“Crazy.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you awake enough to hear the tidings of great joy?”
“No.”
“Then I will withhold them.”
She turned on her left shoulder and made a deep crease in her soft flesh. “You joke so much. If it’s like you’re going to cement over the lawn—”
“I am not.”
“Or you’re starting a cricket farm—”
“No. But you do remember old discarded plans.”
“Is it a joke?”
“Well, it’s a thing so strange and magic that you are going to have to buttress your belief.”
Her eyes were clear and wakeful now and I could see the little trembles around her lips preparing for laughter. “Tell me.”
“Do you know a man of Eyetalian extraction named Marullo?”
“Crazy—you’re being silly.”
“You will find it so. Said Marullo has gone from here for a time.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“When will he be back?”
“Stop confusing me. He didn’t say that either. What he did say and, when I protested, what he ordered was that we should take his car and go on a happy trip over the holiday.”
“You’re joking me.”
“Would I tell a lie that would make you sad?”
“But why?”
“That I can’t tell you. What I can swear to from Boy Scout oath to papal oath is that the mink-lined Pontiac with a tank full of virgin gasoline awaits your highness’s pleasure.”
“But where shall we go?”
“That, my lovely insect-wife, is what you are going to decide, and take all day today, tomorrow, and Saturday to plan it.”
“But Monday’s a holiday. That’s two full days.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can we afford it? It might mean a motel or something.”
“Can or not, we will. I have a secret purse.”
“Silly, I know your purse. I can’t imagine him lending his car.”
“Neither can I, but he did.”
“Don’t forget he brought candy Easter.”
“Perhaps it is senility.”
“I wonder what he wants.”
“That’s not worthy of my wife. Perhaps he wants us to love him.”
“I’ll have to do a thousand things.”
“I know you will.” I could see her mind plowing into the possibilities like a bulldozer. I knew I had lost her attention and probably couldn’t get it back, and that was good.
At breakfast before my second cup of coffee she had picked up and discarded half the pleasure areas of eastern America. Poor darling hadn’t had much fun these last few years.
I said, “Chloe, I know I’m going to have trouble getting your attention. A very important investment is offered. I want some more of your money. The first is doing well.”
“Does Mr. Baker know about it?”
“It’s his idea.”
“Then take it. You sign a check.”
“Don’t you want to know how much?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t you want to know what the investment is? The figures, the flotage, the graphs, the probable return, the fiscal dinkum, and all that?”
“I wouldn’t understand it.”
“Oh, yes you would.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to understand it.”
“No wonder they call you the Vixen of Wall Street. That ice-cold, diamond-sharp business mind—it’s frightening.”
“We’re going on a trip,” she said. “We’re going on a trip for two days.”
And how the hell could a man not love her, not adore her? “Who is Mary—what is she?” I sang and collected the empty milk bottles and went to work.
I felt the need to catch up with Joey, just to get the feel of him, but I must have been a moment late or he a moment early. He was entering the coffee shop when I turned into the High Street. I followed him in and took the stool beside him. “You got me into this habit, Joey.”
“Hi, Mr. Hawley. It’s pretty good coffee.”
I greeted my old school girl friend. “Morning, Annie.”
“You going to be a regular, Eth?”
“Looks like. One cuppa and black.”
“Black it is.”
“Black as the eye of despair.”
“What?”
“Black.”
“You see any white in that, Eth, I’ll give you another.”
“How are things, Morph?”
“Just the same, only worse.”
“Want to trade jobs?”
“I would, just before a long weekend.”
“You’re not the only one with problems. People stock up on food too.”
“I guess they do. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Picnic stuff, pickles, sausages, and, God help us, marshmallows. This a big one for you?”
“With the Fourth on Monday and nice weather, you kidding? And what makes it worse, God Almighty feels the need of rest and recreation in the mountains.”
“Mr. Baker?”
“Not James G. Blaine.”[57]
“I want to see him. I need to see him.”
“Well, try to catch him if you can. He’s jumping like a quarter in a tambourine.”
“I can bring sandwiches to your battle station, Joey.”
“I might just ask you to.”
“I pay this time,” I said.
“Okay.”
We crossed the street together and went into the alley. “You sound lowy, Joey.”
“I am. I get pretty tired of other people’s money. I got a hot date for the weekend and I’ll probably be too pooped to warm up to it.” He nudged a gum wrapper into the lock, went in, saying, “See you,” and closed the door. I pushed the back door open. “Joey! You want a sandwich today?”
“No thanks,” he called out of the dim, floor-oil-smelling interior. “Maybe Friday, Saturday sure.”
“Don’t you close at noon?”
“I told you. The bank closes but Morphy don’t.”
“Just call on me.”
“Thanks—thanks, Mr. Hawley.”
I had nothing to say to my forces on the shelves that morning except “Good morning gentlemen—at ease!” At a few moments before nine, aproned and broomed, I was out front, sweeping the sidewalk.
Mr. Baker is so regular you can hear him tick and I’m sure there’s a hairspring in his chest. Eight fifty-six, fifty-seven, there he came down Elm Street; eight fifty-eight, he crossed; eight fifty-nine—he was at the glass doors, where I, with broom at carry arms, intercepted him. “Mr. Baker, I want to talk to you.”
“Morning, Ethan. Can you wait a minute? Come on in.”
I followed him, and it was just as Joey said—like a religious ceremony. They practically stood at attention as the clock hand crossed nine. There came a click and buzzing from the great steel safe door. Then Joey dialed the mystic numbers and turned the wheel that drew the bolts. The holy of holies swung stately open and Mr. Baker took the salute of the assembled money. I stood outside the rail like a humble communicant waiting for the sacrament.
Mr. Baker turned. “Now, Ethan. What can I do for you?”
I said softly, “I want to talk to you privately, and I can’t leave the store.”
“Won’t it wait?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“You ought to have some help.”
“I know it.”
“If I get a moment I’ll drop over. Any word about Taylor?”
“Not yet. But I’ve put out some lines.”
“I’ll try to get over.”
“Thank you, sir.” But I knew he would come.
And he did, in less than an hour, and stood about until the present customers were gone.
“Now—what is it, Ethan?”
“Mr. Baker, with a doctor or a lawyer or a priest there’s a rule of secrecy. Is there such a thing with a banker?”
57
James G. Blaine: (1830-93) Prominent American politician who served as congressman, senator, and secretary of state. Famous for maneuvering behind the scenes. In his later life, he wrote