“Brother man seems less than joyous,” Phil said. “Speaking of Candy,” Anne said, “I trust you haven’t forgotten the party tonight at Elsie’s.” “Playing in the backyard with Candy.” Anne sat down beside me with a groan. “I don’t want any needling session this weekend. “Whatever does you mean?” Phil said to her. “Now don’t you two get started again,” Anne said, putting a dish of cold cuts on the table. “Helps the co-eds keep track of you at night,” I said. “What’s that for,” I asked, “warning off aircraft?” “Be right with you.” I washed my hands and sat down across from Phil, eyeing his blindingly green polo shirt. “Don’t even talk about it,” she answered. “As they say,” I said, “hot enough for you?” “How’s the little mother?” I asked, patting her stomach. Anne met me in the kitchen doorway with a smile and a kiss. “Hi.” I took off my suit coat and hung it in the front closet. He was about twenty, tall and lean, his darkish-brown hair crew-cut. When I opened the front door and went into the living room, I saw Phil sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of him.
It was the Wanamaker’s first in seven years of marriage. As I went up its two steps I saw Elizabeth struggle to her feet and adjust her maternity smock. I waved to her as I got out of the car and started for the porch. She smiled faintly at me and raised one white-gloved hand. Across the street Frank Wanamaker’s wife, Elizabeth, was sitting on their lawn pulling up weeds.
I nosed the Ford into the driveway and braked it in front of the garage.
This was the first time he’d been to our new place we’d only moved in two months before. He was a psychology major at the University of California in Berkeley and he sometimes drove down to L.A. So I drove home alone.Īs I turned onto Tulley Street, I saw the ‘51 Mercury coupe parked in front of our house and knew that Anne’s brother, Philip, was visiting. But Frank didn’t like Saturday work and had managed to beg off that particular day. Another neighbor, Frank Wanamaker, and I usually drove to and from the plant together, alternating cars. We were living in Hawthorne, renting a two-bedroom tract house owned by one of our next-door neighbors, Mildred Sentas. My name is Tom Wallace I work in Publications at the North American Aircraft plant in Inglewood, California. The day it all started-a hot, August Saturday-I’d gotten off work a little after twelve.
0 kommentar(er)
