and saw that story in the Times —it was just a paragraph, you know, about this radio entertainer going to run for mayor of some little ranch town—he yelled. Really. Right out loud. Jumped out of his chair and came running into the kitchen, flapping the paper, and threw his arms around me, and I swear I don't know whether he was laughing or crying."
There was a' long ash on Dave's cigarette. She poked among the litter on the counter, cuttlebone, plastic-wrapped dog toys, catnip mice, and found an oval milk-glass birdbath and pushed it at him. "Of course," she went on, "I'd long ago lost track of Fox. He just dropped out of sight when Doug was reported killed. He'd stayed on at the art school, you know, but he left after that. When Doug turned up alive in a prison camp at the end of the war, I tried to find Fox, but he wasn't in the phone book. The aunt who raised him, church organist, she was dead, come to find out. So that was where my search ended. Didn't have time to look for him right then. Mr. Sawyer was in the hospital and I had my hands full with the shop. . . ."
Her face set, abused. "Then, when Doug didn't come home, decided to stay on in Europe and take the occupation job the government offered him"—her mouth pinched up and there was an edge of spite honed on self-pity to her voice—"I guess I decided Fox didn't matter anymore. Any more than I mattered. Alone here."
Dave stubbed out the cigarette. "Doug didn't ask about Fox in his letters to you?"
"Only in the first one, is all." She forgot her hurt. The single blackbird eye was keen on Dave's face. "And I thought of that when he showed all the excitement here, about Fox in the paper. Seemed queer after twenty-odd years. Why . . . he didn't even sit down to supper. I'd fixed him ham and scalloped potatoes, dish he used to just drool over. No, sir. He threw a handful of clothes into an airline bag and jumped in that noisy car, and chased off up the coast to find Fox."
"But he came back?"
"Oh, yes. He was only gone a day." The coffee was drinkable now. She swallowed some. "He said Fox has made quite a little success. Married . . ." Small, crooked smile. "Imagine. All these years. Got a grown daughter, married herself now. Fox ... " She clucked disbelief. "He'll always be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen to me. Doug says he's losing his hair. He had so much . His aunt was always after him to get it cut. Asked me to back her up. I did, of course. But it seemed a shame. All that shaggy yellow hair. Pretty, I thought."
"Did Doug say he'd met Fox's wife?"
"Why ... " She chewed her lip. "No, come to think of it, he didn't." She drank again, frowning. "That's odd, isn't it?" The fond smile returned. "Can't imagine what kind of girl Fox would marry. Seems—well, impossible'." She laughed at herself. "But that's foolishness, of course. Why shouldn't he marry?"
"She's small, dark, slender." Dave tipped his head at the photo. "Like your son. He didn't marry?"
"Doug?" The smile, the little headshake regretted, apologized. "No. But he adopted a young French boy, war orphan. Jean-Paul Raideur. That's where Doug's interest in cars comes from. The boy was a mechanical—well, genius, I suppose you'd say. But Doug never cared about cars when he was that age. Oh, he and Fox had an awful old rattletrap they used to get to school in. But neither one of them could fix it when it broke down. And it broke down seems like every week or so. . . ." She laughed, recollecting. "But Jean-Paul . . . Doug housed and fed him and sent him through school. Then the army had an automotive training course and somehow Doug fixed things so he could be in that. Then, afterward, he bought him a car to race in. Cars. I think he broke every bone in his body one time or other. But he did win. I don't know how it works exactly, but if you win often you make all kinds of money. Then he was killed. Just about the time General de Gaulle shooed NATO out of France. All the same, I
There was a' long ash on Dave's cigarette. She poked among the litter on the counter, cuttlebone, plastic-wrapped dog toys, catnip mice, and found an oval milk-glass birdbath and pushed it at him. "Of course," she went on, "I'd long ago lost track of Fox. He just dropped out of sight when Doug was reported killed. He'd stayed on at the art school, you know, but he left after that. When Doug turned up alive in a prison camp at the end of the war, I tried to find Fox, but he wasn't in the phone book. The aunt who raised him, church organist, she was dead, come to find out. So that was where my search ended. Didn't have time to look for him right then. Mr. Sawyer was in the hospital and I had my hands full with the shop. . . ."
Her face set, abused. "Then, when Doug didn't come home, decided to stay on in Europe and take the occupation job the government offered him"—her mouth pinched up and there was an edge of spite honed on self-pity to her voice—"I guess I decided Fox didn't matter anymore. Any more than I mattered. Alone here."
Dave stubbed out the cigarette. "Doug didn't ask about Fox in his letters to you?"
"Only in the first one, is all." She forgot her hurt. The single blackbird eye was keen on Dave's face. "And I thought of that when he showed all the excitement here, about Fox in the paper. Seemed queer after twenty-odd years. Why . . . he didn't even sit down to supper. I'd fixed him ham and scalloped potatoes, dish he used to just drool over. No, sir. He threw a handful of clothes into an airline bag and jumped in that noisy car, and chased off up the coast to find Fox."
"But he came back?"
"Oh, yes. He was only gone a day." The coffee was drinkable now. She swallowed some. "He said Fox has made quite a little success. Married . . ." Small, crooked smile. "Imagine. All these years. Got a grown daughter, married herself now. Fox ... " She clucked disbelief. "He'll always be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen to me. Doug says he's losing his hair. He had so much . His aunt was always after him to get it cut. Asked me to back her up. I did, of course. But it seemed a shame. All that shaggy yellow hair. Pretty, I thought."
"Did Doug say he'd met Fox's wife?"
"Why ... " She chewed her lip. "No, come to think of it, he didn't." She drank again, frowning. "That's odd, isn't it?" The fond smile returned. "Can't imagine what kind of girl Fox would marry. Seems—well, impossible'." She laughed at herself. "But that's foolishness, of course. Why shouldn't he marry?"
"She's small, dark, slender." Dave tipped his head at the photo. "Like your son. He didn't marry?"
"Doug?" The smile, the little headshake regretted, apologized. "No. But he adopted a young French boy, war orphan. Jean-Paul Raideur. That's where Doug's interest in cars comes from. The boy was a mechanical—well, genius, I suppose you'd say. But Doug never cared about cars when he was that age. Oh, he and Fox had an awful old rattletrap they used to get to school in. But neither one of them could fix it when it broke down. And it broke down seems like every week or so. . . ." She laughed, recollecting. "But Jean-Paul . . . Doug housed and fed him and sent him through school. Then the army had an automotive training course and somehow Doug fixed things so he could be in that. Then, afterward, he bought him a car to race in. Cars. I think he broke every bone in his body one time or other. But he did win. I don't know how it works exactly, but if you win often you make all kinds of money. Then he was killed. Just about the time General de Gaulle shooed NATO out of France. All the same, I
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