Hide and Seek

"Clan Thomas, Mr. White. Casey's expecting me."

He looked sort of muddled and shook my hand distractedly. I wondered

if the bad color came from drinking.

"Oh. Yes. Come in."

He moved aside and opened the door wider. I walked in. Inside the

house was very handsome. A lot better than the usual summer rental.

Most of the furnishings were old, antiques, not exactly top quality but

in good condition. The wood looked freshly polished. And there was an

old rolltop desk off to one corner that was a beauty.

He called up the stairs to her. The answer sounded rushed and

faraway.

"Coming!"

Neither of us sat. Nor were we able to think of much to say. I

guessed he'd been reading the paper when I rang, because he was

clutching it now, rolled up tight, in one big meaty fist. Sick or not,

I wouldn't have wanted him mad at me.

Casey had said he was a banker, but it was hard to picture him hunched

over a desk toting up a row of figures. Except for the sal low color

you'd have pegged him for outdoor work. I wondered how he'd gotten

those shoulders. Then I looked around the room a bit and saw the big

framed photo on the wall over the desk, and that told me.

He saw me looking and smiled.

"Wrestling team. Yale, 1938. That's me, last one on the left. Had a

pretty good record that year. Twelve wins, two losses."

"Not bad."

He sat down, sighing, in the big overstuffed chair beside the

fireplace. There was no enthusiasm in his smooth baritone. It was

flat, dead. Like the eyes were dead. They were Casey's eyes but there

was nothing in them, no animation, not even the strange fathomless ness

I found so attractive in hers. His eyes could have been colored glass.

I wondered if he was sick, or even dying.

There was the inevitable small talk. What do you do for a living?

"I sell lumber."

He nodded meaninglessly. There was silence. He was staring at

something in front of him. I tried to follow his gaze, but his

question called me back.

"Can you make a living at that?"