The cop looked from me to Woolly and back again. Then he straightened his shoulders and tugged at his belt, as cops are wont to do.
—All right, he said. Why don’t you see him safely home.
—I intend to, officer.
—But a young man on his frequency should not be driving. Maybe it’s time his family put the keys to the car on a higher shelf.
—I’ll let them know.
Once the cop had driven off and we were back in the Studebaker, I gave Woolly a little talking to about the meaning of all for one and one for all.
—What happens if you get yourself arrested, Woolly? And your name ends up on the blotter? Before you know it, they’d have us both on a bus back to Salina. Then we’d never make it to the camp, and Billy wouldn’t get to build his house in California.
—I’m sorry, Woolly said with a look of genuine contrition—and pupils as big as flying saucers.
—How many drops of your medicine did you take this morning?
. . .
—Four?
—How many bottles do you have left?
. . .
—One?
—One! Jesus, Woolly. That stuff isn’t Coca-Cola. And who knows when we can get you some more. You’d better let me hold on to the last one for now.
Sheepishly, Woolly opened the glove compartment and handed over the little blue bottle. In return, I handed him the map of Indiana that I’d bought off the cabbie. He frowned when he saw it.
—I know. It’s not a Phillips 66 map, but it’s the best that I could do. While I’m driving, I need you to figure out how to get to 132 Rhododendron Road in South Bend.
—What’s at 132 Rhododendron Road?
—An old friend.
* * *
Having reached South Bend around half past one, we were now in the middle of a brand-new subdivision of identical homes on identical lots, presumably inhabited by identical people. It almost made me long for the roads of Nebraska.
—It’s like the labyrinth in Billy’s book, said Woolly with a hint of awe. The one designed so ingeniously by Daedalus that no one who entered ever came out alive. . . .
—All the more reason, I pointed out sternly, for you to keep an eye on the street signs.
—Okay, okay. I got it, I got it.
After taking a quick glance at the map, Woolly leaned toward the windshield in order to give a little more attention to where we were going.
—Left on Tiger Lily Lane, he said. Right on Amaryllis Avenue . . . Wait, wait . . . There it is!
I took the turn onto Rhododendron Road. All the lawns were green and neatly mowed, but so far the rhododendron part was strictly aspirational. Who knows. Maybe it always would be.
I slowed down so that Woolly could keep an eye on the house numbers.
—124 . . . 126 . . . 128 . . . 130 . . . 132!
As I drove past the house, Woolly looked back over his shoulder.
—It was that one, he said.
I turned the corner at the next intersection and pulled the car over to the curb. Across the street an overfed pensioner in an undershirt was watering his grass with a hose. He looked like he could have used his own dousing.
—Isn’t your friend at 132?
—He is. But I want to surprise him.
Having learned my lesson, when I got out of the car I took the keys with me rather than leaving them over the visor.
—I should only be a few minutes, I said. You stay put.
—I will, I will. But Duchess . . .
—Yeah, Woolly?
—I know we’re trying to get the Studebaker back to Emmett as quickly as possible, but do you think we might be able to visit my sister Sarah in Hastings-on-Hudson before we head to the Adirondacks?
Most people make a habit of asking for things. At the drop of a hat, they’ll ask you for a light or for the time. They’ll ask you for a lift or a loan. For a hand or a handout. Some of them will even ask you for forgiveness. But Woolly Martin rarely asked for anything at all. So when he did ask for something, you knew it was something that mattered.
—Woolly, I said, if you can get us back out of this labyrinth alive, we can visit anyone you like.
* * *
? ? ?
Ten minutes later, I was standing in a kitchen with a rolling pin in my hand wondering if it would do the trick. Given its shape and heft, it certainly felt better than a two-by-four. But it struck me as an implement better used for comic effect—like by a hausfrau who’s chasing her hapless husband around the kitchen table.
Putting the rolling pin back in its drawer, I opened another. This one was filled with a clutter of smaller implements, like vegetable peelers and measuring spoons. The next had the larger and flimsier tools like spatulas and whisks. Tucked under a ladle I found a meat tenderizer. Being careful not to jangle the other items, I removed it from the drawer and found it to have a nice wooden handle and a rough smacking surface, but it was a little on the delicate side, fashioned more for flattening a cutlet than for pounding a side of beef.