?” he said looking around.

“Well, you missed it.”

“What’s a snag?”

“Dead tree. Hawks sit in snags looking for prey.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, I love nature. My family went camping every summer for my dad’s vacation.”

“Really? So, did mine.”

“Didn’t you just love it?”

“Not my thing, really.” Denny checked rear view mirror and changed the subject. “So, what does your dad do, when he’s not on vacation?”

 “He’s done a bunch of stuff. He was a pastor for a while. Mommy hated that.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. People expect the pastor’s wife to be a leader in the church. Women’s groups. My mom’s just not comfortable with that.”

“Oh. What’s he doing now?”

“He works for West Virginia Wesleyan. He’s the Director of Development.”

“What’s that?”

“He asks rich people for money, for the college.”

“Fundraising?”

“Yes.”

“Does he like that?”

“Yeah, I think he likes it a lot.”

“Sounds like you’re close to your dad.”

“He’s really nice, y’know. When I was a little girl, I used to sit on his lap after dinner while he read the paper. And he would sort of hum and I would hear the rumble in his chest. It was so safe and warm; I went right to sleep.”

“What’s he do for fun?”

“He likes to camp and fish. He plants a garden every year. He putters in the garage. And, oh, he makes his own beer.”

“Really?”

“Daddy always says if monks can make wine, he can make beer.”

“But you can’t be Catholic.”

“No, Methodist. At least he is.”

“I thought Methodists were against drinking.”

“Most are, I guess. He’s not a pastor anymore, so…”

“How about your mom?”

“She’s a housewife, but I don’t think she likes it much. One time she heard somebody at a church potluck say, ‘My idea of housework is to sweep the room with glance.’ I never heard her laugh so hard in my life.”

“What does she like to do?”

“Well, let’s see. She liked to snoop in our rooms, my older sister and me. And she loves to hide candy bars all over the house.”

“Why is that?”

Alison half snorted, half laughed. “I guess she doesn’t want to be too far away from a candy bar. We never talked about it.”

“Sounds kind of eccentric.”

“Yeah, she has her moments, though. I use to walk home from kindergarten, and by the time I got there I was a wreck. She’d have lunch ready for me and I’d sit down at the table and say, ‘Mommy, you know I don’t like this table cloth,’ then burst into tears. And she’d say, “Oh, Allie, honey, I’m sorry,” and take up the table cloth. Then I’d eat my tuna sandwich and go to my room and sleep for two hours.”

“Huh.” He stole a look at her. She was scanning the tree line again. “So, just the one sister?”

“Yep. She’s a teller in a bank.”

“Didn’t she go to college?”

“She went for a year, but didn’t like it. She’s taking secretarial science classes at the college now.”

“Secretarial science, huh? That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you get along with your sister?”

“Yeah, pretty much. When we were little, I always wanted to sleep with her. Sometimes I snuck into her room and got into her bed and tried to snuggle. But she pinched me and pushed me away. I don’t think she liked being touched.”

“That’s kinda sad.”

“Yeah, still hurts a little bit when I think about it.”

 “What were you like as a little kid?”

“Well, I was always very small for my age. I always, always liked boys, even though they could be a little scary. And I could read almost anything by the time I was four. At the start of first grade the principal brought my parents into school so that they could listen to me read to the class. The principal and the teacher wanted to skip me to the next grade, which I did. Then I was really small for my age.”

“What kind of books did you read?”

 “Kid’s books mostly, I guess. Like The Velveteen Rabbit. And my daddy had a whole bunch of books on bookshelves in the living room. So, I’d just pull down the ones I could reach and start to read them. There was a medical book that was really interesting. It described symptoms of diseases and stuff like that. Then for the next couple days I thought I had whatever disease I’d just read about.”

“So, you were a hypochondriac?”

“I guess.”

“Are you still?”

“Maybe,” she said with sly smile.

He smiled back.

“There you go!”

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“So?”

“You don’t smile much.”

“Oh.”

“So, what’s the family of a non-smiler like?”

“You mean my family?” She nodded. “Big. Loud. Aggressive. Super popular jocks.”

“You’re not a jock?”

“Nope.”

“But I’ve seen you in the gym playing basketball and out on the soccer field.”

“That’s just messing around, intramural shit. My dad was a big football and basketball jock, and my mom was the captain of all the girl’s teams in high school. My sister has a half scholarship to play volleyball at Bowling Green.”

“Wow!”

“There are two things my sister knows how to do really well. She knows how to party, and she knows how to spike the ball in your face. Sometimes I think it would have better if she were the first-born male.”

“Why is that?”

“For one thing my dad would have a big hulking athlete to walk in his footsteps.” He shook his head. “Actually, might be worse to have Ronnie for a big brother.”

“Ronnie?”

“My sister, Rhona; it’s a family name. Everybody calls her Ron or Ronnie.”

Alison folded her feet under her legs.

“Why do you do that?” he asked pointing to her legs.

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her feet. “I’ve never had a chair where my feet reached the ground, even in grade school. This is just more comfortable than letting them dangle, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He’s a marketing manager at Goodyear. Something to do with the space program.”

“That’s cool.”

“No, it’s not. It’s some mundane rubber thing. Hey, I just thought, you graduated a year early from high school, right?”

“Yes!”

“So did my mom.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She worked for a year then went to nursing school.”

“So, she’s a nurse.”

“Used to be. Just a housewife now.”

“What do you mean ‘just’?”

“Nothing. ‘Just’ that she doesn’t work at a job.”

“Oh.”

“She’s a neat freak. A place for everything and everything in its place. She has a cleaning woman come in once a month to help with big projects, like washing and waxing all the floors. And they do it together. You know, moving furniture, getting down on hands and knees, like that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s kind of a nut. I think that’s why she picked nursing; it appealed to her meticulous nature.”

“Huh.”

They drove northeast through forested hills and small towns. Nelsonville was picturesque; on the north end of town there were tall elm trees on both sides of the road. They gave the impression of the nave of a gothic church; the tree trunks were the columns, the upper branches crossed over the road to form the ribbing of pointed arches.

Inexplicably route 33 became a four-lane highway going through the tiny town of Logan; all they could see from the road was a city park on the west side of the Hocking River and a brick factory on the east side of the highway.

Denny knew Lancaster to be quite a charming little city, but the face it showed to the highway was a maze of distressed strip malls and fast food joints. North of the city they passed over the terminal moraine which marked the southernmost advance of the glaciers. Mountains of ice had bulldozed the landscape into mile after mile of mind-numbing flatlands from Ohio to Nebraska, from Kansas to the Arctic Ocean.    

Shortly after they came into range of the FM stations in Columbus. Denny turned on the radio and pressed a preset button for a rock station. They caught the tail end of Atlantis by Donovan, then a commercial break, then Time of the Season by The Zombies. The next song opened with a drum roll that was vaguely familiar to Denny.

“Now we’re talking,” said Alison as she started to dance the Stroll in her seat and belt out the lyrics, “I know you want to leave me, But I refuse to let you go.”

He broke into a big grin watching her bump, grind and sing. During the bridge she asked, “Don’t you dance?”

“Not while I’m driving.”

“Always going to have some excuse, ain’tcha?” she said with a big smile. He laughed. Once again right on time she sang, “I’ve got a love so deep in the pit of my heart and each day it grows more and more.”

The song faded into an ad for a used car dealership. “Low, LOW, LOW PRICES!”

Denny lowered the volume. “What group was that?”

“The Temps, man. You know, The Temptations. Don’t you know that song?”

“Well, of course. I just don’t follow Motown enough to know one group from another.”

She snorted. “All the kids in Silver Spring listened to Motown.”

“Silver Spring?”

“Yeah, Maryland. Outside D.C.”

“I thought you were from West Virginia.”

“I went to high school in West Virginia. But my ninth-grade year we were in Silver Spring. Boy, I really miss those dances.”

“You can look around for an R&B station, if you want.”

“Really? That’d be great.”

She found a station playing Aretha Franklin’s Respect, but the next song was If I Fell by the Beatles. “Oh, I love this song,” she said.

“Not R&B.”

“That’s alright. Do you mind if we listen to this station for a while?”

“I don’t mind.” It turned out to be an oldies station. Respect was the most recent song they heard. There was lots of British Invasion and 1950’s rock and roll. There was one Four Tops song.

“Oh, isn’t this fun?”

“It is,” he said, looking at her.

They skirted Columbus to the east on I-270 and headed north on 23. They stopped in Delaware for a bathroom break and lost the signal to the radio station shortly after that. She couldn’t find another station she liked.

“Would you mind if I turned this off and took a nap?”

“Not at all.” She reached into the shopping bag at her feet and pulled out a small pillow. She propped it against the door and laid her head against it. “You brought a pillow?”

“Oh, I always fall asleep on long trips. Don’t you?”

“Never.”

“Oh, really. Well, I like to be prepared for everything.”

“Clearly.”

She just smiled and snuggled into the pillow; moments later she was gently snoring.

“Amazing,” he said.

He really didn’t need the radio; he could hear the Beatles tune ringing in his head without it. He sang softly, under the sound of road.

If I trust in you oh please
Don't run and hide
If I love you too oh please
Don't hurt my pride like her

'Cause I couldn't stand the pain
And I would be sad if our new love was in vain

No girl had ever hurt him like that, but he was starting to realize it could happen.

She woke up and said sleepily, “What’s going on?”

“I’m hungry. Getting something to eat.” He pulled into a Burger King and parked the car. “You want something?”

“Don’t know. Just waking up.”

“Well, I want get out and stretch my legs. So, I’m going inside to order. Why don’t you come in and sit down with me while I eat? If you’re still not hungry, you should get something to go.”

She yawned, stretching her arms and legs. “Ok.”

They stood in line quietly, then Alison said. “I guess I am hungry.” He nodded. They got to front of the line and he let her go first. She ordered a small burger, mustard only, small fries and milk.

“Milk?” he said.

“I like milk.”

She paid for her food, and he ordered a Big Mac, large fries, and medium Coke. They got their orders, found a table, and sat down. Denny dug right in, taking big, ravenous bites.

“You’re quiet,” said Alison said.

He nodded and swallowed. “Been thinking. While you were asleep.”

“’Bout what?”

He looked at her. “The war.”

“Oh.” She looked down.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About the war?” He nodded. “I’m against, of course.”

He nodded again and exhaled. “What do your parents think?”

“Oh, Daddy’s very against.” She took a fry and dipped it in ketchup. “What were you thinking? Specifically?”

“I was thinking I’ll be graduating this time next year, and then I’ll be draft bait. So, yeah, you could say I am very seriously against the war.”

“So, you don’t want to get shot.”

“Damn right, I don’t want to get shot. Not so my Dad can sell o-rings to rice farmers.”

“Wait. What?”

“That’s what wars are about: access to resources and markets. It’s all about making the fat cats fatter. But you don’t see them sending their own kids off to war. Their kids have flat feet or allergies or get some cushy billet in the reserves, while poor white kids and black kids come home in body bags.” He stared out at the road, not seeing it. “But it’s not just that. War changes people in ways that I don’t want to be changed. This war is especially bad that way. You don’t have to get shot to be damaged; you just have to be there.”

They ate their burgers.

Alison asked, “What do your parents think of the war?”

“My Dad’s a World War II vet, sort of a my-country-right-or-wrong kind of guy.”

“So, he’s pro war.”

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t say much, but I’m pretty sure he feels like his sacrifice is being questioned.”

They got back into the car and Alison asked, “So, where are we?”

“Findlay.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, why?”

“I used to live here!”

“Is there someplace you haven’t lived?”

“Gee, I wonder where my old house is.”

“Do you want to drive by? Do you remember the address?”

“Oh, it’s probably out of the way.”

“Might as well stop for gas and ask for directions. If it’s not close by, we can just head north.”

“Well, okay.”

They drove east on Main Cross Street and pulled up to the pumps at a Marathon station. A teenage girl in a Marathon hat and shirt circled around to the driver’s side of the car.

“Fill ‘er up?” she asked.

“Yes, regular, please.”

She went to pump the gas.

“Ever had a girl pump your gas before?” asked Alison.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Me neither.”

“She must be striking a blow for Women’s Lib.”

“Oh, hush up,” she said but with smile.

“Should I ask her if she burned her bra? Kind of hard to tell in that shirt.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“It would be sort of a sociological survey.” She was no longer smiling and he shut up.

“That’ll be three-eighty-six.”

As he dug four dollars out of his wallet, he asked Alison, “What was the address?”

“431 Washington Street.”

He gave the girl the money, and she gave him fourteen cents out of the coin dispenser on her belt. “Do you know where Washington Street is?”

“Oh, sure. Do you see that light down there?” She pointed two blocks to the east. He nodded. “That’s Durrell. Turn left there. Go a couple of blocks and turn right. That’s Washington.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He rolled up the window and turned to Alison.

“Oh, wow, cool! Let’s go!” she said.

Three minutes later Denny parked the car across the street from the house. Alison slid over next to Denny to get a better look at the house; she put her hand on the steering wheel. He was acutely aware of the smell of her hair, the warmth of her shoulder on his upper arm; he moved his right arm to avoid touching her breast. He felt his jeans begin to bind him.

“Whoa, those trees have really grown,” she said. It was a small two-story house, painted white, with a wraparound porch. The porch was supported by a stone foundation, also painted white. She slid back to her side and opened her door.

“Hey, where you going?”

“To see if anybody’s home.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” She crossed the street. “Oh, shoot. Wait for me.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“Uh, yes, I do.”

They climbed the porch steps; Alison knocked on the storm door, waited a minute, and knocked again.

“I guess nobody’s home,” she said.

“Yeah, well, that’s too bad.” He was clearly relieved. “Time to go, I guess.”

“Wait. I just want to look around.” She led him on a counter-clockwise inspection of the house. At the back she pointed to a second story window. “That was my room. We put up wallpaper with ballerinas. I always wanted to be a dancer.”

“From what I’ve seen, you are a dancer.”

“I mean professionally. Daddy promised to make me a dancer’s barre, but he never did.”

“Hmm.”

“And I always wanted to take dance lessons, but my parents wanted me to take music lessons. They said we couldn’t afford both. I know I’m too short to be a real dancer, so I guess the lessons would have been a waste.”

“Were the music lessons a waste?”

“Oh no. I loved playing the piano. And flute.”

“Then I don’t think dance lessons would have been a mistake.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully.

“I think, when you’re doing what’s in your heart, it’s never a waste, no matter how it turns out.”

They walked to the other side of the house where the porch wrapped around. “Oh, I loved this porch. Playing here on rainy days, sticking my tongue out to taste the rain, sleeping here nights when the house was too hot.” She thought of easels, and poster paint, and colored chalk, and playdough, and the smell of modeling clay.

He stood there, knowing she was lost in memory, and waited. Then he said gently, “We still have quite a way to go.”

“Yes, of course.” She led him toward to street, touching the post at the corner of the porch and the two trees near sidewalk. She turned around to look at the house one more time. “Thank you,” she said.

“It was nothing.”

Still looking at the house, she said, “No, it was everything.”

They’d been on I-75 for almost an hour. She watched as soy bean fields alternated with corn fields and cow pastures, farm houses, barns and silos. The sun was edging toward the western horizon and the shadow of the car lengthened to cover the shoulder and reached into the verge.

She turned and asked him, “Have you ever been to a protest?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Have you ever been to a Vietnam War protest? A march or a sit-in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “They always seemed so far away, something other people did.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never been to a protest, either?”

“God, no.” She looked at her hands in her lap.

“Kind of scary.”

“Yes.” She looked at him and saw he was looking at her. “Yes.”

An hour and a half later they arrived at the meeting place, an Esso gas station in Brighton. They’d stopped north of Teledo, and Alison had called her boyfriend to give him an ETA. He was waiting for them in the fading light, leaning against an old, beat up Ford Falcon.

Alison hopped out the car and ran to give him a hug. He kissed her.

Ignoring them, Denny went to unlock the trunk. Holding hands, she brought him to meet Denny. He was short and squat, built like a miniature fullback.

“Denny, this is Pete Landon. Pete, Denny McLaughlin.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Pete and offered his hand. Alison went to the front seat to get her purse. Pete and Denny shook hands. “Thanks for bringing her all this way.”

“My pleasure.”

Pete turned to the suitcase in the trunk, gripped the handle and heaved it out of the trunk. “My God, Allie, what have you got in here?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff, she says." Pete lugged the suitcase to his car and Denny closed the trunk.

Alison put her purse on the trunk and gave Denny a little side hug. “Thanks for the ride. That was fun. It was really great getting to know you.”

“Same here.”

“You have the telephone number of Pete’s frat house?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t given me your number.”

“You know, I don’t have it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“See you here at ten on Sunday,” he said.

She nodded. “Okay, have fun.”

“You, too.” 

Chapter 12

Friday June 22, 1923

“Kinda puny, ain’tcha?” said Max Cartwright, as he speared a dumpling out the of bowl in front of him.

“I’m stronger than I look,” said Antoine. He was sitting in the office of the Cartwright Repair shop. From what he could see the shop was a dilapidated, dingy, disorganized muddle. But his property was packed with cars, so business must be good.

While chewing Max said, “You could be a lot stronger than you look and still be puny. You look like you could use a good meal. You want a pierogi?”

“What’s a pierogi?”

Max forked a dumping and offered it to Antoine. “This is a pierogi. My wife is a Polack and the best cook in North Akron!”

“No,” Antoine put up his hands, “thank you, Mr. Cartwright. I don’t need lunch. I need a job.”

Max eyed Antoine. “I don’t know you; why come here?”

“I’ve been to a half-dozen repair shops this week. I’ll visit a half dozen more next week. Once I’ve been to every shop in Akron, I’ll be back here again.”

“Huh,” Max grunted. “Look, I got ten Polack relations, each one bigger and more muscle bound than the last. If I want to keep eating pierogis, then I need to hire one of them when I got an opening. Which I don’t.”

“Any of them have experience?”

“You got experience?” Max said doubtfully.

“My friend Dick and I rebuild cars and race them at Speed Land.”

“That dirt track out past Bath?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys win?”

“No,” admitted Antoine. “Mostly Dick crashes. Dick is pretty good at crashing cars.” Antoine rubbed the scar on his forehead.

“And you want to be a mechanic? Why?”

“I love cars, Mr. Cartwright. If I could work on cars, I think that would be a great life.”

Max looked at Antoine and drummed his fingers on his desk. “And fixing cars is the only thing you want to do?”

“What else is there?”

“Lots of other jobs.” Max picked up the telephone on his desk, dialed a number, and waited. “Bill Bainey, please. Yeah, tell him it’s Brother Cartwright. Sure.” He got a toothpick out his desk drawer and dug pierogi out of his teeth.

“But what…” started Antoine.

Max held up his hand.

“Hey, Bill! How’s it hangin’? Yeah, yeah. Millie and the kids? Good, good. So, yeah, I got this kid here.” Max put hand over the receiver. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Antoine Trombley.”

“Antoine Trombley. He’s crazy about cars. Rebuilds jalopies and races out at Speed Land. He’s here in my shop looking for a job.”

Antoine could hear squawking from the other end of the line. 

“No, would I be calling you if I did?” Squawking. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Antoine. “How old are you, kid?”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen.” Squawking. Max looked up again. “You graduate from high school?”

“Yes. The end of May.”

“Yes,” he said into the phone. “Yes. When? Okay, I’ll tell him. Bye now.” Max hung up the phone.

“Okay. Bill Bainey wants to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“A job maybe.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of place is it?”

“Look, do you have anything better to do this afternoon than talk to a man who might give you a job?”

“No, I guess not.”

“So, you come by streetcar?”

“Yes.”

“You got more fare money?”

Antoine nodded.

“Okay, walk back down to Market, get on the westbound and get off at Main. Take the southbound and get off when you see the BF Goodrich sign. The Bainey Company is across the street from the Goodrich plant. Now skedaddle. I got work to do.”

The old man looked up from the paperwork he had spread across his desk. His face was creased with wrinkles. He had a full head of iron gray hair, wild, black and gray eyebrows, and a massive amount hair growing out of nose and ears. Antoine thought he was oldest person he’d ever seen.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Bainey.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Mr. Cartwright sent me.”

“Ah, and what might your name be?”

“Antoine Trombley.”

The old man wrote something on a slip of paper. “Have a seat. Might be a wee bit.”

Antoine watched a steady stream of men come in the door and take a seat. The hairy old guard dog nodded to each one. The men wore suits, ties and hats - some fedoras, others straw boaters. Most carried one or two large, oddly square-shaped cases. At length someone would open the interior door, motion to one of these suited visitors and escort them into the labyrinth.

After about an hour, a man opened the interior door and caught Antoine’s eye. “Gramps,” he said motioning to the old man, who stood and walked to the door. They spoke in low tones, then the door closed.

A little after four o’clock the old man came and sat next to Antoine. “What would you do if I told you that Mr. Bainey can’t see you today?”

“You guys have something to do with motor car racing?”

“We do.”

“Then I’d come back tomorrow.”

“And if he hasn’t the time to see you tomorrow?”

Antoine sighed and sat back in his seat. “How many days is this going to take, you reckon?”

The old man nodded. “Up you come, young fella. Follow me.”

“Where’re we going?”

“To see your Mr. Bainey.”

“My Mr. Bainey?”

“You’ve been seeing a Mr. Bainey for nigh on three hours, but I’m nay the Mr. Bainey you came to see.”

“You’re related to Mr. Bainey?”

“I have that honor. He’s m’ grandson.”

“I guess you must just like to work,” mutter Antoine.

The old man grinned. “Oh, he’s a slave driver, that one. Everyone must earn their soup and crust of bread.” He cackled to himself. “And there’s nothing wrong with m’ hearing.”

As they walked through the building, Antoine noted how orderly and clean the offices were, how purposeful the people seemed. They came to a closed office door. The old man knocked, opened the door and ushered Antoine in.

The man came from behind his desk. He was tall and spindly with a bit of a pot belly. He offered his hand.

“Antoine, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes. Mr. Bainey?”

The man nodded. “Max tells me you race cars.”

“I help build them, but I don’t drive.”

“Why not?”

“Not very good at it, I guess.”

“But you’re a fan of racing? You follow the big races?”

“Oh, sure. The Uniontown Speedway, Indianapolis 500.”

“Do you have a favorite driver?”

“I did. Gaston Chevrolet.”

“Ah, yes. He was the best, God rest his soul. Absolutely fearless. His car was very good, too. Please sit down,” he said motioning to a chair.

Antoine sat down. Bainey sat in the visitor’s chair next to Antoine rather than taking his place behind the desk.

“So, you’re looking for a job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, the only thing I know is fixing cars. So, I thought I’d try mechanic.”

“You don’t look much like a mechanic.”

“That’s what everybody says, but I’m pretty good at it.”

“Pretty tough racket to break into. Family businesses mostly. You have to know somebody. Family or friend. Do you have a job now?”

“Yes, sir. At the A&P. Three nights a week.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Two years. Almost two years.”

“What do you do there?”

“I stock shelves, mostly. Take out trash, sweep up after closing, clean the office, the restroom.”

“Do you handle money?”

“I fill in at the register sometimes; sometimes on a real heavy day I help the head clerk with the end of the day count. I’ve done the count by myself a couple of times.”

“What do they pay you at the A&P?”

“Fifteen cents an hour. I’m supposed to get a three cent raise in August.”

“Do you do chores at home?”

“Of course.”

“Wash dishes?”

“Most nights. The ones I don’t work.”

“Are you a good dishwasher.”

“If I get sloppy, Maman Sarah takes all the dishes and pots out the cupboard and makes me wash them again. So, I’ve gotten real careful.”

“Mama who?”

“Maman Sarah. She’s my second mother.”

“Your second mother?”

“I don’t like to call her my stepmother.”

“So, you had a first mother?”

“Yes.”

Bainey waited for more, but it didn’t come. He took out his watch, compared it to the clock on the wall and put it back in his pocket. He stood and walked up and down in front of the chairs, then sat on the edge of the desk. “How were your grades in high school?”

“C’s mostly. A few B’s.”

“Really? Why is that?” Antoine made no reply. “Come now. No guesses? No theories?”

“I don’t want to make excuses.” Antoine looked at the floor. “My grades were good before my mother died. Not very good after.”

“Angry at the world?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“School didn’t seem as important. Then it was too hard to catch up.”

“Ah.” Bainey got up walked around to sit at his desk. “Any questions for me?”

“About what?”

“The job.”

“What job?” Antoine was starting to lose his temper.

“Good question. We have two custodial positions at this location. One is the office custodian, the other is the laboratory custodian. The second is responsible for cleaning the two labs and the lab equipment, plus my office and the conference room.”

Antoine stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Bainey,” Antoine said as politely as he could muster. “I’m not really interested in being a janitor.”

“What’s your rush? Got someplace to be?”

“No,” Antoine said reluctantly.

“Then let me tell you a little bit more about the job. What can it hurt?”

Antoine’s gesture made it clear that he thought it was pointless, but he sat back down.

“We can offer you 44 hours a week with starting pay at twenty cents an hour.  The young man who is leaving this position is currently makes thirty-five cents an hour. Beyond the financial incentive, there are other perquisites.”

“Other what?”

“Perquisites, perks, advantages.”

“Such as?”

“Antoine, we’re a chemical company that specializes in rubber products. And chemists, my boy, are the sorcerers of the twentieth century. We develop lots of different products here, but the one that might interest you the most are race car tires. Gaston Chevrolet won his Speedway Championship on tires developed and manufactured at Bainey Rubber.”

“And on the car when he died?”

“Yes,” said Bainey sadly. “But the tires didn’t cause the crash. In fact, Louis Chevrolet, Gaston’s brother, will be here at the end of the month. He’s trying to resurrect Frontenac, the race car company he started with Gaston.”

“Oh, so you know him.”

“Yes, quite well.”

“Do you get a lot of race people coming through here?”

“Yes, all the top drivers and owners have visited at one time or another.”

“If I came to work for you, would I get to meet them?”

“If you happened to be in the lab, I have no doubt. We might even take you to a race. There’re usually a number of us who motor over to Indianapolis for the 500.”

“Oh…”

“The current the lab custodian is moving up to lab assistant. We hire the lab custodian with promotion in mind. In fact, we’ve had one young man move from lab custodian to lab assistant, then go back to school, and now he’s a junior chemist.” Bainey took a breath. “Now, Antoine, I have only a few more minutes until my next appointment. I need to know if you’re interested in this position or not.”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“Wonderful.” He went and sat in his desk chair. “I would like to check some references. With whom may I speak at the A&P?”

“Mr. Benjamin is the manager. It’s the Arlington Street store.”

Bainey made a note, “How about a high school teacher?”

“Mr. Dunlop was my trig teacher at East. I did pretty well in that class.”

“And I’d like to speak with your father, if that’s alright.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you have a phone at home?”

“Yes. It’s Portage 3175-J.”

“And let’s see,” he said, looking at his calendar. “today is Friday. Why don’t you come back next Thursday? At 10:30? We can talk some more then.”

Antoine walked into the office at 10:15, greeted the old man, and sat down. At 10:30 the elder Mr. Bainey asked him if he could find his way back to the younger Mr. Bainey’s office. Antoine said he could.

The door to Bill Bainey’s office was open; Antoine knocked on the door frame.

“Antoine, come in. Have a seat.”

“Thanks for seeing me again, Mr. Bainey.”

“So, you’ve had a week to think about it and talk to your family. Are you still interested?”

“I am.”

“I talked to Mr. Benjamin, and he was very enthusiastic. Reliable, hard-working, trustworthy and so on. He said he would be sorry to lose you.”

Antoine nodded.

“Your teacher, Mr. Dunlop, said you had a lot of untapped potential. And that worries me a little.”

“Oh?”

“Potential can be a burden. Are you living up to your potential, Antoine?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Bainey. I know some of my teachers didn’t think so.”

“At this company we strive to squeeze every drop out of our potential. Our advantages. Are you ready to do that?”

Both were motionless, then Antoine said, “I want this job, Mr. Bainey, but I won’t lie to you: if I haven’t tapped my potential, I’m not sure how to do it.”

“Will you promise to work hard, Antoine?”

“Oh, yes.”

Bainey nodded slowly and looked down at his notes. “And then there’s your father.”

“Yes?”

“He says that he would like you to be a carpenter. He says he can get you on as a journeyman tomorrow at twenty-two cents an hour. In ten years, you could be a master carpenter making seventy-nine cents an hour. Probably more by then.”

“Yes, we’ve talked about it.”

“And?”

Antoine swallowed hard. “My father loves building houses, making places for people to live. He thinks it’s a noble calling.”

“But you don’t.”

“No, I do, Mr. Bainey. I just can’t see myself driving nails for the next fifty years.”

“What do you see yourself doing?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I was born in the twentieth century, and I want to do twentieth century things.”

“Something to do with motor cars, for example?”

“Yes!”

Bainey stood up and leaned over his desk and put out his hand, “Welcome to the company, Antoine!”

Antoine leapt to his feet and took Bainey’s hand, both grinning. Bainey sat back down, but Antoine remained standing expecting to be dismissed.

“If you have a few minutes, I would like to explain a little about what we do here and how your job fits in.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Please sit down. First, I would like to share an idea with you that comes from a man called Charles Darwin. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, he’s the ape guy, right?”

Bainey smiled. “Yes.” He turned and pulled a thick volume from the shelf behind him, and handed the book to Antoine. It was bound in green leather with title embossed in gold: On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection. It smelled like money.

“That is the most revolutionary work of the most revolutionary century in history. In that book Darwin describes an idea that I call ‘pockets of opportunity’. For example, there are nuts that are easy to open and nuts that are hard to open. The tough nuts are what I call a ‘pocket of opportunity’. Birds with strong beaks can open tough nuts, so they are favored in competition with birds with weaker beaks. Does that make sense?”

“I guess.”

“Whether you believe in natural selection or not, the important concept is ‘pocket of opportunity’. The tough nut, so to speak. The question is, how does a small company like mine compete with giants like Goodyear, Goodrich and Firestone? The answer is ‘pockets of opportunity’.” Bainey scratched the bald spot on the top of his head. “When you were working on a car for a race, did you ever have to replace a rubber part?”

“Sure, all the time. Hoses and belts mostly.”

“Did you ever buy the manufacturer replacement part?”

“Heck, no. They’re too expensive. We got them from the junk yard, mostly.”

“Did you ever buy them new?”

“Couple of times. But we never bought Ford parts; like I said, we couldn’t afford ‘em.”

“Were they Hanover parts?”

“Might’ve been.”

“Hanover licenses its manufacturing process from us. That’s one of our ‘pockets of opportunity’. We figure out how to make replacement parts cheaper than Ford. Not as good as the original parts, of course, but nobody wants to put first quality parts in an old car.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“That’s what I call the low-end pocket. The other is the high-end pocket, which is racing. Race car owners and drivers are always looking for an edge. Tires that grip the track better means the car can go faster in the turns. Do you know the different kinds of tracks?”

“Oh, well, let’s see. Lots of tracks, like the LA Speedway, are made of wood, right? What do they call that?”

“A board track.”

“Yeah, that’s right. And the Indianapolis Speedway is brick. Of course, there’re still lots of dirt tracks.”

“That’s right: board, brick, and dirt. And each surface needs a different kind of tire. We research and manufacture superior race car tires, and we sell them for a lot of money. We learn a lot when we research racing tires, the big boys pay us to use our patents in their street tires. To take advantage of these ‘pockets of opportunity’, we need to be smart. We need to hire smart people and use them in smart ways. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Yes, we need to use you in a smart way. We have four chemists and two lab assistants. The chemists are salaried and work a lot of hours, oftentimes into the evening. If they need help after regular hours, they will call on you, because your work hours will be noon to nine, ten to two on Saturday. Along the way you will learn the job of a lab assistant. We usually can’t keep lab assistants for more than a few years. They go on to have very good careers in the industry.”

“What kind of careers?”

“Lab manager, sales. We had one young man who studied to be an electrician and now helps to build and test transformers at a GE plant in Schenectady”

Antoine’s face clouded up a little.

“Something troubling you?”

“No. Well, yes. With these hours, I won’t see much of my father and younger brother.”

“Is that a deal breaker?”

“No.” Then more firmly, “No. I’ll make it work.”

“Excellent. When can you start?

“I can’t leave Mr. Benjamin in the lurch.”

“Of course not.”

“He thinks he can have somebody lined up by the week after next.”

“Good! A week from Monday then?”

“Yes, sir!”