"I got this in New Hope," she said. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."
"Christmas isn't until next week, honey," he said.
"I know, but I wish you'd open it now."
"Shouldn't I wait?"
"Open it, Daddy. Please."
He nodded. Carefully, he slid the bow off the package, and then unwrapped it. It was an address book, black leather, his initials in gold on the cover, J.W.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes, very much."
He knew he should have had the ring to give to her now, knew that this was a very private and personal moment to Amy, this offering of her gift in a taxi speeding to her mother's apartment. He had nothing to offer her in return. He had forgotten to buy the ring, and so he sat and stared at the leather address book with his initials on the cover, J.W., and wondered what he could say, wondered how he could begin to make her understand that he had really intended to have a present for her, to meet her with it at the station, but instead had become involved the moment he got back to the office. Surely she would understand. Surely she would realize that Christmas was still more than a week away, there was still time, wasn't there? Wasn't there still time?
"There's something nice I plan on getting you," he said, and patted her hand.
"Oh, sure, it can wait," Amy said.
"I'll get it to you before Christmas," he said, "don't you worry."
"Oh, sure," Amy said, and was silent. Then, unexpectedly, she shrugged and said, "Christmas is all craparoo, anyway."
He did not call his uncle until eleven o'clock.
He did not know why he was calling, unless it was because he and Ebie were leaving for Vermont in the morning, and Vermont was more distant from Fort Lauderdale than New York City. His uncle's voice was just as he remembered it, gravelly, with a hint of a brogue; he recalled in a rush the living room on West End Avenue, the Chickering piano, his uncle's pink shirts.
"Hello, Uncle Benny," he said, "this is Jimmy."
"Jimmy? Jimbo? Where are you, Jimbo? Are you in Florida?"
"No, no, I'm in New York."
"Hey, Vera, it's my nephew," Uncle Benny shouted. "Hey, how are you, Jimbo?"
"I'm fine, Uncle Benny."
"Good, good. Vera," he shouted, "it's my nephew!" To Driscoll, he said, "She's upstairs in bed, Jimbo, hasn't been feeling too well."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Well, it's nothing serious, just a little cold."
"A little cold is what we have in Fort Knox," Driscoll said, and smiled.
"No, that's a little gold," Uncle Benny answered. "What you're thinking of, lad, is a tiny creature in a monster movie."
"No, that's a little ghoul," Driscoll said. "I hate to correct you, Uncle Benny, but I think you mean a small measure of unmitigated nerve."
"Unmitigated nerve?"
"That's right."
"A little gall!" Uncle Benny shouted, and burst out laughing. "Ahhh, Jimmy, Jimmy, it's good to hear your voice. How are you, boy? How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"And Ebie?"
"Fine. Fine."
"When does the trial start? Is that why you're in New York?"
"Well, yes, but it ended today, Uncle Benny."
"It did? Did you win?"
"I think so. Yes, I think so."
There was a silence on the line.
"What's the matter, Jimmy?" his uncle asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Why are you calling me at eleven o'clock at night?"
"I just wanted to talk to you, Uncle Benny."
"What about?"
"I just wanted to talk to you."
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no, I just felt I had to talk to someone I… someone who…"
"Isn't Ebie there?"
"Yes, she's upstairs. In the room. Upstairs."
"I see," Uncle Benny said, and was silent.
Wise old Uncle Benny, he thought, and listened to the crackling silence on the line, the seconds ticking away.
"Uncle Benny," he said at last
"Yes, Jimmy?"
"I don't know what to do."
"About what?"
"Uncle Benny?"
"Yes?"
"Uncle Benny?"
"Yes, boy, what is it? What is it, Jimbo?"
"Help me."
"How?"
"Help me, Uncle Benny."
"Is it Ebie?"
He nodded, and then realized his uncle could not see him. Very quietly, he said, "Yes, it's Ebie."
"What about her?"
He could not tell him. He sat in the phone booth in the lobby of the hotel, and looked at the receiver clutched tightly in his hand, and could not tell his uncle. The silence lengthened.
"Jimmy?" his uncle said.
"Yes, Uncle Benny."
"Jimmy, whatever it is…"
"Yes?"
"Face it. Face it, and it'll vanish."
"Vanish is when you kick somebody out of the kingdom," Driscoll said, and tried a smile.
"No, that's banish," Uncle Benny said automatically, but there was no humor in his voice.
"No, banish are guys who wear masks and go around stealing," Driscoll answered.
"Jim," his uncle said, "don't play games."
"What?" Driscoll said.
"I think you heard me, Jim."
"Yes, but…"
"Do you understand me?"
"Uncle Benny, I called because…"
"Yes, I know why you called, Jim, now you listen to me, Jim. Where are you?"
"I'm down here. I'm in the lobby. Near the drugstore. Uncle Benny…"
"Now you listen to me, Jim, and don't play games, do you hear me? You go right upstairs, do you hear? You go right upstairs and you face whatever it is that's waiting for you there, you face it, Jim, now that's what I'm telling you."
"Yes."
"Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"All right, that's what you do."
"Yes."
"Good. I've got to go up to Vera now, I think I hear her calling me. Do you understand me, Jim?"
"Yes, Uncle Benny."
"Good. You keep in touch with me."
"Uncle Benny?"
"Yes?"
"Give my regards to Vera."
"I will."
"Uncle Benny?"
"Yes?"
"I… I hope she feels better."
"I'm sure she will. Good night, Jim."
"Good night, Uncle Benny."
There was a click on the line.
He stood holding the dead receiver, and then he looked at it in disbelief and slowly replaced it on the hook. Well, that was very helpful, he thought, who the hell called you to play games, Uncle Benny, would you mind telling me? That was really quite helpful, thank you very much, Uncle Benny, I'm certainly glad I called you all the way in Florida to listen to your homespun philosophy. Thank you very much, Uncle Benny, you've certainly set everything right with your words of wisdom, and as a matter of fact I happened to think the banish definition was very good indeed. The phone rang. He lifted the receiver.
"Yes?" he said.
"One moment for additional charges, sir," the operator said.
"Thanks," he said. Additional charges, he thought. That's exactly what I need for a call that I was crazy to make in the first place.
"That'll be thirty-five cents, sir," the operator said.
"Thank you," he said. He dug into his pocket, found a quarter and a dime, and deposited them in the box.
"Thank you, sir," the operator said.
"Sure," he said, and again hung up. He went out of the booth. Tomorrow morning they would leave for Vermont, back to the old hay, alfalfa, and oats, back to the farm he hated, the most insistent crop of which was rocks. What the hell was a city boy doing in Vermont, anyway, how far can you run? Face it, Uncle Benny had said, face it. Thank you, Uncle Benny. Thank you for all the good things if I seem ungrateful now for this singular piece of worthless advise.