As Mac returned to his office, the sun had partially set over the bustling city. Mac sat at his desk playing with the Alfred Dunhill cigarette lighter Mrs. Appleton had given him as a Christmas present the year before. He should have been preparing for court in the morning, for the first substantive motion he was being permitted to argue, but he was clearly distracted. He lit up a Lucky Strike he pulled from a pack on the desk, as he called Sara for the tenth time since he had returned, with no answer, and no return call. He was obviously getting worried about her, or was it mad at her.
He loosened his tie, and opened the window more, as it was still hot and stuffy in his office. The traffic noise outside his window was winding down. Wall Street at night is a desolate canyon of cold concrete and granite, even on a hot summer evening. The roads were empty, but for the street sweepers, and an occasional young associate like himself who had work past his hour.
Mac was now out on the lonely streets, having had decided to take his work home, hoping to prepare for the morning festivities. It was now too late to walk home, so he took a subway from Wall Street to West Eighty-sixth Street and Central Park West. Instead of heading west towards his apartment as he left the underground, he crossed Central Park West, entering the Park through the Mariner's Gate, needing to get some air, and to just think.
Just inside the sandstone wall there sat an old man on the first wooden and iron park bench, seemingly settling in for the night. Mac knew him well, having seen him pretty much day and night on the same bench. He was always quick with a “good morning, sir,” or a “good evening, sir,” despite his probably being at least twice Mac's age. Mac would offer him food or money, but the man would accept neither, as he was apparently starved only for attention. Mac understood, being somewhat lonely himself, given his long hours at work, and the lack of many social interactions during the past couple of years. He would engage the older man now and then for a moment or two, about the weather, the Yankees, or whatever other friendly topic he could come up with. Both seemed happy with the brief encounters, as superficial as they might have been.
On this particular evening, Mac felt particularly alone, given his inability to connect with Sara, after what he had assumed was the start of something very special. He sat next to the startled old man, something he had never done before, inquiring as to his day. The old man, with his mismatched clothing and a sweater, despite it still being warm, after getting over the shock of someone actually sitting next to him, was clearly tickled by the attention.
He introduced himself as Jack, shaking Mac's hand. He proceeded to tell Mac about his day in excruciating detail. Although Mac had not really noticed before, it seemed that the gentleman had a particular obsession with golf. He told Mac about how each day he practices his chipping on the expansive grass in front of his bench. He pulled a seven iron out from behind a nearby tree, apparently to document his story. Although Mac was a little concerned with the club in the hand of the old man, he stuck with the conversation. The old man informed Mac, whether true or not, that he had been a professional golfer before he lost his way during the Depression. His wife had left him years ago, and he now had nowhere particularly important to go. So, he chips all day in the park, clearly happy in his place on his park bench, if not in life itself.
“This bench is like my home,” he told Mac. “I feel comfortable here.”
Mac smiled at the old man. He was tempted to tell him about Sara, and how she was not returning his calls, but his problems seemed trivial after listening to the old man for a while.
The poor guy never gets to be the center of attention.
Mac let him continue to talk for a bit, before he told the old man that it was getting late, and he had to prepare for court in the morning. The man apologized for taking his time, but Mac patted him on the back, and told him it was a pleasure hearing his stories. He told the old man that they would do it again real soon, and he headed back out of the park, west on Eighty-sixth Street, to his apartment a half a block from Central Park West, the old man in tow.
“I am not stalking you, sir,” said the old man, as Mac turned to see him in his wake. “I tired myself out talking,” he said with a laugh. “I am going home. My apartment is on Eighty-fifth and Broadway. Thank you for listening to me,” he continued as he passed Mac, who was stopped in front of his apartment house.
“Goodnight,” said Mac in response, surprised that the man had a home to go to. “See you around.”
Everything is not always as it seems.
Mac walked into the marble lobby of the Park Cameron, his apartment building, greeted the doorman Whitey, and he went up to his fifth-floor apartment in an otherwise empty elevator. The telephone was ringing again as he walked briskly down the carpeted, wall papered hallway. He quickly put his key in the lock to his apartment, but the telephone stopped ringing before he could get in the door. Just when he was feeling sick that he had possibly missed Sara's call, the phone rang again. He pounced on it, once again diving into his new overstuffed chair.
“Hello?” answered Mac hopefully.
Much to his chagrin, it was Mrs. Schlipp, telling him that she had his flight and car arrangements for Dannemora, which would be on his desk in the morning. She would inform Mr. Hogan, as well.
Of course, Mac tried Sara yet again, while the telephone was still in his hand, but the telephone just kept ringing. He put on a pot of coffee, knowing he would not be able to sleep anyway, thinking about Sara, and preparing for court in the morning.
Where could she be? Did she go home to Russia already? Without even saying goodbye? Could that be? She must have gone to someplace out of the city. But, where? And, why? I hope she is safe. I suppose I will have to wait until she contacts me again. If she does. Clearly, everything is not always what it seems! Maybe Mr. Dulles knows something?
Somewhat perturbed, Mac tried to put Sara out of his mind as he prepared for his court argument. It was really a simple motion in a very complicated case. The action involved a builder, a client of the firm, being sued by a neighboring building owner, as the builder was attempting to construct a huge structure that would block the air and light of the neighboring building. Although the case between two behemoth millionaires could prove to be a marathon exercise in ultimate futility, it was clearly being brought too soon, as the builder had yet to even finalize his plans, let alone get building permits, or break ground. Mac would be in court arguing that the action was pre-mature, as it was not yet justiciable, an argument he would surely win. He was being sent, rather than a partner of the firm, because the owner of the neighboring building clearly brought the pre-mature suit to generate early settlement discussions, a topic that Mac would not have the authority to engage in, thus frustrating the plaintiff's intent. Mr. Dulles felt the attorney for the neighboring building should have approached his client like a gentleman first, before initiating costly litigation. He told Mac to make it as difficult on them as possible. There would be no settlement discussion, not at least until the case was dropped.