Looking from Woolly to the portrait I could see the family resemblance. Except for the decisive part, of course.
—What happened to the paper company? I asked.
—Uncle Wallace took over when Grandpa died. He was only twenty-five at the time and he ran it until he was about thirty, but then he died too.
I didn’t bother observing that the head of the Wolcott paper company was a job to be avoided. I suspect Woolly knew that already.
Turning, Woolly walked over to the painting of the colonials and held out a hand.
—The presentation of the Declaration of Independence.
—No kidding.
—Oh yes, said Woolly. There’s John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and John Hancock. They’re all there.
—Which one’s the Wolcott, I asked with a Puckish grin.
But taking another step forward, Woolly pointed to a small head at the back of the crowd.
—Oliver, he said. He also signed the Articles of Confederation and was the governor of Connecticut. Though that was seven generations ago.
We both nodded for a few seconds, in order to give old Ollie his due. Then reaching up, Woolly opened the painting like it was a cabinet door and, lo and behold, there was Great-grandpa’s safe, looking like it had been fashioned from the metal of a battleship. With a nickel-plated handle and four little dials, it must have been a foot and a half square. If it was also a foot and a half deep, it would be big enough to hold the life savings of seventy generations of Hewetts. But for the solemnity of the moment, I would have whistled.
From Great-grandpa’s perspective, the contents of the safe were probably an expression of the past. In this grand old house, behind this venerable old painting, were documents that had been signed decades before, jewelry that had been handed down from generation to generation, and cash that had been accumulated over several lifetimes. But in just a few moments, some of the safe’s contents would have been transformed into a representation of the future.
Emmett’s future. Woolly’s future. My future.
—There it is, said Woolly.
—There it is, I agreed.
Then we both let out a sigh.
—Would you like to . . . ? I asked, gesturing at the dials.
—What’s that? Oh, no. You go right ahead.
—All right, I said, trying to resist the temptation of rubbing my hands together. Just give me the combination, and I’ll do the honors.
After a moment of silence, Woolly looked at me with an expression of genuine surprise.
—Combination? he asked.
Then I laughed. I laughed until my kidneys hurt and the tears poured out of my eyes.
Like I said: When it comes to vaudeville, it’s all about the setup.
Emmett
That’s a fine job, said Mrs. Whitney. I really can’t thank you enough.
—It was my pleasure, said Emmett.
They were standing at the threshold of the baby’s room looking at the walls, which Emmett had just finished painting.
—You must be hungry after all that work. Why don’t you come down and I’ll fix you a sandwich.
—I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Whitney. Just let me clean up.
—Of course, she said. But please. Call me Sarah.
* * *
? ? ?
That morning, Emmett had come downstairs to find that Duchess and Woolly were gone. Having woken in the early hours, they had driven off in the Cadillac, leaving only a note behind. Mr. Whitney was gone too, having headed back to their apartment in the city without taking time for breakfast. And Mrs. Whitney, she was standing in the kitchen dressed in dungarees, her hair pulled back in a kerchief.
—I promised I’d finally finish painting the baby’s room, she explained with a look of embarrassment.
It didn’t take much convincing for her to let Emmett take over the job.
With Mrs. Whitney’s approval, Emmett moved the boxes of Woolly’s belongings to the garage, stacking them in the spot where the Cadillac had been. With some tools he found in the basement, he took apart the bed and stowed the pieces beside the boxes. When the room was empty, he finished taping the trim, laid the tarp across the floor, stirred the paint, and went to work.
When you had the job set up right—with the room clear and the trim taped and the floor protected—painting was peaceful work. It had a rhythm about it that allowed your thoughts to quiet down, or fall silent altogether. Eventually, all that you were aware of was the movement of the brush sweeping back and forth, turning the primed white wall to its new shade of blue.
When Sally saw what Emmett was doing, she nodded her head in approval.