![]() "Who is he?" "It used to be a fellow named Mac-something-or-other-Macaulay, that's it. Mamma would raise hell if she found it out, but I'd like to see him." "Well?" "He's not where we used to live, on Riverside Drive, and he's not in the phone book or city directory." "Try his lawyer," I suggested. I asked her what she would have to drink, she said Scotch and soda, I ordered two of them and said: "No, I've been living in San Francisco." She said slowly: "I'd like to see him. Don't you ever see him?" My glass was empty. Mamma divorced him, you know, and we never hear from him-except when he gets in the newspapers now and then with some of his carrvings on. Listen: remember those stories you told me? Were they true?" "Probably not. You-" "Sure," I said, "and I remember you now, but you were only a kid of eleven or twelve then, weren't you?" "Yes, that was eight years ago. You don't remember me, but you ought to remember my father, Clyde Wynant. ![]() She was small and blonde, and whether you looked at her face or at her body in powder-blue sports clothes the result was satisfactory. I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |