A Good Story and Other Stories

Sniff

Albert felt the sniffles first on Monday, which was Post Office Day, but he didn’t worry about them very much. In his experience, the sniffles came and went with the changing of the seasons, never serious enough even to need a call on the family doctor; how should he have known that these sniffles were the harbinger of more than spring? There was no reason to think that this time...

Well. Monday, at any rate, was Post Office Day, as every Monday had been for well over a year now. Sniffles or no sniffles, Albert went through his normal Post Office Day routine just the same as ever. That is, at five minutes before noon he took a business-size white envelope from the top left drawer of his desk, placed it in the typewriter, and addressed it to himself, thusly:

Then, after looking around cautiously to be absolutely certain Mr. Clement was nowhere in sight, he put a return address in the upper left-hand corner, like so:

Finally, taking the envelope from the typewriter, Albert affixed a five-cent stamp to it from his middle desk drawer and tucked the still-empty envelope away in the inside pocket of his jacket. (It was one of his small but intense and very secret pleasures that Mr. Clement himself, all unknowing, was actually supplying the stamps to keep the system in operation.)

Typing the two addresses on the envelope had taken most of the final five minutes till noon, and putting his desk in order consumed^- the last several seconds, so that at exactly twelve o’clock Albert could stand, turn to the right, walk to the door, and leave the office for lunch, closing behind himself the door on which was painted the legend JASON CLEMENT, Attorney-at-Law.

His first stop, this and every Monday lunchtime, was in the Post Office, where he claimed the bulky white envelope waiting for him in General Delivery. “Here we are, Mr. White!” cried Tom the Postal Clerk, as usual. “The weekly scandal!”

Albert and Tom the Postal Clerk had come to know one another fairly well in the course of the last fifteen months, what with Albert dropping in every Monday for his General Delivery letter. In order to allay any suspicion that might have entered Tom the Postal Clerk’s mind, Albert had early on explained that Bob Harrington, the well-known crusading reporter on the Monequois newspaper, had employed Albert as a son of legman to check out leads and tips and confidential information that had been sent in by the newspaper’s readers. “It’s a part-time job,” Albert had explained, “in addition to my regular work for Mr. Clement, and it’s very hush-hush. That’s why Bob sends me the material care of General Delivery. And why we make believe we don’t even know one another.”

Tom the Postal Clerk had grinned and winked and cried, “Mum’s the word!”

But later on Tom the Postal Clerk apparently did some thinking, because one Monday he said to Albert, “Why is it you let this stuff sit around here so long? Almost a week, most times.”

“I’m supposed to pick up mail on Monday,” Albert answered, “no matter when Bob may send it out to me. If I were to come in here every day of the year it might cause suspicion.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Tom the Postal Clerk, and nodded wisely. But then he said, “You know, you don’t want to miss. You see this up here in the corner, this ‘After five days return to—’ Well, that means exactly what it says. If you don’t pick one of these up in the five days, well, that’s it.”

Albert said, “Would you really send it back?”

“Well, we’d have to,” said Tom the Postal Clerk. “That’s the regulations, Mr. White.”

“I’m glad,” said Albert. “I know Bob wouldn’t want information like this sitting around too long. If I ever let a letter stay more than five days, you go ahead and send it back. Bob and I will both thank you.”

“Check,” said Tom the Postal Clerk.

“And you won’t ever give one of these letters to somebody who says he’s from me.”

“Definitely not, Mr. White. It’s you or nobody.”

“I mean, even if you got a phone call from somebody who said he was me and he was sending a friend to pick up the letter in my place.”

Tom the Postal Clerk winked and said, “I know what you’re getting at, Mr. White. I know what you mean. And don’t you worry. The U.S. Mails won’t let you down. No one will ever get delivery on any of these letters but you or Mr. Harrington, and that’s guaranteed.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Albert said, and meant every word of it.

In the months since then, Tom the Postal Clerk had had no more questions, and life had gone along sunnily. Of course, it was necessary these days for Albert to read Bob Harrington’s column in the Herald-Statesman, since from time to time Tom the Postal Clerk would mention some one of the incredible scandals Bob Harrington was incessantly digging up and want to know if Albert had had anything to do with that particular case. In most instances, Albert said no, explaining that the majority of leads he was given turned out to be worthless. When he did from time to time admit that yes, such-and-such a ruined reputation or exposed misdeed had been a part of his undercover work for Bob Harrington, Tom the Postal Clerk beamed like a quiz-show winner. (Tom the Postal Clerk was obviously a born conspirator who had never — till now — found an outlet for his natural bent.)

Today, however, Tom the Postal Clerk had nothing undercover to talk about. Instead, he looked closely at Albert and said, “You got a cold, Mr. White?”

“It’s just the sniffles,” Albert said.

“You look son of rheumy around the eyes.”

“It’s nothing,” Albert said. “Just the sniffles.”

“It’s the season for it,” said Tom the Postal Clerk.

Albert agreed it was the season for it, left the Post Office, and went to City Hall Luncheonette, where he told Sally the Waitress, “I think the roast beef today.”

(Albert’s wife, Elizabeth, would gladly have made a lunch for him, and Albert would gladly have eaten it, except that Mr. Clement did not believe that law clerks — even fortyyear-old law clerks with steel-rim glasses and receding hairlines and expanding waistlines — should sit at their desks in their offices and cat sandwiches from a paper bag. Therefore the daily noontime walk to City Hall Luncheonette, which served food that was adequate without being as scrumptious as the menu claimed.)

While Sally the Waitress went off to order the roast beef, Albert walked back to the men’s room to wash up and also to continue the normal routine of Post Office Day. He took from his right-side jacket pocket the letter which Tom the Postal Clerk had just given him, carefully ripped it open, and took from it the bulky wad of documents it contained. This package went into the fresh envelope he had just typed before leaving the office. He sealed the new envelope and returned it to his inner jacket pocket, then ripped the old envelope into very small pieces and flushed the pieces down the toilet. He then washed his hands, went out to sit at his normal table, and ate a passable lunch of peas, french fries, rye bread, coffee, and roast beef.

He had first stumbled across the originals of these documents eight years ago, one day when Mr. Clement was detained in court and Albert had required to know a certain fact which was on a certain piece of paper. With no ulterior motive he had searched Mr. Clement’s desk, had noticed that one drawer seemed somewhat shorter than the others, had taken it out to look behind it, had seen the green metal box back there, had given in to curiosity, and within the green metal box had learned that Mr. Clement was very, very rich and had become so by grossly dishonest means.

Mr. Clement was an old man, a bony white-haired firebrand who still struck awe in those who met him. And not always merely awe; he carried a cane with a silver knob atop it, and had been known to flail away with it at persons who had been ungracious or rude to him in streets, buses, stores, or wherever he happened to be. His law business leaned heavily to estates and the affairs of small local corporations. The documents in the green metal box proved that Mr. Clement had stolen widely and viciously from these estates and corporations, had salted most of the money away in bank accounts under false names, and was now a millionaire several times over.

A confusing medley of thoughts had run through Albert’s mind on finding these documents. First, he was stunned and disappointed to learn of Mr. Clement’s perfidy; although the old man’s irascibility had kept Albert from ever really liking him, he had respected and admired him, and now he was finding his respect and admiration to have been misplaced. Second, he was terrified at the thought of what Mr. Clement would do if he learned of Albert’s discovery; surely these documents limned a man ruthless enough to stop at nothing if he thought exposure were near. And third amazing himself he thought of blackmail.

In those first kaleidoscopic moments, Albert White found himself yearning for things the existence of which he had hardly ever before noticed. Acapulco. Beautiful women. White dinner jackets. Sports cars. Highballs. Penthouses. Wouldn’t Mr. Clement pay for all those things, in order to keep Albert’s mouth shut?

Of course he would. If there were no better way to shut Albert’s mouth. The thought of potential better ways made Albert shudder.

Still, he wanted all those things. Ease and luxury. Travel. Adventure. Sinning expensively. All that jazz.

At intervals over the next few months Albert snuck documents out of the green metal box and had them photostated. He continued until he had enough evidence to put Mr. Clement behind bars until the twenty-second century. He hid this evidence in the garage behind the little house he shared with his wife, Elizabeth, and for the next four years he didn’t do a thing.

He needed a plan. He needed some way to arrange things so that the evidence would go to the authorities if anything happened to him, and also so that he could convince Mr. Clement that he had the evidence and the authorities would get it unless, and also so that Mr. Clement couldn’t get his hands on it himself. A tall order. But four years Albert had no way to fill it.

But then he read a short story by a writer named Richard Hardwick, outlining the method Albert eventually came to use, with the documents mailed to himself c/o General Delivery and a crusading reporter for the return address. Albert promptly initiated the scheme himself, pruned his evidential documents down to manageable proportions, sent them circulating through the postal system, and saw that everything worked just as Hardwick had said it would.

Now all that was left was to approach Mr. Clement, detail the evidence and the precautions, arrange satisfactory terms, and sit back to enjoy evermore a life of luxury.

Uh huh.

The same day that Albert dropped the envelope into the mailbox for the very first time he also went to beard Mr. Clement in his den; that is, in his inner office. Albert knocked at the door before entering, as he had been taught years and years ago when he’d first obtained this employment, stepped inside, and said, “Mr. Clement?”

Mr. Clement raised his bony face, glared at Albert with his stony eyes, and said, “Yes, Albert? What is it?”

Albert said, “Those Duckworth leases. Do you want them this afternoon?”

“Naturally I want them this afternoon. I told you yesterday I would want them this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” said Albert, and retreated.

Back at his desk, he sat and blinked in some confusion at the far wall. He had opened his mouth, back there in Mr. Clement’s office, with the full intention of saying “Mr. Clement, I know all.” It had been with baffled consternation that he had heard himself say instead, “Those Duckworth leases.” Besides the fact that he hadn’t intended to say, “Those Duckworth leases,” there was the additional fact that he had already. known Mr. Clement would want the Duckworth leases this afternoon. Not only a wrong question, but a useless question as well.

“I was afraid of him, that’s all,” Albert told himself. “And there’s no reason to be afraid. I do have the goods on him, and he doesn’t dare touch me.”

Later that same day Albert tried again. It was, as a matter of fact, when he brought the Duckworth leases in. He placed them on the desk, stood around a few seconds, then coughed hesitantly and said, “Mr. Clement?”

Mr. Clement glowered. “What is it this time?”

“I’m not feeling too well, Mr. Clement. I’d like to take the rest of the afternoon off, please.”

“Have you typed the Wilcox papers?”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Type them up, and then you can go.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

A saddened Albert left Mr. Clement’s office, knowing he had failed again and knowing also there was no point his trying any more today; he’d only go on failing. So he merely typed the Wilcox papers, tidied his desk, and went home an hour early, explaining to Elizabeth that he’d felt a bit queasy at the office, which was perfectly true.

In the fifteen months that followed, Albert made frequent attempts to inform Mr. Clement that he was in the process of being blackmailed, but somehow or other when he opened his mouth it was always some other sentence that came out. Sometimes, at night, he practiced in front of a mirror, outlining the situation and his demands with admirable clarity and brevity. Other times he wrote the speeches out and set himself to memorize them, but the prepared speeches were always too verbose and unwieldy.

It was clear enough in his mind what he intended say. He would tell about his discovery and of the General Delivery scheme. He would explain his desire to travel, explain how he intended to remail the evidence every week to a new location — Cannes, Palm Beach, Victoria Falls — and point out that he would require a large and steady income to enable him to pick the evidence up each time within the five-day deadline. He would say that although he thought Elizabeth was perhaps too much of a homebody to fully enjoy the sort of life Albert intended leading from now on, he did still feel a certain fondness for her and would prefer to be able to think that she was being suitably provided for by Mr. Clement in his absence.

He would say all that. Some day. All hope, he believed, was not yet lost. The day would come when his courage was sufficiently high or his desire for the good life sufficiently strong, and on that day he would do it. The day, however, had not yet come.

In the meantime, the mailing and remailing of the blackmail letter had become a normal part of Albert’s weekly routine, integrated into his orderly life as though there were nothing strange about it at all. Every Monday, on his way to lunch, he picked up the letter at General Delivery. Every Monday, in the washroom of the City Hall Luncheonette, he transferred the documents to the fresh envelope and flushed the used envelope away. Every’ Monday, on the way back to work from lunch, he dropped the letter into a handy mailbox. (The letter would reach Tom the Postal Clerk on Tuesday. Wednesday would be day number one, Thursday number two, Friday three, Saturday four, Sunday no number, and Monday five, the end of the old cycle and beginning of the new.)

This particular Monday was no different from any other, except of course for the sniffles. Sally the Waitress commented on that, saying, as she delivered the roast beef, “You look like you’re coming down with something, Mr. White.”

“Just the sniffles,” said Albert.

“Probably one of those twenty-four-hour bugs that’s going around,” she said.

Albert agreed with her diagnosis, ate his lunch, paid for it and left his usual twenty-five-cent tip, and walked on back to the office, making two stops on the way. The first was at the handy mailbox, where he dropped the evidence in for another round-trip through the postal system, and the second was at the Bizy Korner Stationery, where he bought a pocket packet of tissues for his sniffles.

He would have preferred to think that Sally the Waitress was right about the length of time these sniffles would be with him — the “twenty-four-hour bug” she had mentioned — but he rather doubted it. From past experience he knew that the sniffles lasted him approximately three days; he could look forward to runny nose and rheumy eyes until about Thursday, when it would surely begin to clear up.

Except that it didn’t. Monday went by, uneventful after the remailing of the documents, Tuesday and Wednesday followed, and Thursday dawned clogged and stuffy, both in the outside world and in the interior of Albert’s head. Albert wore his raincoat and rubbers, carried his umbrella, and snuffled his way through Thursday, going through an entire box of tissues in the office.

And Friday was even worse. Elizabeth, the kind of woman who looks most natural when wearing an apron and holding an apple pie, took one look at Albert on Friday morning and said, “Don’t you even bother to get up. I’ll call Mr. Clement and tell him you’re too sick to go to work today.”

And Albert was. He was too sick to go to work, too sick even to protest at having to stay in bed, and so utterly miserably sick that he even forgot all about rhe letter ticking away in General Delivery.

He remained just as sick, and just as oblivious, ail through the weekend, spending most of his time in uneasy dozing, rising to a sitting position now and then in order to down some chicken broth or tea and toast, and then reclining at once to sleep some more.

About eleven o’clock Sunday night Albert awoke from a sound sleep with a vision of that envelope clear in his mind. It was as though he had dreamed it: the envelope, clean and clear, sitting fat and solitary in a pigeonhole, and a hand reaching out to take it, a hand that belonged to Bob Harrington, crusading reporter.

“Good heavens!” cried Albert. Elizabeth was sleeping in the guest bed while Albert was sick, and so didn’t hear him. “I’d better be well tomorrow,” he said aloud, laid his head back down on the pillow, and stayed awake quite a while, thinking about it.

But he wasn’t well on the morrow. He was awakened Monday morning by the sound of rain beating on the bedroom window. He sat up, knew at once that he was as dizzy and weak as ever, and felt a real panic begin to slide over him like a blanket of fire. But he fought it down, if not quite out; he had, at all costs, to remain calm.

When Elizabeth came in to ask him what he wanted for breakfast, Albert said, “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

“Who do you want me to call, dear?”

“No,” said Albert firmly. “7 have to make the call.”

“Dear, I’ll be happy to—”

Albert was seldom waspish, but when the mood was on him he could be insufferable. “What would make you happy,” he now said, the sardonic ring in his voice muffled a bit by the blockage in his nose, “is of not the slightest interest to me. I must make a phone call, and all I ask of you is that you help me get to the living room.”

Elizabeth protested, thinking to be kindly, but eventually she saw Albert was not going to be reasonable, and so she agreed. He was weak as a kitten, and leaned heavily on her as they made their way down the stairs to the first floor and into the living room. Albert sagged into the chair beside the phone and sat there panting a few minutes, done in by the exertion. Elizabeth meantime went to the kitchen to prepare, as she put it, “a nice poached egg.”

“A nice poached egg,” Albert muttered. He felt vile, he felt vicious. He had never been physically weaker in his life, and yet he had never felt before such violent desires to wreck furniture, shout, create havoc, beat people up. If only Mr. Clement had been here now, Albert would have told him what was what in jig time. He’d never been so mean.

Nor so weak. He could barely lift the phone book, and turning the pages was a real chore. Then, of course, he looked it up in the wrong place first; under “P” for “Post Office.” Finding the number eventually in one of the subheadings under “US GOVT,” Albert dialed it and said to the person who answered, “Let me talk to Tom, please.”

“Tom who?”

“How do I know? Tom!”

“Mister, we got three Toms here. You want Tom Skylzowsky, you want—”

“Tom!” cried Albert. “At the General Delivery window!”

“Oh, you mean Tom Kennebunk. Hold on a minute.”

Albert held on three minutes. At intervals he said, “Hello?” but received no answer. He thought of hanging up and dialing again, but he could hear voices in the background, which meant the receiver was still off the hook at the other end, which probably meant if he broke the connection and dialed again he’d get a busy signal.

His impatience was ultimately rewarded by the sound of Tom the Postal Clerk’s voice saying, “Hello? You want me?”

“Hello, there, Tom,” said Albert, striving for joviality. “It’s me, Mr. White. Albert White, you know.”

“Oh, yeah!” How are ya, Mr. White?”

“Well, that’s just it, Tom, I’m not very good. As a matter of fact, I’ve been sick in bed all weekend, and—”

“Gee, that’s too bad, Mr. White. That’s what you were coming down with last week, I bet.”

“Yes, it is. I was—”

“I knew it when I saw you. You remember? I said how you looked awful rheumy around the eyes, remember?”

“Well, you were right, Tom,” said Albert, keeping a tight lid on his impatience. “But what I’m calling you about,” he said, rushing on before Tom the Postal Clerk could produce any more medical reminiscences, “is the letter you’ve got for me.”

“Let’s see,” said Tom the Postal Clerk. “Hold on.” And before Albert could stop him, he’d klunked the phone down on a table somewhere and gone away.

As Albert sat in impotent rage, waiting for Tom the Chipper Moron to return, Elizabeth appeared with a steaming cup of tea, saying, “Drink this, dear. It’ll help keep your strength up.” She set it on the phone table and then just stood there, hands folded over her apron. Hesitantly, she said, “This must be awfully important.”

It occurred to Albert then that sooner of later he was going to have to explain all this to Elizabeth. What the explanation would be he had as yet no idea; he only hoped it would occur to him before he had to use it. In the meantime, a somewhat more pleasant attitude on his part might serve as an adequate substitute. He fixed his features into an approximation of a smile, looked up and said, “Well you know, it’s business. Something I had to get done to day. How’s the poached egg coming?”

“Be ready in just a minute,” she said, and went on back to the kitchen.

Tom the Postal Clerk returned a minute later, saying “Yep, you’ve got a letter, Mr. White. From you-know-who.”

“Tom,” said Albert, “now, listen carefully. I’m sick today, but I hope to be better by tomorrow. Hold on to the letter. Don’t send it to Bob Harrington.”

“Just a sec, Mr. White.”

“Tom—!”

But he was gone again.

Elizabeth came in and pantomimed that the poached egg was ready, Albert nodded and made his smile face and waved his hand for Elizabeth to go away, and Tom the Postal Clerk came back once more, saying, “Say, there, Mr. White, we’ve had this letter since last Thuesday.”

Elizabeth was still standing there. Albert said into the phone, “I’ll be up and around in just a day or two.” He waved violently for Elizabeth to go away.

“You better call Mr. Harrington,” suggested Tom the Postal Clerk. “Tell him to send it out again as soon as it comes back.”

“Tom, hold it for me!”

“I can’t do that, Mr. White. You remember, we talked about that once. You said yourself we should definitely send it back if you didn’t pick it up in the five days.”

“But I’m sick!” cried Albert. Elizabeth persisted in standing there, looking concerned for Albert’s well-being when in point of obvious fact she was crazy to know what this phone call was all about.

Tom the Postal Clerk, with infuriating calm, said, “Mr. White, if you’re sick you shouldn’t be doing any undercover work anyway. Except under the bedcovers, eh? He he.”

“Tom, you know me! You can recognize my voice, can’t you?”

“Well, sure, Mr. White.”

“The letter’s addressed to me, isn’t it?”

“Mr. White, Postal Regulations say—”

“Oh, damn Postal Regulations!”

Elizabeth looked shocked. The silence of Tom the Postal Clerk sounded shocked. Albert himself was a little shocked. He said, “I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean that, I’m a little upset and being sick and all—”

“It isn’t the end of the world, Mr. White,” Tom the Postal Clerk said, now obviously trying to help. “Mr. Harrington isn’t going to fire you or anything, not if you’re sick.”

Albert, with a new idea created by Elizabeth’s unending presence directly in front of him, said, “Tom, listen. Tom, I’m going to send my wife down to get the letter.” It meant telling Elizabeth the truth, or at least an abridged version of the truth, but it could no longer be helped. “I’ll have her bring identification from me, my driver’s license or a note to you or something, and—”

“It just can’t be done, Mr. White. Don’t you remember, you told me that yourself, I should never give one of these letters to anybody but you in person, no matter what phone calls I got or anything like that.”

Albert did remember that, damn it. But this was different! He said, “Tom, please. You don’t understand.”

“Mr. White, now, you made me give you my word—”

“Oh, shut up!” cried Albert, finally admitting to himself that he wasn’t going to get anywhere, and slammed the phone into its cradle.

Elizabeth said, “Albert, what is this? I’ve never seen you act this way, not in all your life.”

“Don’t bother me now,” said Albert grimly. “Just don’t bother me now.” He leafed through the phone book again, found the number of the Monequois Herald-Statesman, dialed it, and asked to speak to Bob Harrington. The switchboard girl said, “One moment, puh-leez.”

In that moment Albert visualized how the conversation would go. He would tell a crusading reporter that a letter he had never mailed was going to be returned to him and would he please not open it? This, to a crusading reporter? Ask someone like Bob Harrington not to open a letter which has come to him via the most unusual and mysterious of methods? It would be like throwing a raw steak into a lion’s cage and asking the lion please not to eat it.

Before the moment was up, Albert had cradled the receiver.

He shook his head sadly, back and forth. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Elizabeth said, “Shall I call Dr. Francis?”

Dr. Francis had been called on Friday, had prescribed over the phone, and had himself called the pharmacy to tell them what to deliver to the White household. It had been said, with some justice, that Dr. Francis wouldn’t make a house call if the patient were his own wife. But Albert, suddenly aflame with a new idea, cried, “Yes! Call him! Tell him to get over here right away, it’s an emergency! In the meantime,” he added, more quietly, “I’ll eat my poached egg.”

Dr. Francis arrived about two that afternoon, shucked out of his sopping raincoat — it was the worst rainstorm of the spring season thus far — and said, in a disgruntled manner, “All right, let’s see this emergency.”

Albert had remained on the first floor, reclining on the living-room sofa and covered with blankets. Now he propped himself up and called, “Me, Doctor! In here!”

Dr. Francis came in and said, “You’re a virus, aren’t you? I prescribed for you last Friday.”

“Doctor,” said Albert urgently, “I absolutely have to go to the Post Office today. It’s vital, a matter of life and death. I want you to give me something, a shot, whatever it is you do, something that will keep me going just long enough to get to the Post Office.”

Dr. Frances frowned and said, “What’s this?”

“I have to get there.”

“You’ve been watching those TV spy thrillers,” Dr. Francis told him. “There’s no such thing as what you want. When you’re sick, you’re sick. Take the medicine I prescribed, stay in bed, you might be on your feet by the end of the week.”

“But I’ve got to go there today!”

“Send your wife.”

“YAAAAAHHHHHH!”

It was nothing but fury and frustration that kept Albert moving then. He came up off the sofa in a flurry of blankets, staggered out to the front hall, dragged his topcoat from the closet and put it on over his pajamas, slammed a hat on his head — he was wearing slipper socks on his feel — and headed for the front door. Elizabeth and Dr. Francis were both shouting things at him, but he didn’t hear a word they said.

Two steps down the walk, Albert’s slipper socks skidded on the wet pavement, his feet went out from under him, down he went in a flailing of arms and legs, and that’s how he broke his collarbone

Elizabeth and Dr. Francis carried him up to his bed. And there, after Dr. Francis taped him, he stayed, silent and grouchy and mad at the world.

He was still there Wednesday afternoon when the phone rang and Elizabeth came to the door, an odd expression on her face, and said, “It’s Mr. Clement, dear.”

Fatalistically, Albert picked up the bedside phone, put it to his head and said, “Hello?”

Mr. Clement’s voice grated on Albert’s eardrum: “My plane leaves in a minute, you little sneak, but I wanted to talk to you first. I wanted you to know we’re not done, you and I. I’ll be back. I’ll be back.”

Click.

Albert hung up.

Elizabeth, still in the doorway, asked, “Dear?”

Albert opened his mouth. What to tell her? How to tell her? It was ail so troubled and complicated.

“Dear? Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he said. And then, in a burst of irritation, “Can’t you leave me alone? I’ve lost my job!”