absently.
Bickford’s mouth compressed into a grim line. “A man should never try to play above himself, son. If you reach too high, you set yourself up for a fall. Just be cautious, work hard, make a good marriage, that’s how you get ahead.”
Adam didn’t look up.
“You have a great future here, Adam,” Bickford said. “This promotion is just the first step. You’re young. You’ve got so much ahead of you. But me...I’m not so young.”
There was a different tone in Bickford’s voice that made Adam look up.
“I always wanted a son,” Bickford said, “someone to carry on after me. What do daughters bring you? Just heartaches. I love Lilith but she certainly couldn’t run this newspaper after me. ” He paused again. “But you could. I’ve known that from the first day I met you. Your future is here, Adam, with the Times . If you want it.”
“I know, Bick. And I do want it.”
The secretary knocked and leaned in to announce that Bickford had someone waiting outside. Adam got up to leave.
“You look terrible,” Bickford said. “Take the rest of the day off. You can start fresh tomorrow , as city editor.”
Adam hid his surprise. “Thanks, Bick,” he said finally. “You won’t regret it. I’ll work hard.”
“I know you will,” Bickford said.
Down in the lobby Adam pick up a copy of that afternoon’s Times. Outside, he paused. It was a chilly but sunny day, and Union Square was filled with people —- shoppers taking advantage of the post-Christmas sales, men filing in and out of the office buildings. He stood there, not knowing where he wanted to go. He didn’t want to go back to the boarding house, and he felt no compulsion to linger over a drink in some speakeasy.
He folded the Times under his arm and set off to catch a trolley. He rode it down across town to the marina and then walked over to the Palace of Fine Arts. He found a bench near the duck pond and sat down, watching the children play under the watchful gazes of mothers and nannies. He glanced down to the Times in his lap.
He unfolded it and idly scanned the headlines and then noticed the date. December 31, 1926. He hadn’t even realized it was New Year’s Eve.
Tomorrow, he would go into the office and begin his new job as city editor. A new year would begin. His future would begin. He folded the paper and set it aside, fighting the urge to look up at the statues.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adam sat at the dining room table, staring out the window. From the vantage point in his Pacific Heights home, the bay was blue and the sky cloudless. A beautiful morning, filled with promise.
He picked up the newspaper spread before him and began to read. The Depression was deepening, the city’s neighborhoods were deteriorating, and out in the farming areas homeless migrants congregated in shanty towns called “Hoovervilles.”
No promise in the pages of the Times.
Adam glanced at the date at the top of the page. January 1, 1930. A new decade had begun. A time to look ahead and hope for better things. Not a time to look back.
He looked at his watch. He felt sluggish, even though he had not had much to drink at the New Year’s party last night. He glanced at the other end of the mahogany table where the breakfast setting sat untouched. The maid came in and refilled his cup.
“Leave the pot, please,” Adam said.
She nodded and slipped out.
Adam set the newspaper aside. It was too damn depressing to read it, too hard to think about the disparity between the despondent life reflected on its pages and that of his own. He was now editor in chief of the Times. He was a success. And he was a man of some means now, with a large home on Vallejo Street and a bright future.
“What time is it?”
Lilith stood by the door. She was wearing a violet silk robe but her face had a gray pallor.
“Just after seven,” Adam said.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Lilith sat down at the table.
“You have a hangover,” Adam said. “You
Bickford’s mouth compressed into a grim line. “A man should never try to play above himself, son. If you reach too high, you set yourself up for a fall. Just be cautious, work hard, make a good marriage, that’s how you get ahead.”
Adam didn’t look up.
“You have a great future here, Adam,” Bickford said. “This promotion is just the first step. You’re young. You’ve got so much ahead of you. But me...I’m not so young.”
There was a different tone in Bickford’s voice that made Adam look up.
“I always wanted a son,” Bickford said, “someone to carry on after me. What do daughters bring you? Just heartaches. I love Lilith but she certainly couldn’t run this newspaper after me. ” He paused again. “But you could. I’ve known that from the first day I met you. Your future is here, Adam, with the Times . If you want it.”
“I know, Bick. And I do want it.”
The secretary knocked and leaned in to announce that Bickford had someone waiting outside. Adam got up to leave.
“You look terrible,” Bickford said. “Take the rest of the day off. You can start fresh tomorrow , as city editor.”
Adam hid his surprise. “Thanks, Bick,” he said finally. “You won’t regret it. I’ll work hard.”
“I know you will,” Bickford said.
Down in the lobby Adam pick up a copy of that afternoon’s Times. Outside, he paused. It was a chilly but sunny day, and Union Square was filled with people —- shoppers taking advantage of the post-Christmas sales, men filing in and out of the office buildings. He stood there, not knowing where he wanted to go. He didn’t want to go back to the boarding house, and he felt no compulsion to linger over a drink in some speakeasy.
He folded the Times under his arm and set off to catch a trolley. He rode it down across town to the marina and then walked over to the Palace of Fine Arts. He found a bench near the duck pond and sat down, watching the children play under the watchful gazes of mothers and nannies. He glanced down to the Times in his lap.
He unfolded it and idly scanned the headlines and then noticed the date. December 31, 1926. He hadn’t even realized it was New Year’s Eve.
Tomorrow, he would go into the office and begin his new job as city editor. A new year would begin. His future would begin. He folded the paper and set it aside, fighting the urge to look up at the statues.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adam sat at the dining room table, staring out the window. From the vantage point in his Pacific Heights home, the bay was blue and the sky cloudless. A beautiful morning, filled with promise.
He picked up the newspaper spread before him and began to read. The Depression was deepening, the city’s neighborhoods were deteriorating, and out in the farming areas homeless migrants congregated in shanty towns called “Hoovervilles.”
No promise in the pages of the Times.
Adam glanced at the date at the top of the page. January 1, 1930. A new decade had begun. A time to look ahead and hope for better things. Not a time to look back.
He looked at his watch. He felt sluggish, even though he had not had much to drink at the New Year’s party last night. He glanced at the other end of the mahogany table where the breakfast setting sat untouched. The maid came in and refilled his cup.
“Leave the pot, please,” Adam said.
She nodded and slipped out.
Adam set the newspaper aside. It was too damn depressing to read it, too hard to think about the disparity between the despondent life reflected on its pages and that of his own. He was now editor in chief of the Times. He was a success. And he was a man of some means now, with a large home on Vallejo Street and a bright future.
“What time is it?”
Lilith stood by the door. She was wearing a violet silk robe but her face had a gray pallor.
“Just after seven,” Adam said.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Lilith sat down at the table.
“You have a hangover,” Adam said. “You
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