Just look at what you’ve done, he said to Woolly, while glaring at the damage.
Dennis, said his sister, interceding. It isn’t your car. It’s Woolly’s.
Which was probably something that Woolly should have said: It isn’t your car, “Dennis.” It’s mine. But Woolly hadn’t thought to say it. At least, he hadn’t thought to say it until after Sarah had said it already. Sarah always knew the right thing to say before Woolly did. When Woolly was in the middle of a conversation at boarding school or at a party in New York, he often thought to himself how much easier the conversation would be going if Sarah were there to say the right things on his behalf.
But the evening he had arrived with the dents in the door and Sarah had said to “Dennis” that the car wasn’t his, it was Woolly’s, this had only seemed to make “Dennis” more upset.
That it is his car is precisely my point. （Woolly’s brother-in-law always made his points precisely. Even when he was very, very upset, he was very, very precise.） When a young man is fortunate enough to be given something of great value from his own father, he should treat it with respect. And if he doesn’t know how to treat it with respect, then he doesn’t deserve to have it at all.
Oh, Dennis, said Sarah. It’s not a Manet, for God’s sake. It’s a machine.
Machines are the foundation of everything this family has, said “Dennis.”
And everything it hasn’t, said Sarah.
There she goes again, thought Woolly with a smile.
—May I? asked Duchess, gesturing to the car.
—What’s that? Oh, yes. Of course, of course.
Duchess reached for the handle of the driver’s door, hesitated, then took a step to his right and opened the door to the back.
—After you, he said with a flourish.
Woolly slid into the back seat and Duchess slid in after him. After closing the door, Duchess gave a sigh of appreciation.
—Forget the Studebaker, he said. This is how Emmett should arrive in Hollywood.
—Billy and Emmett are going to San Francisco, Woolly pointed out.
—Either way. This is how they should make the trip to California.
—If Billy and Emmett would like to make the trip to California in the Cadillac, they’re welcome to do so.
—On the level?
—Nothing would make me happier, assured Woolly. The only problem is that the Cadillac is much older than the Studebaker, so it probably wouldn’t get them to California anywhere near as quickly.
—Maybe so, said Duchess. But in a car like this, what’s the rush.
* * *
? ? ?
As it turned out, the door inside the garage was locked, so Woolly and Duchess went back outside, and Woolly took a seat on the front step beside the flowerpots as Duchess removed the bags from the trunk.
—It could take me a few hours, said Duchess. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?
—Most definitely, said Woolly. I’ll just wait here until my sister comes back. I’m sure she won’t be long.
Woolly watched as Duchess got in the Studebaker and backed out of the driveway with a wave. Once alone, Woolly retrieved the extra bottle of medicine from the book bag, unscrewed the eyedropper, and squeezed a few extra drops onto the tip of his tongue. Then he took a moment to admire the enthusiasm of the sunshine.
—There is nothing more enthusiastic than sunshine, he said to himself. And no one more reliable than grass.
At the word reliable, Woolly suddenly thought of his sister Sarah, who was another paragon of reliability. Putting the bottle in his pocket, he stood, lifted, and looked—and, sure enough, waiting patiently under the flowerpot was the key to his sister’s house. All keys look alike, of course, but Woolly could tell that this one was the key to his sister’s house because it turned in the lock.
Opening the door, Woolly stepped inside and paused.
—Hallo? he called. Hallo, hallo?
Just to be certain, Woolly gave a fourth hallo into the hallway that led to the kitchen, and another up the stairs. Then he waited to see if anyone would answer.
As he waited and listened, he happened to look down at the little table at the bottom of the staircase where a telephone sat. Shiny, smooth, and black, it looked like a younger cousin of the Cadillac. One thing about it that wasn’t shiny, smooth, and black was the little rectangle of paper in the middle of the dial on which the phone number of the house had been written in a delicate hand—so that the phone would know exactly who it was, thought Woolly.
When no one answered Woolly’s hallo, he stepped into the large, sunlit room on his left.