Ten

Late Saturday afternoon, I put in a few hours in Gene’s office, cleaning and washing windows. It was raining when I left, and as I closed the door, a black car that had been parked across the street pulled away into traffic. There were two men in the car, both wearing fedoras. Fedoras? In Winston? I turned abruptly and walked the other way. Was it them? Had they found me? Had they been watching the office all day? Would they be waiting in front of the house for me?

The rain came down hard as bullets. People scurried for shelter, holding newspapers and pocketbooks over their heads. At the corner, near the bus stop, I saw Cary Longstreet. She was standing in a cluster of people sheltering under the plexiglass dome. Her arms were full of packages. I should have said something. Hello. Hi. Hey, there. She had smiled at me the last time I saw her. I should have spoken, but instead I wheeled around again and ran back to our house, all thoughts of the two sinister men in fedoras forgotten.

A marvelous, foolproof plan had sprung full-blown into my mind. Go home, get Gene’s umbrella, on the double back to the bus stop, slow down and walk casually by Cary. Then “see” her. Now talk. Oh, hi! What a coincidence. Aren’t you the girl from the Nut Shoppe? The bus hasn’t come yet? Let me walk you home under my umbrella. I’d lift the umbrella over her head. I’d offer to carry her packages. Once we were on our way, the sun would come out. We’d talk. She’d admit that she had hardly thought of anything but me the whole week.

Great plan. Minor flaw. No umbrella. In the house I rampaged through the closets and cupboards, flinging things out, before I remembered seeing the umbrella standing open to dry in a corner of Gene’s office.

I went out again. It was raining harder than ever. At the bus stop, there were four people huddled under the shelter—two little girls swinging ballet shoes and a couple, both in pea green sweat shirts, kissing.

I hung around for a while, I don’t know why, just on the off-chance that Cary Longstreet had remembered some last-minute shopping and would appear again. Finally, thoroughly wet, I went back home.

Gene had been in and out. There was a note on the bulletin board. “Gone to the theater for audition results. Keep fingers and toes crossed. Ravioli in the fridge. Heat bread, make salad.” I kicked off my sneakers and squished around the kitchen, heating up the ravioli and bread. I could call her. And say what? I’m the guy who came into the Nut Shoppe last week and wanted to get to know you. What if she had forgotten already that she’d smiled at me? What if she hung up on me? What if she yawned? What if she said, Which guy who wanted to know me? Last week there were six, the week before, ten.

I tortured myself for hours before I got up the nerve to dial her number. A woman answered on the first ring. “Yancey residence.”

“Hello?” I said.

“Yancey residence.”

“Sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

“Who do you want?”

“Cary? Cary Longstreet?”

“Who is this?”

“Uh—a friend—”

“Do you realize it’s nearly ten o’clock at night? Don’t you think that’s a bit late to be calling Cary?”

“She’s there?” I said. “She lives there?”

“Are you calling for Cary?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she can’t come to the phone right now. We can’t have phone calls coming in this late. You call her tomorrow, but earlier.”

I hung up and stood there, looking at the phone. Yancey residence? Then I heard Gene in the front hall. “Pete?” He came in, smiling broadly. “You see before you, sir,” he said, his voice taking on an English accent, “Brassett!”

“Who?”

“Brassett, a college scout, otherwise known as a gentleman’s gentleman. Shall I take the tray away now, sir? … Certainly, sir, anything you say, sir.” He did a little heel-clicking number.

“You got the part you wanted.”

“I did indeed. I tried out for Brassett and I got it. And one other little plum—I’m the understudy for Lord Fancourt Babberley who, as you no doubt don’t know, plays the fake Charley’s aunt.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh, that is fine news, Uncle Gene. Congratulations, Uncle Gene. I’m really glad you got the part in Charley’s Aunt that you wanted. And I think it’s wonderful news, too, that you’re understudying Lord Fancourt Babberley.’ ‘Well, thank you, Pete, I knew you’d be as enthusiastic as I am.’”

I looked at the phone again. “That’s great, Uncle G, that’s really great.”