prop for him. I think he liked to be identified as the man with the interesting cane. He had several. They’re right over here.”
I got up and walked over to a wooden rack near the back window. It held a collection of canes and walking sticks, most of them wood, some of them intricately carved, at least one made of what appeared to be ivory. I touched it, feeling its smoothness, seeing the grain. “These are beautiful,” I said.
“He collected them. Most of them he never used, just enjoyed owning. Most of the time he alternated two or three favorites. The one he had on Saturday was a very plain one. He had to drop it on the grass and he didn’t want a good one getting wet and trampled.”
I lifted a briarwood stick with a large round knurled handle on top, then an old one with a tarnishing silver handle. These had surely come from abroad, from places I had never visited.
I wanted to ask about the old accident, but I felt I had spent enough time and worn her out enough. I asked if she wanted me to buy any groceries, and she thanked me and assured me that Doris had taken care of that. I told her to call if there was anything she needed or if she wanted to talk.
Then Eddie and I took off.
7
I have the world’s greatest baby-sitter, my mother’s old friend, Elsie Rivers. She substitutes for a grandmother and does a terrific job. When we got home, I called and asked if I could leave Eddie with her after lunch and she generously invited him to have lunch with her, something I knew he would appreciate. Since I am not very inventive where food is concerned, he gets much better fare when he sees Elsie. After I left him, I went home and called the high school. They have recently installed one of those terrible “press one, press two” systems that everyone deplores and everyone else seems to use. I went through the directions, eventually reaching Mr. Jovine’s number. As luck would have it, he didn’t answer in person but on his voice-mail machine. I left a message and decided that I would drive over to the high school whether I heard from him or not. Their day ended around three, and I would try to catch him before he left.
While I was eating my sandwich and drinking my tomato juice, the phone rang. It was Mr. Jovine.
“Thank you so much for returning my call,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you this afternoon. It’s about Willard Platt.”
“Ah, yes. Well, I have a free period from one to one forty-five. Can you make it then?”
I looked at my watch. It was only a ten minute drive, probably less. “I can be there.”
“I’ll meet you in the hall outside the main office.”
I gulped down my sandwich, drained my juice glass, and ran.
Oakwood High School sits on a beautiful piece of property in the heart of town. The building is set well back from the quiet road and is landscaped to provide a barrier between it and the occasional traffic. There are parking lots all around it, and I was surprised at how many cars were there. I guess if you’re seventeen and don’t have a car, you’re just not with it.
It was a few minutes before one when I pushed one of the front doors open, looked around, and turned left into a long hall. The first door on the left was the administration office, and standing beside it was a thin man with a short dark beard.
“Mr. Jovine?”
“Yes.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Mrs. Brooks?”
“Glad to meet you.”
“Do you mind if we sit in the auditorium? My next class meets there.”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
We walked back to where the hall started, turned left and went into a large, unlighted auditorium that looked very much like the one in my school twenty years ago. We walked down the center aisle, then up several stairs to the stage. I followed him into the wings, where he turneda light on. It was a cozy little area with an old oak table and a couple of chairs. We sat down.
“Are you a member of Will’s family?” he asked.
“No. I’m a
I got up and walked over to a wooden rack near the back window. It held a collection of canes and walking sticks, most of them wood, some of them intricately carved, at least one made of what appeared to be ivory. I touched it, feeling its smoothness, seeing the grain. “These are beautiful,” I said.
“He collected them. Most of them he never used, just enjoyed owning. Most of the time he alternated two or three favorites. The one he had on Saturday was a very plain one. He had to drop it on the grass and he didn’t want a good one getting wet and trampled.”
I lifted a briarwood stick with a large round knurled handle on top, then an old one with a tarnishing silver handle. These had surely come from abroad, from places I had never visited.
I wanted to ask about the old accident, but I felt I had spent enough time and worn her out enough. I asked if she wanted me to buy any groceries, and she thanked me and assured me that Doris had taken care of that. I told her to call if there was anything she needed or if she wanted to talk.
Then Eddie and I took off.
7
I have the world’s greatest baby-sitter, my mother’s old friend, Elsie Rivers. She substitutes for a grandmother and does a terrific job. When we got home, I called and asked if I could leave Eddie with her after lunch and she generously invited him to have lunch with her, something I knew he would appreciate. Since I am not very inventive where food is concerned, he gets much better fare when he sees Elsie. After I left him, I went home and called the high school. They have recently installed one of those terrible “press one, press two” systems that everyone deplores and everyone else seems to use. I went through the directions, eventually reaching Mr. Jovine’s number. As luck would have it, he didn’t answer in person but on his voice-mail machine. I left a message and decided that I would drive over to the high school whether I heard from him or not. Their day ended around three, and I would try to catch him before he left.
While I was eating my sandwich and drinking my tomato juice, the phone rang. It was Mr. Jovine.
“Thank you so much for returning my call,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you this afternoon. It’s about Willard Platt.”
“Ah, yes. Well, I have a free period from one to one forty-five. Can you make it then?”
I looked at my watch. It was only a ten minute drive, probably less. “I can be there.”
“I’ll meet you in the hall outside the main office.”
I gulped down my sandwich, drained my juice glass, and ran.
Oakwood High School sits on a beautiful piece of property in the heart of town. The building is set well back from the quiet road and is landscaped to provide a barrier between it and the occasional traffic. There are parking lots all around it, and I was surprised at how many cars were there. I guess if you’re seventeen and don’t have a car, you’re just not with it.
It was a few minutes before one when I pushed one of the front doors open, looked around, and turned left into a long hall. The first door on the left was the administration office, and standing beside it was a thin man with a short dark beard.
“Mr. Jovine?”
“Yes.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Mrs. Brooks?”
“Glad to meet you.”
“Do you mind if we sit in the auditorium? My next class meets there.”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
We walked back to where the hall started, turned left and went into a large, unlighted auditorium that looked very much like the one in my school twenty years ago. We walked down the center aisle, then up several stairs to the stage. I followed him into the wings, where he turneda light on. It was a cozy little area with an old oak table and a couple of chairs. We sat down.
“Are you a member of Will’s family?” he asked.
“No. I’m a
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