A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

I felt a sadness for the place. Still bustling and alive, the South End seemed determined to live its last months with as much normalcy as its residents could muster. I stashed my camera and sat down in Mirabile’s Restaurant on Daniel Street near Public Market Square. The lunchtime crowd was in full force, and I wondered where these people would go for their spaghetti and meatballs once the block was demolished. I ordered some ravioli and Chianti to toast a farewell.

I almost missed my appointment with the Little Titans, but I managed to snap a few frames of Tri-X of a young boy and his father. Both were wearing purple jerseys. The father’s was faded, its white numbers cracking and peeling, the result of harsh detergent, passing years, and an ever-expanding belly that tested the limits of the fabric’s elasticity. But it made for a good father-son photo.

I stopped at the office and rapped out a one-paragraph masterpiece on the football physicals. Then I labeled my film for the lab and wrote the caption, “Titans, Big and Small, Ready for Season.” Feeling satisfied, I made for the exit, but Norma intercepted me on the way.

“I’ve gone through the list of Robinsons once,” she said. “I managed to reach forty-two of them. I won’t bore you with the details, but no luck so far. The others didn’t answer, so I’ll have to try again later.”

I asked myself how I might manage without her. She’d dialed about a hundred numbers and tricked forty-two of them into answering a phony question about horse racing. The answer, by the way, was Citation. The last horse to win the Triple Crown. God, if I spent any more time with Fadge, I was going to end up like one of those track rats.

“There was one interesting call I should mention,” she said, interrupting my musings. “A man at Robinson’s High Life Tavern in Saratoga.”

“Oh, my. I forgot to tell you I’d already spoken to him.”

“He remembered you. Didn’t know your name, though. Now I suppose he thinks you’re with WPTR.”

“Did he answer your question?”

She nodded. “And then some. He sounded a little suspicious that two ladies were asking him about Johnny Dornan in as many days.”

“Any new information?”

“Just that he expected me to mail him the prize for knowing the answer.”

“Well, is he getting it?”

“He caught me off guard. I said of course we’d be sending a ten-dollar gift certificate for dance lessons at Arthur Murray’s.”

I laughed. “Okay. Can you make the arrangements? I’ll get Charlie to sign off on the expense and deliver the certificate myself.”

Mrs. Whitcomb was waiting for me on the patio at four o’clock sharp. She greeted me warmly, again with the kindly smile, and invited me to have a seat. A waiter glided up to our table and poured me some tea from the silver service. It was dangerously close to 5:00 p.m., and I would have preferred something stronger. I reminded myself that I needed my wits about me if I was to make a good impression on her. But in the next instant, I was asking myself why I needed to make an impression on her, good or otherwise. Sure, I had spent the night with her athletic son, and had a big date with him for the gala fundraiser on Saturday. But so what? Was I expecting the wedding of the season—one to rival Audrey and Harrison Shaw’s—to come out of it? There was no reason to expect that Georgina Whitcomb would ever know about my hours of passion in her darling Freddie’s arms.

“Are you all right, Miss Stone?” she asked, rousing me from my internal debate. “You seem distracted.”

“Please pardon my rudeness,” I said. “I was trying to remember the questions I’d prepared for you.”

“Never mind those, Eleonora. I may call you that, I hope. Lately I find myself wanting to call all young people by their given names. It’s a privilege that comes with age.”

“By all means. Or you can call me Ellie, if you prefer, Mrs. Whitcomb.”

Yes, I realized that the privilege was a one-way street. She could call me by name all she wanted, as she might a dog. But I was sticking to formality in return.

“Let’s have a nice visit and a little nourishment. I’m sure our conversation will give you all you need for your article.”

A second waiter rolled up with a cart overflowing with sandwiches, scones, preserves, and clotted cream. I deferred to my hostess, who indicated her selections with her index finger. I wasn’t hungry but chose a square of lemon cake to be polite.

The small talk that ensued was entertaining enough. Mrs. Whitcomb had wit and charm to burn, but I remained on edge. I tried to ingratiate myself to her by stating my intention to donate twenty-five dollars to the fundraiser. What was I thinking? She smiled but said nothing. At length she noticed a young couple a few tables away suffering through an awkward date and regaled me with a story from her youth.

“I came out in twenty-two, Ellie. And the very next summer my mother wanted to make a match for me. She had someone all picked out. His name was Jonathan. I wasn’t about to be trundled off at seventeen to marry some tongue-tied boy from Hotchkiss. I wanted to go to college and see a little of the world, too. What girl doesn’t want that?”

“Indeed,” I said and immediately wondered who I had become. Indeed?

“The boy in question was the friend of a friend of my brother’s. I managed to get word to him, and what do you know but he had no interest in me either. He had a girl he wanted to marry. So we hatched a plot. We would agree to our parents’ request and meet for tea, much as those two over there are doing.”

“Did you end up marrying him?” I asked.

“Patience, my dear Ellie, patience. Together, Jonathan and I both agreed to nix the