Back at his desk he thought about Grant McKay. Before the First World War he had been one of the brightest newspapermen in the city. Now he was a soon-to-be-pensioned hack who spent his working day answering letters from householders who wanted to get rid of silverfish, or re-prime septic tanks, or wished to know the amount of interest to be stuck for on a second mortgage.
When Walter took the editorship of the magazine in 1954 he had quickly made friends with the old man. During the first summer he and Brenda had entertained Grant and his wife Edna a few times at their house. Mrs. McKay, who was a semi-invalid with a kidney ailment, had enjoyed these visits very much. She used to sit in the Fowler front room gazing fondly through the picture window at the children playing in the street. His boys, Walter Jr. and Terry, had soon sensed the old lady’s need of them, and young Walter used to save the things he made in kindergarten to show her, while young Terry had climbed on her lap and chattered away to her for hours on end. Walter had taught them to call her “Grandma,” and she had been very pleased with this.
Then one day Brenda had said to him, “I hope you’re not going to invite the McKays up here for Sunday dinner again this week.”
“Why?” he had demanded.
“Corinne Adams and Bill are going to drop over, that’s all.”
“But I’ve already invited them.”
“You had no right to without first asking me,” she said petulantly.
He had said, “But it’s such a treat for them to come here, especially for Edna who’s stuck in their little flat all day. What are the Adamses coming across the road for, has Corinne got a new outfit to show off, or is Bill going to bend my ear for hours talking about his summer cottage and new motorboat!”
“They’re coming because they’re my friends, and I’ve invited them. And besides, Bill Adams has a good position at City Hall, and you never know when a friend like that will be useful.”
He had really exploded then. “I don’t need any little petit bourgeois clerk like that to do me any favours,” he said. “That’s the criterion of friendship in this overpriced slum! Only have friends who can fix your parking tickets, get you something wholesale, elevate you to the street’s socially acceptable clique! To hell with it, to hell with Adams, and to hell with your stupid and rotten little manoeuvres! Go on, get your hair set, buy a pre-baked pie at the supermarket, get a five-buck bottle of rye, and have your so-called friends over for dinner. But leave me out of your plans!”
“They’re coming anyway, and I don’t want the McKays.”
On Sunday morning Walter emptied half of the expensive liquor (it was Scotch, which he loathed) into another bottle, and drove down to the house where the McKays lived. Edna McKay was dressed and waiting for him when he arrived.
“Look, Mrs. McKay, I can’t take you up to my place today,” he said. “Brenda isn’t feeling well and she’s gone to bed. I thought maybe we could have a drink or two and then go out into the country for a drive. The trees are starting to turn, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy a drive for a change.”
Both the old people had agreed, but Walter knew they hadn’t swallowed his lie. He had carried the old lady out to the car, and they had gone for a long drive through the autumn countryside.
On the way back to the city he had stopped and bought them dinner at a well-known highway restaurant. After dropping them off he had driven through the downtown streets where he had lived as a boy, looking up old landmarks and the addresses where he had once lived. It had been a fairly good residential neighbourhood in those days, but now it was getting semi-slummy and sleazy-looking. It depressed him, so he had driven out to the west end of the city, parked the car, and stood on the platform of a railroad station and watched the trains.
A long manifest freight had pulled west through the station, and he had read the old familiar names of the railroads on the sides of the boxcars, living for a few moments back in the depression days when he had hoboed around the continent like thousands of his generation. Missouri Pacific, KATY, Frisco Lines, C.P.R., Burlington “The Route of the Zephyrs,” “Ship on the Blue Streak,” Canadian National, Wabash, Lehigh Valley, “The Route of Phoebe Snow.”
It was late when he let himself into his darkened house, staring balefully at the empty glasses and the half-eaten plates of sandwiches lying around the living room. In the kitchen he found one shot left in the bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a drink. The slogan on the bottom of an insurance company calendar caught his eye. “What are you doing for your family’s future?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I’m holding down a crummy job to feed, house, and clothe them, sticking with a wife who doesn’t love me, and trying to instill some basic truths and a sense of values into my kids, who don’t want to listen to me.” He lifted his drink to the eager smiling young couple on the calendar and gulped its contents down.
The McKays had not visited his house again, parrying his invitations with the excuse that Edna was too ill to go out. Two years later the Adamses lost their house across the road and moved away, and he never saw them again.
Jane entered the office with the letter to his lawyers. He read it over and signed it.
“Where’s the one to our friend Mr. Collins?” he asked.
“Did you really want me to type it? I figured you were just blowing off steam.”
He laughed. “You’re one in a million, Janey,” he said.
She picked up the letter he had signed. Then she said, “Bill Lawrence wants to know when you can go over the series on school construction with him?”
“This afternoon, after the conference.”
“Mr. Peele called up. He said he didn’t want to speak to you, but wanted to be sure you knew about the trade editors’ meeting this afternoon.”
“All right, Jane.”
“He said something about your editorial on building strikes and lock-outs in the last issue.”
Walter nodded. “Fine.”
Peele was the trade publications manager. What was up with him? Walter found himself making excuses already for the way he had treated the builders’ lock-outs in the editorial. Matheso-Corbett hid its real conservatism behind a small-l liberalism in Living, but this was not allowed to spill over into the trade publications.
Jane headed for the door, then stopped and turned in his direction. “There was another phone call a few minutes ago,” she said. “From a woman.”
“So, do you think I’m too old and fat to get phone calls from young women?” he asked.
“She wasn’t young and she sounded foreign, maybe German.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked the name of the editor.”
“Yes.”
“I gave her your name. Then she asked where you lived. I had to tell her you had moved yesterday and I didn’t know your new address, but it was on Adford Road.”
“What did she say then?”
Jane shrugged. “She just hung up.”
He laughed but there was annoyance showing behind his laughter. “That would be my landlady,” he said. “Checking on my credentials.”
“Was it all right to say what I did?”
“Sure, Jane. It was okay.”
He stepped to the large window and looked below him at the sun-drenched sidewalk across the street. There were several young men strolling along without topcoats. It would be good to walkin the sun again without a heavy coat. He jammed his hat on his head and left his office.
“I’m going to lunch, Jane,” he said.
“Right,