"Sit down," Mrs. Dougherty said. "How do you like your coffee?"
"Well, ma'am, I usually have it black with three sugars." He chuckled and said, "My mother says I get my sweet tooth from my father. He died in a train accident when I was only seven."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Mrs. Dougherty said, bringing a clean cup to the table and then pouring it full to the brim with coffee.
"Well, 1 hardly remember him."
"Here's the sugar," she said, and moved the bowl toward him. She sat at the table opposite him, picking up a piece of toast she had bitten into before answering the door. Remembering her guest, she said, "Would you like some toast?"
"No, thank you, ma'am."
"Are you sure?"
"Well . . ."
"I'll make you some," she said, and rose and went to the counter near the sink where she took a slice of bread from its waxed wrapper and put it into the toaster. "Or would you like two slices?" she said.
He shrugged and smiled and said, "I guess I could eat two, ma'am."
"A healthy appetite's nothing to be ashamed of," she said, and put another slice of bread into the toaster. "Now," she said, and came back to the table. "You were telling me why you were here in the city."
"Oh, to sell our wares, ma'am."
"What wares?"
"We've got a woodworking shop, just a small one, you know."
"Who's we?"
"Oh, me and my brother."
"Where's that?"
"Up in Carey, do you know it?"
"I don't think so."
"It's just a small town. Huddleston is the nearest big town, I suppose.
"Oh, yes, Huddleston," Mrs. Dougherty said.
"There's skiing up there, if you ski."
Mrs. Dougherty laughed. "No, no, I don't ski," she said, and sipped at her coffee and then put down the cup and jumped up when she heard the toaster click. She brought the two slices of bread to the table, and moved the butter dish and the marmalade pot toward him. She sat again. As he buttered his toast, she said, "What do you make in your shop, Mr. Broome?"
"All sorts of woodenware."
"Furniture?"
"Well, not really, We make benches and end tables, stuff like that, but nothing really big. Mostly, we do salad bowls and cutting boards and wooden utensils, you know, small things. Also, my brother does some carving."
"That sounds very nice," Mrs. Dougherty said. "And you bring it into the city to sell, is that it?"
"We sell it up there, too," he said, "but not really enough to keep us going, you know. During the summer, it's not so bad because there're a lot of people up that way looking for antiques, and we get some of them stop by the shop, you know. But in the winter, it's mostly skiers up that way, and only time they'll stop in is if it's a rainy day and they can't ski. So I try to get in the city three, four times a year, mostly during the winter months." He paused. "First time I ever been here in February."
"Is that right?" she said.
"That's a fact, ma'am," he said.
"How do you like it?"
"Well, it's sure cold enough," he said, and laughed. He bit into the toast, completely relaxed, and then lifted his coffee cup and said, "Say, what time is it anyway?"
"A little bit past eight," she said.
"I guess I overslept," he said, and laughed.
He wondered if he should ask her about the police station.
"What time do you usually get up?"
"Back home? In Carey, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Well, my mother's up and bustling around the kitchen pretty early, you know. My father used to be a railroad man, and he had an early run, so she's used to getting up early, I guess she's puttering around out there at five, five-thirty every morning. My kid brother's a light sleeper and we share a bedroom, you know, we've just got this small little house there, not much more than a shack really, so when she starts puttering around and he starts stirring, well you just might as well get up yourself, that's all," he said, and began laughing again.
"You've got a good hearty laugh," Mrs. Dougherty said. "Most big men have that kind of laugh."
"That a fact?"
"That's been my observation," she said.
He thought this might be a good time to ask her about the police station, but he didn't want to get her upset or anything, so he lifted his coffee cup and sipped at it, and smacked his lips, and then bit into the second slice of toast.
"I want to pay you for last night." he said, "I only paid you for one night in advance, you know."
"That's right," Mrs. Dougherty said. He began reaching into his pocket for his wallet, and she quickly said, "well, finish your coffee first, Mr. Broome. There's nobody chasing you for the money."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and smiled and took another bite of the toast.
"How old are you, Mr. Broome?" she said. "Do you mind my asking?"
"Not at all, ma'am. I'll be twenty-seven in May. May the twelfth."
"I figured about that. How old is your brother?"
"Twenty-two." He paused. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, you know," he said.
"Isn't anyone going to send me a valentine."
"You never can tell, Mrs. Dougherty," he said. "I'm going out to buy my mother one right this minute, soon as I leave here."
"That's very nice," Mrs. Dougherty said. She paused, and then smiled weakly, and then said, "We never had any children."
"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am."
She nodded. He finished his coffee and then reached into his wallet and handed her a five-dollar bill. "I'll get you your change," she said.
He stood alongside the table while she went into the other room for her handbag. He decided not to ask her where the police station was. He didn't want to upset her, especially now that she seemed to be upset already about not having any children who could send her a valentine the way he was going to send his mother one. He wondered if his mother would get it in time. He supposed she would. If he bought it first thing, even before he went to the police station, and mailed it right away, he was sure she'd get it by tomorrow morning.
"Here you are, Mr. Broome," she said, and came back into the kitchen. He took the dollar bill, tucked it into his wallet, and then put on his overcoat. "When you come to the city again, I hope you'll be back for a room," she said.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I will," he said.
"You're a fine gentleman," she said.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, embarrassed.
"In this neighborhood..." she started, and then closed her mouth and shook her head.
"I'll be back later to pack," he said.
"Take your time," she said.
"Well, I have a few errands to do, actually."
'Take your time," she said again, and walked him to the door.
The drugstore was on the comer of Ainsley Avenue and North Eleventh Street. A lunch counter ran along the left-hand side of the store. The remainder of the place was given over to drugs and sundries. A rack of paperback books, their titles and covers screaming for attention, stood before a row of hot-water bottles. Beyond that, and somewhat apart from the heap of combs and syringes behind it, was a rack of greeting cards. He walked past the books something called HOW TO DO IT ON AIRPLANES caught his eye and directly to the greeting cards. An assorted array of birthday cards was spread out on the rack Birthday Son, Birthday Daughter, Mother, Father, Brother, Sister, Grandfather, Grandmother, and Miscellaneous Relatives. He scanned them quickly, glanced briefly at Condolences, Anniversary, and Birth and finally came to the section devoted exclusively to valentines. More and more of the cards each year were comical. He didn't care much for that kind of card. Most of them, matter of fact, he didn't get the humor of. He looked down the row of labels at the top of the rack, and saw that these cards were classified, too, almost the way the birthday cards had been. There were cards for Sweetheart, Wife, Husband, Mother, Father; he didn't bother going down the rest of the row because what he was interested in was a card for his mother. He looked at two or three of them, and then found a nice card with a real satin heart on the front of it, and pink ribbons trailing from the heart, and the word Mother in delicate gold script across the top of the card. He opened it and started to read the little poem inside. Sometimes, you found a nice-looking card but the words were all wrong. You had to be careful.