With his mother’s blessing and his father’s resigned acceptance, Jack packed his bags, bought a bus ticket, and moved to Michigan to enjoy what destiny had in store for him.
For a while, he heard news of Walter Scott through the old classmates with whom he corresponded from time to time. They told him that Walter had moved to Long Island, where he was a union man, helping disadvantaged workers. Then, as the years went by, Jack gradually lost contact with his classmates and his connection to Walter. He regretted it, because he missed their friendship. On some of his visits to New York, he was tempted to try to find him, but he never dared to go against his father’s wishes concerning Walter Scott.
A decade had passed since the ill-fated graduation dinner that left his cousin Aaron an invalid. Now, aged twenty-eight and in dire need of help, Jack was directly disobeying Solomon for the first time with respect to those wishes.
When Walter finally appeared, Jack barely recognized him.
His old friend still had his scruffy intellectual mien, with the same shabby tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his nose, and his characteristic red scarf knotted around his neck. Yet he was thin, and his once smart clothes were now little more than rags. Jack’s surprise was so great that he didn’t know what to say. Walter was speechless, too. Finally, they clasped each other in a long embrace.
“It’s so good to see you, Walter! You look . . . You look great,” he lied.
“Oh, come on, Jack, there’s no need for flattery,” the young man said with a smile. “Things have changed since we were at school together, huh? But I suppose I can’t complain. But look at you! Quite the man about town. Are you still a hit with the girls?”
“Believe me, women are the last thing on my mind.”
“There’s always time for dames, Jack. Always!”
Jack could see that, though Walter had lost much of his hair, he hadn’t lost any of his optimism. His smile lifted Jack’s spirits. But his appearance didn’t really suggest that he was someone in a position to provide him with employment. He didn’t want to seem self-interested, but it was raining hard and they were getting soaked, so he asked, “What should we do, then? Should we go inside?” He pointed at the refinery entrance.
“There? What for?”
“I don’t know. When you mentioned this place, I thought—”
“That the job would be here? God, no! At American Sugar they hang union guys from the chimney! No. I suggested meeting here because it’s close to a coffeehouse I know. Come on, let’s get going before we freeze to death!”
On the way to the coffeehouse, Jack wondered how he’d pay for their drinks—he needed every last cent that he possessed. Walter seemed to read his mind.
“It’s on me. They still give me credit there.” He laughed self-assuredly and put his arm around Jack’s shoulder.
When they walked into the establishment, Walter smiled and greeted the other customers. Jack was pleased to see that his friend was still the same affable, talkative guy he had been, the kind of person whose mere presence could brighten up a wake.
They made themselves comfortable at a table by a window and ordered coffee. Jack asked for a large one. They could barely breathe with the cigarette smoke, but it was warm and comfortable, and the music from the wireless was an invitation to believe that happiness still existed in some corner of the world. Jack sipped his coffee nervously. It was burning hot, and though he detected a hint of chicory, it tasted no less delicious.
“Well, thanks for coming, Walter. I guess my call surprised you? I bet you’re wondering why I’ve suddenly appeared, after so much time and . . . Well . . . it might sound like an excuse, but I would have found you sooner had my father allowed it. I never blamed you for what happened to Aaron. But for my family, it was a big blow. You know how these things are . . . Then the years went by and, well, what else can I say? I’ve missed you, old buddy.”
“Oh, come on! You don’t have to apologize, especially for something that was my fault.” Walter downed his coffee, and his eyes came to rest on the tabletop, as if he could see the past on its surface. “Believe me, I’ve gone over and over it, and I still don’t understand why I behaved like that. I don’t know, I was sore . . . That cousin of yours, he was so young and full of himself. He had everything, and I couldn’t even pay for my dinner. The drink went to my head, and when he poked fun at my clothes, I lost my cool and—” He looked down and fell silent, before adding, “I asked after you and Aaron a few times. They told me he never recovered.”
“It’s true. Ah well, let’s change the subject. How about a toast, to us?”
“This damned Prohibition! Toasting with coffee. What the world’s come to, eh, Jack?” He touched his empty cup against his friend’s with a smile.
“So you’re still living on Long Island?” Jack asked.
“Surviving, shall we say? But tell me about you. I heard it was going well for you in Detroit. Someone even said you got yourself an apartment. Your parents must be proud of you.”
Jack’s face darkened. Looking at him, Walter remembered how close Jack had been to his mother.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about your ma. My parents died, too. But it’s a fact of life. We just have to pick ourselves up and carry on.”
“It was like a prelude to this goddamned depression. First I lost my mother, then . . . then everything else.” He sighed.
Jack couldn’t stop himself remembering the afternoon of March 23, 1931, when Bruce Tallman called him into his office at the Ford factory in Dearborn. At that time, Tallman was foreman of the stamping area, where they shaped the gleaming metal coils into doors and fenders for the Model A. Jack presumed he was calling him in to promote him. Despite the economic crisis, the assembly lines were at full capacity, and there were rumors among the workers that an innovative new vehicle was about to go into production and take the market by storm.