“What number do you wish to call?” the desk clerk asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” Duff replied. “I don’t know what you mean by number. I wish to call a person.”
“Sir,” the clerk explained patiently, “if that person has a telephone, the telephone will have a number. You must know that number in order to put your call through.”
“Oh,” Duff said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the number.”
The clerk took some pity on him then, realizing from his accent that he wasn’t local.
“If you know the person’s name, we can look up the number,” the clerk said.
“Look up the number? How does one do that?”
“There is a book called a telephone book. Every person and every business that has a telephone has their name listed in that book, along with the number you need in order to call them. Like this,” he added. The clerk took a phone book from beneath his desk. “Now, what is the name of the person you wish to call?”
“His name is Andrew MacCallister,” Duff said
“Andrew MacCallister? Do you mean the famous actor?”
“Yes, he is an actor.”
The clerk had opened the telephone book, but now he closed it. “Perhaps you had best find someone else to call,” the clerk said. “Andrew MacCallister is a very famous man. I seriously doubt that he would be up to taking a telephone call from a stranger.”
“But we are nae strangers,” Duff insisted. “We are kinsmen.”
The clerk’s interest perked up. “Kinsmen, you say? And your name would be?”
“MacCallister,” Duff said.
“The self-same as the actor?”
“Aye, kinsmen we are.”
“Then, in that case, I will look up the number for you.”
The clerk found the number, then told it to Duff. “The number you want to call is 8178.” He handed the receiver to Duff, and Duff looked at it as if unsure what to do with it.
“Hold it to your ear,” the clerk explained. “When the operator comes on, tell her 8178.”
“Number please,” a woman’s voice asked.
Duff took the receiver from his ear and held it up to his mouth. The desk clerk laughed. “Not here—here,” he said, pointing to the little transmitter. Duff nodded, and leaned into the transmitter. “Eight-one-seven-eight!” he shouted.
“Sir, it is not necessary for you to speak so loudly,” the operator replied.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, many do,” the operator said.
A moment later Duff heard a voice in his receiver. It was tinny, but he recognized it as Andrew’s voice.
“Cousin Andrew! This is Duff MacCallister,” Duff said.
“Duff, you are in New York! How wonderful!” Andrew said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Abbey Hotel.”
“Wait in the lobby. I will send a carriage for you.”
Half an hour later, as Duff disembarked from the carriage in front of Andrew’s apartment building, his cousin came out to greet him.
“How much do I owe you?” Duff asked the carriage driver.
“You owe me nothing, sir. It has been paid for,” the driver replied.
“Duff, it is so good to see you,” Andrew said, extending his hand in welcome. Duff started to pick up his sea bag, but Andrew signaled the doorman and the doorman called to someone inside. A young man hurried out of the large apartment building and picked up the bag.
“To your apartment, Mr. MacCallister?”
“I don’t have an apartment,” Duff replied.
“He means me,” Andrew said with a chuckle. “You aren’t the only MacCallister here.”
“Right, I suppose not,” Duff said.
“Yes, Jimmy, take it up to my apartment,” Andrew said. Then to Duff, “Come, I’ll show you where I live. I’m on the top floor; I have a wonderful view of the city.”
Duff followed Andrew into the building and started toward the stairs.
“No, this way,” Andrew said.
“I thought your place was on the top floor.”
“It is, and it is too far to climb the stairs. We shall take the elevator.”
Duff had been in an elevator only one time before, and that had been when he visited Glasgow. As he recalled, he did not particularly like the experience, but he said nothing to Andrew as they stepped into the elevator cab.
“Julius, this is my cousin, Duff,” Andrew said to the uniformed black man who was the elevator operator.
“It is nice to meet you, sir,” the elevator operator said with a deep, resonant voice.
“It is good to meet you as well.”
After the brief elevator ride, they stepped across the hall where Andrew opened a door, then welcomed Duff inside. The apartment was large and expensively decorated. But the most appealing feature of the apartment was, as Andrew had stated, the “magnificent view” of the city. Because of the height of Andrew’s apartment building, much of the city could be seen, all the way down to the docks, where Duff could see both steamships and sailing ships. He was able to pick out the Hiawatha, just by her topgallant, and he felt a strange sense of attachment to it, as if it were his last connection to Scotland, and by extension, to Skye.
Andrew walked over to the wall and removed the telephone from the hook. “Eight-three-two-five, please,” he said. Then, “Rosanna, he is here. Yes. We will have lunch together.”
Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Duff. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited Rosanna to have lunch with us.”
“No, not at all. I will be delighted to see her again.”
“How long can you stay in America?” Andrew asked.
“I’m never going back.”
Andrew’s expression showed his surprise at the answer. “But your fiancée,” he said.
Duff was quiet for a moment.
“Skye?” Andrew asked, the word softly spoken because he perceived that, for some reason, the name was painful to Duff.
“Skye is dead, Andrew,” Duff said. “She was murdered.”
“Oh, Duff, I am so sorry,” Andrew said. “Do they know who did it?”
“Yes, and the ones who did it have already been executed.” Duff did not say that he was their executioner.
“I am glad that they have paid for their crime. And I am glad that you have come to America. I think making a fresh start will be good for you.”
“I believe so as well.”
“We’ll have to find a place for you to stay,” Andrew said. “And, will you be looking for a job?”
“Aye. I’ve some money, but I dinna know how long it will last.”
“Good, because I know just the job for you.”
With an introduction provided by Andrew, Duff began working backstage at a major theater. He was a skilled carpenter, and he had the ability to analyze complex problems and solve them quickly. Within a month, he became a stage manager, an important and most prestigious job. And now that he was securely employed in America, he decided it was time to write to his friend Ian McGregor to tell him that all was well.
Duff MacCallister
200 West 48th Street
New York, NY
Ian McGregor
The White Horse Pub
2 Elway Lane
Donuun, Scotland
Dear Ian,
My heart is still heavy with grief from the death of my beloved Skye, the more so because I was unable to be there for her funeral. But while I was not there in person, I was there in spirit and I know that, even as she sleeps in the arms of our Lord, she is aware of the undying love I have for her. I know too that at the time of her funeral she was surrounded by those who loved her most, and I take comfort from that.
On the night I left Scotland, I secured passage on a ship bound for New York. I did so by way of working as a crew member during the voyage. It was very hard work, but the very difficulty of the work helped me to deal with the pain of losing the one who was the center of my life. I take respite in the fact that our dear Skye returned my love with equal vigor, though I shall never understand how one as unworthy as I could have won the love of such a wonderful woman.