The telephone was ringing as Mac unlocked the front door to his apartment. He ran for the phone, jumping over the arm of his new overstuffed chair he had picked up at Macy's, along with a matching sofa, and unduly fancy Chippendale coffee and end tables. He completed his eclectic bachelor living room with an old oriental rug he lifted from the attic of his parents’ home that matched absolutely nothing at all. He wondered who would be calling on a Sunday night. Mac grabbed the telephone that sat on the end table, next to the unwashed water glass he had used on Friday morning.
“Hello,” he answered, as he put his feet on a Life Magazine left on the coffee table, his shoes still on, in his typically carefree manner.
“Mr. Martin, this is Dorothy Schlipp, Mr. Dulles’ secretary. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday evening. I hope you are well.”
“I am glorious, Mrs. Schlipp,” Mac replied, still glowing from the weekend he had just spent with the woman of his dreams. “How are you?”
“I am well, thank you. Mr. Dulles asked me to call you. He would like you in his office tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp. He just wanted to give you a heads up. Apparently, you will be meeting with Frank Hogan.”
“Frank Hogan, the Manhattan District Attorney?”
“Yes, that's what I was told.”
“What for, do you know?”
“No, sorry. I was just told to have you there.”
As Mac hung up the telephone, he went back to watching his neighbors on their raised patios through the rear, drape-less windows in his living room. He stood up to straighten a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge he had just recently hung on his beige living room wall. Mac made himself a light single malt and water in the same glass that had been on the end table, as he pondered why he would be meeting with Frank Hogan. He sat at the end of the sofa, glass in hand, as he reached over to turn on the radio in a tall wooden cabinet that stood in the corner of the living room, hoping to catch the President's Sunday evening Fireside Chat.
There had been so much talk about this cash-carry business, giving our old ships from the First World War to England for the right to use bases on British protectorates, particularly in the Caribbean. It sounded kind of screwy to Mac.
It is obvious we are helping the British fight the Germans, without entering the War; Roosevelt's way to appease America's desire to stay out of the fracas, while helping his good friend Winston Churchill stay afloat until we had to inevitably join in. No one wants war, except those who would make money from it. Some neutrality, he opined, listening to the President.
Mac went back to thinking about Sara, despite the President now speaking forcefully from his residence in Hyde Park. He could still smell her sweet scent on his clothing. He could still feel her delicate touch all over his body.
By Sunday morning, both having been famished, the two young lovers went out to P.J. Clarke's, where each devoured a shrimp cocktail, a Caesar salad, and a big steak, while they shared a nice bottle of French Bordeaux.
Thereafter, they went for a walk in Central Park. They meandered into the Inventor's Gate on seventy-second street holding hands, passing by all the dog walkers, and the families out for a Sunday afternoon constitution. They settled themselves in on a bench by the Conservatory Water, just inside the park entrance, where they watched young boys float their homemade miniature sailboats as if they were at Hyde Park in London. The wind had picked up, making the oppressive summer heat seem more bearable, while pushing the little sailboats across the green algae water. They held hands, they kissed, but they spoke few words, both content just to be with each other.
Thereafter, they walked hand in hand to the nearby iconic Bethesda Fountain, Sara telling Mac that she loved the statute at the top of the fountain, “The Angel of the Waters,” particularly with the way the eight foot bronze angel, standing above four small cherubim, representing health, purity, temperance and peace, held a lily in one hand, with the other outstretched delivering a blessing to the water passing around her feet and into the basin. Mac was impressed with her knowledge, giving her a warm kiss amid its spray.
The two young lovers walked the herringbone Roman brick between the two grand staircases of Bethesda Terrace, and they played in the lower passage, where they called out each other's names, listening to the echo in the ornate brick tunnels underneath Terrace Drive.
They ascended the steps on the other side of the Terrace, making their way down the Literary Mall, the eyes of the statues of great writers seemingly following their path down the long, tree lined, cement walkway. The trees overhanging the pathway, the green grass on either side, the low black metal rails, children playing, artists drawing, old timers resting themselves on the wood and cement benches, all being overseen by the famous poets and writers seemingly nurturing their bucolic surroundings. It all felt very New York to both, neither having had the pleasure of being in love in the big city before.
By the time Mac had walked Sara back to her apartment, both had walked off their lunch, and they cuddled some more outside. They looked like two young people in love, as the clearly delighted old Germanic looking woman who had first encountered Mac upon his arriving at Sara's apartment walked by with a smiling wink at Mac. Mac and Sara said their goodbyes, both having work in the morning. Sara was touching her necklace, watching as Mac walked away, a tear in her eye.
Mac walked slowly back to his apartment on the Westside, cutting back through Central Park. He stood watching the boys playing ball on the recently sodded Great Lawn for a while, enjoying the now cooler evening breeze, in the shadow of Belvedere Castle off on the bluff. How happy and alive the place had now become, just like Mac, as he dreamed of a lifetime with his sweet, beautiful, Russian friend.
Once again, the stirring speech of the President interrupted his blissful memories of the weekend. Roosevelt was saying something about providing needed staples to the British, with the expectation of getting paid for it at some later date. When, he did not say. We were selling our friends what they needed, the President insisted. He said something about a garden hose between two neighbors’ houses. If one of the houses is on fire, you do not ask the neighbor how he is going to pay you for the use of your hose before using it to put out the fire.
Brilliant, thought Mac. The man has a talent for making something that is very complicated, and that is very questionable, into something that is not only simple to understand, but also something that is unquestionably the right thing to do.
He turned off the radio, shaking his head in amazement, as he made himself another drink. He sat back in the overstuffed chair, thinking about calling Sara to wish her goodnight, but he fell asleep instantly with his weekend clothes on, still smelling sweet with the scent of Sara's perfume.