Friday morning, October 6, 1950
Skip Valentine’s apartment in Chicago
Skip stepped out of the shower and dried off with a fluffy white bath towel before walking into the bedroom, where Purrvis had taken up a spot on the bed, licking himself clean. Skip gave him a scratch on top of the head, to which he responded with a noisy purr. He had one of the loudest purrs Skip had ever heard, which was why he named him Purrvis when he found him in the street, flea-bitten, skinny, and forlorn. “Mrs. Notley from down the hall will look in on you while I’m gone, my friend. Be kind to her. No scratching and no biting.”
Purrvis purred louder, still licking himself.
“That’s right, get yourself nice and clean, dear boy, like I just did. Now I have to get dressed, though. Sometimes I envy you not having to deal with clothes.”
Skip walked over to the closet and the dresser and extracted various garments, laying them out on the bed next to his already-packed suitcases. Purrvis watched, suspending his self-cleaning temporarily, as Skip put on white cotton briefs and a crewneck T-shirt, followed by a white dress shirt with silver cufflinks and new green pleated trousers. Green and white argyle socks were next, followed by black wingtips, a black leather belt, green tie, and a black single-button sport coat with a white pocket square. He put his gold pocket watch and fob in his pocket and picked up his black Hamburg and gave it a quick brush, setting it jauntily atop his head. Finished, he admired himself in the full-length mirror, then twirled around, making sure the back was all right, too. “Well, Purrvis, what do you think?”
“Meow,” he answered loudly.
Skip smiled. “Thanks, buddy. You look good, too. Very handsome indeed, and divinely clean.” He carried his suitcases out to the hall, then went back for his raincoat and umbrella, giving Purrvis a final kiss and a scratch behind the ears. He locked the door of his apartment and walked down to 212, where he gave a spare key to Mrs. Notley, with last-minute instructions on the cat’s care and feeding. Assured all would be well, Skip put on his raincoat and carried his bags and umbrella down to the sidewalk, pacing back and forth in the morning fog waiting for Henry. The weather was dirty, damp, and dreary, not much improved from the last two days. He tugged his raincoat close about him as he continued to pace, careful to avoid puddles. To pass the time he practiced his twirling, using his umbrella as a baton, throwing it up in the air, spinning it about, and catching it behind his back, much to the bewilderment of one of his neighbors, watching from a window.
Finally, at one minute to eleven, just as Skip executed a perfect backhanded catch, Henry drove around the corner, ground the gears of his friend’s cherry red 1939 Ford De Luxe coupe, and stopped close to the curb. He grinned as he hopped out and zipped around the front of the car to where Skip was standing, looking him up and down.
“Well, as I live and breathe, Valentine, you look smashing.”
“How can you tell? I’m covered practically head to toe in my raincoat.”
“Yeah, but it’s a divine raincoat.”
Skip laughed, taking in Henry’s blue and white houndstooth coat, white shirt, navy blue trousers, and tie. His short, dark brown hair was parted on the side, slicked down, and swept back. “Not so bad yourself, Finch, quite fetching.”
“Thanks, I manage to dress myself okay sometimes. All done playing with your umbrella?”
Skip frowned. “I wasn’t playing, I was practicing, I’ll have you know, in place of my baton.”
“I thought you were going to quit the marching band.”
“I’m only going to participate in parades and such, but I still need to practice.”
“You’re the only fellow I know who knows how to twirl a baton.”
“Believe me, I got ribbed about it all through high school, but I stuck with it.”
“Good for you, and I admire your gumption and coordination.” He glanced down at Skip’s bags. “Jeepers, two suitcases? We’re only going for the weekend.”
“You, Mr. Finch, don’t understand what all goes into looking like a dandy, as you say. Besides, one never knows about the weather.”
“Aw, it will clear up soon, I can feel it.” He opened the trunk of his car and squeezed the two cases in next to his banged-up old suitcase, the spare tire, and a tool kit. A rusty metal box was wedged in along the side. “There we go, all set. You can stick your baton, uh, umbrella, I mean, behind the seat.”
“Very funny. What’s that, by the way?” Skip asked, pointing to the rusty gray metal container.
“Oh, my tackle box, of course. My fishing pole is on the floor of the car. I had to angle it to get it in. I bet there’s some good fishing in the Huron River.”
“Fishing? You never said anything about going fishing this weekend, Henry.”
He looked abashed. “Oh, didn’t I? Well, only if we have time and opportunity, of course. And if you want to, naturally.”
“Isn’t it a little out of season?”
“Nah, you can fish for trout well into the middle of October. Do you like fishing, Skip? I guess we never talked about it before.”
Skip tried to look cross, but couldn’t. Instead, he laughed. “I’m no good at it, but sure, I like to fish, I suppose. I’ve only tried it once or twice. Did you bring more than one pole?”
“Er, no, but I’m sure we can borrow one.”
“Uh-huh, if there’s time for it.”
Then they both laughed, and Henry slammed the trunk shut as Skip opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Careful of the peach cobbler. I thought maybe it would be safer on the floor up here with us rather than in the trunk,” Henry said.
“I’ll keep an eye on it, but don’t blame me if there’s a piece or two missing by the time we get there,” Skip said with a mischievous smile.
Henry smiled back at him and then went around to the driver’s side, climbed in behind the wheel, and they took off.