suitcase in one hand. Remembering what Miss Cox had told him, Bloom guessed the identities of the trio—Mr. Conroy, his son, and his daughter-in-law. He couldn’t hear their conversation through the window but pantomime and body language offered an eloquence of their own. One picture is worth a thousand words—
The bulk of those words issued from Mr. Conroy’s contorted mouth; words that pleaded, words that begged; and the suitcase told its own story.
“Take me home with you,” the mouth implored. “Let me come just for the weekend” was the message of the small suitcase. “I promise I won’t be in your way—”
The frown on the bearded face and the repeated shaking of the head adorned with brassy blond curls also translated easily into words: “Sorry, Pop. Not this time. We’re all tied up for tonight and tomorrow we promised to take the kids to the beach.”
The daughter-in-law glanced at her watch, then looked up with a frown. It didn’t require any talent in lip-reading to know what she was saying. “Look at the time, Joe! We really have to leave now.”
Mr. Conroy stepped back, shoulders sagging in surrender as his son and daughter-in-law settled themselves comfortably in the bucket seats of the shiny new Cadillac and closed the door with a big-car bang. His son started the engine, then pressed a button to roll down the automatic window and flash a smile of surpassing warmth and phoniness at his father. Again Bloom put words into the moving mouth: “Maybe next week, Pop. Okay?”
The car glided down the driveway, turned left, then vanished from view. Mr. Conroy stood motionless for a moment, his eyes following its progress until he could see it no longer. The shadows gathering around the driveway were gray; second childhood has no golden years.
“Poor Leo!” Bloom started at the sound of the voice behind him. Turning, he saw Mr. Agee standing at his elbow, shaking his head.
“Every Saturday, Leo carries that suitcase out to his kid’s car and every Saturday he carries it back again and unpacks.”
“Don’t they ever let him come to visit?”
“Maybe once or twice a year, over the holidays. They do a lot of partying and entertaining—mostly for business, you know. His son’s in real estate.”
Mr. Bloom nodded. “I guessed as much when I saw him smile.”
Mr. Agee chuckled. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom didn’t reply; he was still staring out of the window, watching as the old man with a suitcase turned and started back up the driveway. As he did so, his shuffling feet encountered the tin can that the children were using in their game. For some reason it had been placed at the edge of the drive and now a small girl was running toward it hastily, ready to kick the can and be “safe” according to the rules of the game.
Either Mr. Conroy didn’t see her coming or else he didn’t give a damn. Noticing the can before him, he lashed out with his foot and sent it sailing across the lawn. Then he resumed his plodding progress up the drive.
Behind him the little girl grimaced in exasperation, then turned and ran toward the rolling can as a boy—obviously “it” in the game—emerged from the street to follow her in hot pursuit.
Reaching the rolling can, the girl kicked it with all her might, her mouth opening in a silent shout, which Bloom promptly mimicked.
“Alley-alley-oxen-free!”
All eyes turned from the television screen now and Bloom greeted their stares with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your program. I was just watching the kids outside—guess I must have let myself get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Mr. Weinstein. “The kind of programs they got on tonight we can do without, believe me. ‘Saturday Night Live,’ ‘Saturday Night Dead’—who needs it?”
Now there was another interruption in the form—two forms, really—of Mr. Conroy and Miss Cox, as they entered the room together, halting just
The bulk of those words issued from Mr. Conroy’s contorted mouth; words that pleaded, words that begged; and the suitcase told its own story.
“Take me home with you,” the mouth implored. “Let me come just for the weekend” was the message of the small suitcase. “I promise I won’t be in your way—”
The frown on the bearded face and the repeated shaking of the head adorned with brassy blond curls also translated easily into words: “Sorry, Pop. Not this time. We’re all tied up for tonight and tomorrow we promised to take the kids to the beach.”
The daughter-in-law glanced at her watch, then looked up with a frown. It didn’t require any talent in lip-reading to know what she was saying. “Look at the time, Joe! We really have to leave now.”
Mr. Conroy stepped back, shoulders sagging in surrender as his son and daughter-in-law settled themselves comfortably in the bucket seats of the shiny new Cadillac and closed the door with a big-car bang. His son started the engine, then pressed a button to roll down the automatic window and flash a smile of surpassing warmth and phoniness at his father. Again Bloom put words into the moving mouth: “Maybe next week, Pop. Okay?”
The car glided down the driveway, turned left, then vanished from view. Mr. Conroy stood motionless for a moment, his eyes following its progress until he could see it no longer. The shadows gathering around the driveway were gray; second childhood has no golden years.
“Poor Leo!” Bloom started at the sound of the voice behind him. Turning, he saw Mr. Agee standing at his elbow, shaking his head.
“Every Saturday, Leo carries that suitcase out to his kid’s car and every Saturday he carries it back again and unpacks.”
“Don’t they ever let him come to visit?”
“Maybe once or twice a year, over the holidays. They do a lot of partying and entertaining—mostly for business, you know. His son’s in real estate.”
Mr. Bloom nodded. “I guessed as much when I saw him smile.”
Mr. Agee chuckled. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom didn’t reply; he was still staring out of the window, watching as the old man with a suitcase turned and started back up the driveway. As he did so, his shuffling feet encountered the tin can that the children were using in their game. For some reason it had been placed at the edge of the drive and now a small girl was running toward it hastily, ready to kick the can and be “safe” according to the rules of the game.
Either Mr. Conroy didn’t see her coming or else he didn’t give a damn. Noticing the can before him, he lashed out with his foot and sent it sailing across the lawn. Then he resumed his plodding progress up the drive.
Behind him the little girl grimaced in exasperation, then turned and ran toward the rolling can as a boy—obviously “it” in the game—emerged from the street to follow her in hot pursuit.
Reaching the rolling can, the girl kicked it with all her might, her mouth opening in a silent shout, which Bloom promptly mimicked.
“Alley-alley-oxen-free!”
All eyes turned from the television screen now and Bloom greeted their stares with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your program. I was just watching the kids outside—guess I must have let myself get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Mr. Weinstein. “The kind of programs they got on tonight we can do without, believe me. ‘Saturday Night Live,’ ‘Saturday Night Dead’—who needs it?”
Now there was another interruption in the form—two forms, really—of Mr. Conroy and Miss Cox, as they entered the room together, halting just
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