Coley Borden was walking in the Christmas crowd, too. He looked ten years older than he’d looked on the night when he had written the full-page editorial that had ended his newspaper career and was still reverberating in the Sister Cities. But there was the same sardonic humor about him, and a hint somewhere of his subtle human understanding, his love of his fellows.
Persons in the throng who bumped him, if they troubled to look at him, also troubled to say,
“Sorry.” Not because of his age but because he looked like such a nice little guy.
He was on his way to get the only Christmas present he intended to give: something for Mrs. Slant, his housekeeper. What she needed, he reflected, thinking warmly of the good care she gave him, was Covermark for her wine-colored birthmark and a little plastic surgery for her wens. What he was going to get was a wrist watch. She’d said, months before, sighing as she picked up a dust mop and went to work on Coley’s study, “I do wish I had one of those newfangled wrist watches. Be so downright handy.”
He had remembered.
The best jewelry store was Wesson’s and he was going to get the watch at the best store.
No diamonds—but a good watch.
It had been a long trolley ride from Edgeplains and it was a long walk across town from the trolley line. On the way, he passed the Court Avenue entrance of the Transcript Tower and he stepped inside it, briefly, full of such recollections that he knew he should hurry on, before one of the boys came by and caught him red-eyed. It was worse than being caught red-handed, Coley thought.
He felt an arm on his shoulder just then and he heard a familiar voice:
“Hello, boss. Somebody tell you?”
Coley smiled and raised his head and there was Payton, the city editor, grinning, but looking odd, too. “Tell me what?”
“Thought that was why you’d come down here.” Payton glanced apprehensively at the streaming people and lowered his voice: “The whole country’s under air blitz, Coley. They’re holding it back here, to prevent panic, in the belief this area is not on the target list.”
“What is this?” Coley asked softly, “April Fool?”
“It’s it,” Payton answered. “You should know!”
Coley stepped back till he felt the firm stones of the skyscraper against his shoulders.
“God help us!” he whispered. “God help us all.” Then he snapped, “What’s the Transcript doing about it?”
“Standing by—for the story.”
“That maybe it’ll never print! Where you going?”
“Out to CD headquarters. Vilmer just ordered me there.”
“Well, get on, son. Don’t waste time with a broken-down old prophet!” Payton grinned, patted his former boss on the arm, and hurried into the crowds.
Coley stood awhile, without moving. Perhaps he was thinking. Perhaps he was merely summoning the strength to get going again.
He entered the building, finally. He took an elevator to the top. When he stepped out, the smell was familiar, the sounds were remembered and fond; the look of the place was home itself.