moving to Terre Haute.
Through the half-glassed wall of the office cubicle he saw Al Lowe bearing down on him across the storeroom. What now? he wondered with a muffled sigh.
Al was bright eyed in the doorway. “Frank, Mrs Stevens and her daughter, Virginia, just came in. You know, the Stevens-Bookwright marriage.”
Frank spoke with slow stolid patience:
“And why should I care if Mrs Stevens and her daughter, Virginia, come in any more than other people?”
“Well, the marriage,” Al said. “They’re looking at silver. Big wedding. You know the story. I thought you’d want to know they came in?”
Frank did indeed know the story. More of it than Al knew. He was a friend of Arthur Bookwright’s father who was Harold Bookwright the sales manager for the Sternutol Chemical Company’s local marketing division. It was one of the biggest weddings Parkman would see in some years.
Frank was a secret partner in the Parkman Dodge Agency, which partially thanks to Harold had sold Sternutol Chemical some replacement pickups for their old ones. Now he said to Al with the same slow patience:
“Al, T L Stevens runs the Western Auto Store. His daughter is marryin up into the executive bracket of Sternutol Chemical. His wife ain’t goin to pick her daughter’s silver pattern, or her china pattern, here in Parkman. For the same reasons, she’s goin to have a big wedding—if it takes T L two years to pay for it.
“And if they did pick a pattern that I carried, there wouldn’t be enough money in it for us to even get excited because at least fifty percent of the guests will be Sternutol people and such, from out of town, and will buy their presents someplace else.”
“Well, it would be a big piece of prestige, not to mention advertising, if they did pick her patterns in our store, not to mention the extra money.”
With his infuriatingly slow German patience, Frank said:
“Sure it would. But they just won’t, Al. They’re just shoppin. Hell, they’ll go to Terre Haute, and Danville, maybe even to St Louis and Indianapolis, and probly wind up in Chicago, at Marshall Field’s; before they’re done.” He got up from the desk and steered Al out into the storeroom.
“But Virginia just might happen to see one of our patterns she liked?” Al said.
“Virginia won’t have a damn thing to say about it, Al.”
Al nodded gravely. “You mean her mother’ll do all the picking. I guess that’s right.” His voice was quite calm now. Frank reached up his hand on the tall Al’s shoulder, rather like a small coach exhorting a large substitute he is about to send in. In fact, it rather made Frank think of that, he felt very paternal.
In the office, the phone rang.
“Mr Hirsh!” Edith Barclay called from the office door. “Telephone!”
The watch repairman, for the first time since noon, looked up from his bench. He looked at Edith standing in the door, and continued to look at her.
“Yes?” Frank said. “Who is it.”
“Mr Roberts of the Second National,” Edith said.
“I’ll be right there,” Frank said.
She went back in.
The watch repairman looked back down.
“Now you go on back up there,” Frank said with his hand on Al’s shoulder. “And be nice and polite, and show them everything they want to see. Just like you really thought they might take somethin. We might sell them a good watch for T L for Christmas, later on.”
Al nodded with a solemn patience that mirrored Frank’s voice. Frank stood a moment watching him go. Sometimes Frank wondered how Al had ever managed to survive four years of war as a Combat Infantryman. It seemed impossible. Yet he had. And had the ribbons and medals to prove it. And yet he didn’t show any more effects of it than if he had been away four years at the University of Illinois up in Champaign. Four years away from his wife had rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. Frank did not think he himself could have stood that. If all veterans were as well
Through the half-glassed wall of the office cubicle he saw Al Lowe bearing down on him across the storeroom. What now? he wondered with a muffled sigh.
Al was bright eyed in the doorway. “Frank, Mrs Stevens and her daughter, Virginia, just came in. You know, the Stevens-Bookwright marriage.”
Frank spoke with slow stolid patience:
“And why should I care if Mrs Stevens and her daughter, Virginia, come in any more than other people?”
“Well, the marriage,” Al said. “They’re looking at silver. Big wedding. You know the story. I thought you’d want to know they came in?”
Frank did indeed know the story. More of it than Al knew. He was a friend of Arthur Bookwright’s father who was Harold Bookwright the sales manager for the Sternutol Chemical Company’s local marketing division. It was one of the biggest weddings Parkman would see in some years.
Frank was a secret partner in the Parkman Dodge Agency, which partially thanks to Harold had sold Sternutol Chemical some replacement pickups for their old ones. Now he said to Al with the same slow patience:
“Al, T L Stevens runs the Western Auto Store. His daughter is marryin up into the executive bracket of Sternutol Chemical. His wife ain’t goin to pick her daughter’s silver pattern, or her china pattern, here in Parkman. For the same reasons, she’s goin to have a big wedding—if it takes T L two years to pay for it.
“And if they did pick a pattern that I carried, there wouldn’t be enough money in it for us to even get excited because at least fifty percent of the guests will be Sternutol people and such, from out of town, and will buy their presents someplace else.”
“Well, it would be a big piece of prestige, not to mention advertising, if they did pick her patterns in our store, not to mention the extra money.”
With his infuriatingly slow German patience, Frank said:
“Sure it would. But they just won’t, Al. They’re just shoppin. Hell, they’ll go to Terre Haute, and Danville, maybe even to St Louis and Indianapolis, and probly wind up in Chicago, at Marshall Field’s; before they’re done.” He got up from the desk and steered Al out into the storeroom.
“But Virginia just might happen to see one of our patterns she liked?” Al said.
“Virginia won’t have a damn thing to say about it, Al.”
Al nodded gravely. “You mean her mother’ll do all the picking. I guess that’s right.” His voice was quite calm now. Frank reached up his hand on the tall Al’s shoulder, rather like a small coach exhorting a large substitute he is about to send in. In fact, it rather made Frank think of that, he felt very paternal.
In the office, the phone rang.
“Mr Hirsh!” Edith Barclay called from the office door. “Telephone!”
The watch repairman, for the first time since noon, looked up from his bench. He looked at Edith standing in the door, and continued to look at her.
“Yes?” Frank said. “Who is it.”
“Mr Roberts of the Second National,” Edith said.
“I’ll be right there,” Frank said.
She went back in.
The watch repairman looked back down.
“Now you go on back up there,” Frank said with his hand on Al’s shoulder. “And be nice and polite, and show them everything they want to see. Just like you really thought they might take somethin. We might sell them a good watch for T L for Christmas, later on.”
Al nodded with a solemn patience that mirrored Frank’s voice. Frank stood a moment watching him go. Sometimes Frank wondered how Al had ever managed to survive four years of war as a Combat Infantryman. It seemed impossible. Yet he had. And had the ribbons and medals to prove it. And yet he didn’t show any more effects of it than if he had been away four years at the University of Illinois up in Champaign. Four years away from his wife had rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. Frank did not think he himself could have stood that. If all veterans were as well
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