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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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causes. She was at City Hall within five minutes.
Behind its ultra-modern façade, the new City Hall had taken on much the same homey atmosphere as the old. A friendly clerk, who must have been somebody’s favorite aunt, was delighted to leave her typewriter and assist in the search. They found one lone O’Ghee on the list, at an address which was more or less where Sarah had thought it might be. She copied down the information, thanked the clerk profusely, and made a beeline for the subway.
6
T HOUGH SARAH HAD BEEN born and reared in Boston, the regions out beyond Andrew Square might have been Timbuctoo, for all she knew of their geography. She and the lady at City Hall had picked out O’Ghee’s address on a street map; nevertheless she had to search for the place, and when she did at last find it she could hardly believe she’d got it right. This wasn’t even a street, merely a sort of cul-de-sac that appeared to be one solid block of disused-looking warehouses.
At last she noticed a few yards of chain-link fence spanning what she first thought must be a driveway. Behind it, cramped between the massive warehouses, stood a sliver of a house three stories high but not more than fifteen feet wide, covered in green asphalt shingles that had begun to curl and break at the edges. The front yard was about five feet deep, grown up to crab-grass and ragweed, the door badly in need of paint. However, lace curtains at the one front window framed a card that read, “Room for Rent,” and a wire shopping cart leaned against the railing of the minuscule porch. This had to be the place, after all.
It looked like, and probably was, the sole remaining unit of what was once a row of wooden town houses. Some diehard householder must have fought to the end against creeping industrialism and won what was surely a hollow victory. The chain-link fence suggested a watchdog so Sarah approached with caution. However, nothing happened when she opened the gate. She ventured up the two steps and knocked at the door.
The woman who answered was another surprise. These tacky surroundings would have prepared Sarah for birdsnest hair and a filthy apron, but Tim O’Ghee’s landlady, if such she was, clearly spent a good deal more effort on herself than she did on her house. Her hair was an architectural marvel, her face a work of art. Her rigorously girdled form was encased in a tight nylon jersey dress of exuberant pattern and her nether extremities in imitation snake-skin boots with high heels and inch-thick soles.
“Yes?” she said doubtfully with an up-and-down glance at Sarah’s once-good tweed coat and sensible shoes.
“I’m looking for Mr. Timothy O’Ghee,” Sarah stammered. “Do I have the right address?”
“What do you want him for?”
“Well, I—I borrowed some money from him yesterday and wanted to pay it back.”
“That’s a hot one. I never knew he had any to lend.”
“It’s a very small amount, just change for the phone, actually, but he was so kind to offer it, and slipped away before I could even thank him properly. Later I described him to my uncle and he said it must have been Mr. O’Ghee, so I thought I’d run over and see him. I live not too far from here.”
“Oh, yeah? Whereabouts?”
“Toward the West End,” Sarah hedged. “Is Mr. O’Ghee in now?”
“I dunno. I been over to the Avenue, grocery shopping. Tim don’t generally come downstairs till late. I don’t serve no meals, see, but I gave him coffee and maybe a piece of toast or something. What the heck, he’s an old man. It wouldn’t seem right making him walk all the way to the Avenue for a cup of coffee.”
She turned her head and screamed, “Tim! Tim, you up yet? Somebody’s here to see you.”
She got no reply.
“He don’t hear so good no more. Prob’ly laying in bed reading the racing forms. Why don’t you go on up? He won’t mind.”
Sarah hesitated. “Couldn’t you?”
“I don’t climb them stairs no
Behind its ultra-modern façade, the new City Hall had taken on much the same homey atmosphere as the old. A friendly clerk, who must have been somebody’s favorite aunt, was delighted to leave her typewriter and assist in the search. They found one lone O’Ghee on the list, at an address which was more or less where Sarah had thought it might be. She copied down the information, thanked the clerk profusely, and made a beeline for the subway.
6
T HOUGH SARAH HAD BEEN born and reared in Boston, the regions out beyond Andrew Square might have been Timbuctoo, for all she knew of their geography. She and the lady at City Hall had picked out O’Ghee’s address on a street map; nevertheless she had to search for the place, and when she did at last find it she could hardly believe she’d got it right. This wasn’t even a street, merely a sort of cul-de-sac that appeared to be one solid block of disused-looking warehouses.
At last she noticed a few yards of chain-link fence spanning what she first thought must be a driveway. Behind it, cramped between the massive warehouses, stood a sliver of a house three stories high but not more than fifteen feet wide, covered in green asphalt shingles that had begun to curl and break at the edges. The front yard was about five feet deep, grown up to crab-grass and ragweed, the door badly in need of paint. However, lace curtains at the one front window framed a card that read, “Room for Rent,” and a wire shopping cart leaned against the railing of the minuscule porch. This had to be the place, after all.
It looked like, and probably was, the sole remaining unit of what was once a row of wooden town houses. Some diehard householder must have fought to the end against creeping industrialism and won what was surely a hollow victory. The chain-link fence suggested a watchdog so Sarah approached with caution. However, nothing happened when she opened the gate. She ventured up the two steps and knocked at the door.
The woman who answered was another surprise. These tacky surroundings would have prepared Sarah for birdsnest hair and a filthy apron, but Tim O’Ghee’s landlady, if such she was, clearly spent a good deal more effort on herself than she did on her house. Her hair was an architectural marvel, her face a work of art. Her rigorously girdled form was encased in a tight nylon jersey dress of exuberant pattern and her nether extremities in imitation snake-skin boots with high heels and inch-thick soles.
“Yes?” she said doubtfully with an up-and-down glance at Sarah’s once-good tweed coat and sensible shoes.
“I’m looking for Mr. Timothy O’Ghee,” Sarah stammered. “Do I have the right address?”
“What do you want him for?”
“Well, I—I borrowed some money from him yesterday and wanted to pay it back.”
“That’s a hot one. I never knew he had any to lend.”
“It’s a very small amount, just change for the phone, actually, but he was so kind to offer it, and slipped away before I could even thank him properly. Later I described him to my uncle and he said it must have been Mr. O’Ghee, so I thought I’d run over and see him. I live not too far from here.”
“Oh, yeah? Whereabouts?”
“Toward the West End,” Sarah hedged. “Is Mr. O’Ghee in now?”
“I dunno. I been over to the Avenue, grocery shopping. Tim don’t generally come downstairs till late. I don’t serve no meals, see, but I gave him coffee and maybe a piece of toast or something. What the heck, he’s an old man. It wouldn’t seem right making him walk all the way to the Avenue for a cup of coffee.”
She turned her head and screamed, “Tim! Tim, you up yet? Somebody’s here to see you.”
She got no reply.
“He don’t hear so good no more. Prob’ly laying in bed reading the racing forms. Why don’t you go on up? He won’t mind.”
Sarah hesitated. “Couldn’t you?”
“I don’t climb them stairs no
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