Each night, when they closed up, Dominic would say, “Nothing yet,” and knock on wood.
Then, on the fourth day, Charley, the locker-room man, came looking for him. “Dominic wants to see you in his office,” Charley said. “Right away.”
Thomas went directly to Dominic’s office. Dominic was sitting behind his desk, counting out ninety dollars in ten-dollar bills. He looked up sadly as Thomas came into the office. “Here’s your two weeks’ pay, kid,” he said. “You’re through as of now. There was a committee meeting this afternoon.”
Thomas put the money in his pocket. And I hoped it was going to last at least a year, he thought.
“You should’ve let me get that last punch in, Dom,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Dominic, “I should’ve.”
“Are you going to get into trouble, too?”
“Probably. Take care of yourself,” Dominic said. “Just remember one thing—never trust the rich.”
They shook hands. Thomas went out of the office to get his things out of the locker and went out of the building without saying good-bye to anyone.
Chapter 4
1954
He woke exactly at a quarter to seven. He never set the alarm. There was no need to.
The usual erection. Forget it. He lay quietly in bed for a minute or two. His mother was snoring in the next room. The curtains at the open window were blowing a little and it was cold in the room. A pale winter light came through the curtains, making a long, dark blur of the books on the shelves across from the bed.
This was not going to be an ordinary day. At closing the night before he had gone into Calderwood’s office and laid the thick Manila envelope on Calderwood’s desk. “I’d like you to read this,” he said to the old man, “when you find the time.”
Calderwood eyed the envelope suspiciously. “What’s in there?” he asked, pushing gingerly at the envelope with one blunt finger.
“It’s complicated,” Rudolph said. “I’d rather we didn’t discuss it until you’ve read it.”
“This another of your crazy ideas?” Calderwood asked. The bulk of the envelope seemed to anger him. “Are you pushing me again?”
“Uhuh,” Rudolph said, and smiled.
“Do you know, young man,” Calderwood said, “my cholesterol count has gone up appreciably since I hired you? Way up.”
“Mrs. Calderwood keeps asking me to try to make you take a vacation.”
“Does she, now?” Calderwood snorted. “What she doesn’t know is that I wouldn’t leave you alone in this store for ten consecutive minutes. Tell her that the next time she tells you to try to make me take a vacation.” But he had carried the thick envelope, unopened, home with him, when he left the store the night before. Once he started reading what was in it, Rudolph was sure he wouldn’t stop until he had finished.
He lay still under the covers in the cold room, almost deciding not to get up promptly this morning, but lie there and figure out what to say to the old man when he came into his office. Then he thought, the hell with it, play it cool, pretend it’s just another morning.
He threw back the covers, crossed the room quickly and closed the window. He tried not to shiver as he took off his pajamas and pulled on his heavy track suit. He put on a pair of woolen socks and thick, gum-soled tennis shoes. He put a plaid mackinaw on over the track suit and went out of the apartment, closing the door softly so as not to wake his mother.
Downstairs, in front of the house, Quentin McGovern was waiting for him. Quentin was also wearing a track suit. Over it he had a bulky sweater. A wool stocking hat was pulled down over his ears. Quentin was fourteen, the oldest son of the Negro family across the street. They ran together every morning.
“Hi, Quent,” Rudolph said.
“Hi, Rudy,” said Quentin. “Sure is cold. Mornings like this, my mother thinks we’re out of our minds.”
“She’ll sing a different tune when you bring home a gold medal from the Olympics.”
“I bet,” Quentin said. “I can just hear her now.”
They walked quickly around the corner. Rudolph unlocked the door of the garage where he rented space, and went to the motorcycle. Dimly, at the back of his mind, a memory lurked. Another door, another dark space, another machine. The shell in the warehouse, the smell of the river, his father’s ropy arms.
Then he was back in Whitby again, with the boy in the track suit, in another place, with no river. He rolled out the motorcycle. He pulled on a pair of old wool-lined gloves and swung onto the machine and started the motor. Quentin got on the pillion and put his arms around him and they sped down the street, the cold wind making their eyes tear.
It was only a few minutes to the university ahtletic field. Whitby College was Whitby University now. The field was not enclosed but had a group of wooden stands along one side. Rudolph set up the motorcycle beside the stands and threw his mackinaw over the saddle of the machine. “Better take off your sweater,” he said. “For later. You don’t want to catch cold on the way back.”
Quentin looked over the field. A thin, icy mist was ghosting up from the turf. He shivered. “Maybe my mother is right,” he said. But he took off his sweater and they began jogging slowly around the cinder track.
While he was going to college, Rudolph had never had time to go out for the track team. It amused him that now, as a busy young executive, he had time to run half an hour a day, six days a week. He did it for the exercise and to keep himself hard, but he also enjoyed the early morning quiet, the smell of turf, the sense of changing seasons, the pounding of his feet on the hard track. He had started doing it alone, but one morning Quentin had been standing outside the house in his track suit and had said, “Mr. Jordache, I see you going off to work out every day. Do you mind if I tag along?” Rudolph had nearly said no to the boy. He liked being alone that early in the morning, surrounded as he was all day by people at the store. But Quentin had said, “I’m on the high-school squad. The four-forty. If I know I got to run seriously every morning, it’s just got to help my time. You don’t have to tell me anything, Mr. Jordache, just let me run along with you.” He spoke shyly, softly, not asking for secrets, and Rudolph could see that he had had to screw up his courage to make a request like that of a grown-up white man who had only said hello to him once or twice in his life. Also, Quentin’s father worked on a delivery truck at the store. Labor relations, Rudolph thought. Keep the working man happy. All democrats together. “Okay,” he said. “Come on.”
The boy had smiled nervously and swung along down the street beside Rudolph to the garage.
They jogged around the track twice, warming up, then broke into a sprint for a hundred yards, then jogged once more, then went fast for the two twenty, then jogged twice around the track and went the four-forty at almost full speed. Quentin was a lanky boy with long, skinny legs and a nice, smooth motion. It was good to have him along, since he pushed Rudolph to run harder than he would have alone. They finished by jogging twice more around the track, and finally, sweating, threw on their overclothes and drove back through the awakening town to their street.
“See you in the morning, Quent,” Rudolph said as he parked the motorcycle along the curb.
“Thanks,” Quentin said. “Tomorrow.”
Rudolph waved and went into the house, liking the boy. They had conquered normal human sloth together on a cold winter’s morning, had tested themselves together against weather, speed, and time. When the summer holidays came, he would find some sort of job for the boy at the store. He was sure Quentin’s family could use the money.