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“Are you also drunk?”
“No!” He sounds offended. “I had two beers!”
“Well, that’s good. But on this one occasion, I suppose you’d have a right to get drunk.” She pauses. “As long as you didn’t get all sloppy and vomit on 5th Avenue, that is.”
“The Blarney Stone is on 8th, Hols. Near Madison Square Garden.”
Holly, who’s never been to New York and doesn’t want to go, says that’s interesting.
Then, channeling his younger sister without knowing it, Jerome tells her it’s not really the money that’s blowing his mind. “They’re going to publish it! It started as a college paper, it turned into a book, and now it’s going to be published!”
“That’s wonderful, Jerome. I’m so glad for you.” She wishes her friend—who once saved her life and Bill’s life in a snowstorm—could always be this happy, and knows that’s not the way life works. Maybe just as well. If it did, happiness wouldn’t mean anything.
“What’s going on with the case? Have you made any progress?”
Holly fills him in on everything. Most of it is about Ellen Craslow, but she doesn’t neglect Tom Higgins being out of the picture. When she finishes, Jerome says, “I’d give a hundred bucks to know who the old lady was. The one who cleaned out Ellen Craslow’s trailer. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Holly’s thinking (and with a smile) that Jerome could actually afford to give a thousand, considering his recent windfall. For that matter, so could she. She is dives puella—a rich girl, just like in the Hall and Oates song she used to love. “To me the most interesting thing is all the Black people living in that trailer park. Not surprising, because it’s at the western edge of Lowtown, but the old lady was white.”
“What’s next for you?”
“I don’t know,” Holly says. “How about you, Jerome?”
“I’m going to stay in New York awhile longer. Until Thursday at least. My editor—I love saying that—wants to talk about some stuff, a few changes in the manuscript, plus he wants to brainstorm a book jacket concept. He says the head of publicity wants to talk about a possible tour. A tour! Do you believe that?”
“I do,” Holly says. “I’m so glad for you.”
“Can I tell you something? About Barb?”
“Of course.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s writing, too. And I think she’s getting somewhere with it. Wouldn’t it be crazy if we both turned out to be writers?”
“No crazier than the Brontës,” Holly says. “There were three of them. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. All writers. I loved Jane Eyre.” This is true, but the one Holly especially loved as an unhappy teenager was Wuthering Heights. “No idea what Barbara might be writing?”
“I’d say poetry. Just about has to be. It’s about all she’s been reading since she was a sophomore. Listen, Holly, I want to go for a walk. I think I could fall in love with this city. For one thing, they get it—there are actually pop-up vaccine sites.”
“Well, don’t get mugged. Keep your wallet in your front pocket, not the back. And call your mother and father.”
“Already did.”
“What about Barbara? Have you talked to her?”
“I will. If she’s not too busy with her secret project to take my call, that is. I love you, Holly.”
This isn’t the first time he’s said it, but it always makes her feel like crying. “I love you, too, Jerome. Enjoy the rest of your big day.”
She ends the call. She lights a cigarette and goes to the window.
She puts her thinking cap on.
Much good does it do her.
4
Roddy Harris comes back from his usual Monday evening visit to Strike Em Out Lanes around quarter to nine. He and Emily take good care of themselves (often in ways of which dimwitted society would not approve), but his once strong hips have grown rather fragile as he advances deeper into his eighties, and it’s been almost four years since he last rolled a ball down a hardwood lane. He still goes on most Mondays, though, because he likes to root for his team. The Golden Oldies play in the Over 65 League. Most of the men with whom he bowled when he joined the Oldies are gone, but a few are left, including Hugh Clippard, once of the Sociology Department. Hugh has to be pushing eighty himself these days, he’s made a pile in the stock market, and he’s still got a wicked hook. Too bad it’s to the Brooklyn side.
Emily comes out of her little office as soon as she hears the front door close. He kisses her on the cheek and asks how her evening was.
