Frank De Felitta: Audrey Rose

It was on the first Monday in October. There was a real threat of snow in the air. Bill, as usual, was taking Ivy to school on his way to work.

Their gloved hands clasped tightly together, they would jog down the length of a block, then, coming to a corner, swing suddenly about so that their backs would receive the frigid impact of the crosstown winds, whipping up the narrow side streets. It was a game they played and loved playing together each year at this time.

When they finally reached the school building, they both were out of breath and laughing in total delight at each other. Bill’s eyes watered with the cold, and he could hardly see Ivy as she stood on her toes, kissed his cheek, then turned and scampered up the steps and through the big doors. As Bill turned to leave, he almost collided with a group of mothers, stationed at the base of the steps waving good-bye to their children.

Grunting an apology, he started to move past them when, suddenly, he stopped. Sideburns was standing directly in his path, staring at him. The look in the man’s eyes gripped Bill tightly and seemed to push for a confrontation.

“My name is Bill Templeton,” Bill said, and took a step forward. “I think you want to know me.”

The man remained transfixed, gravely looking at Bill for a long moment, before quietly speaking.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not certain. I’ll let you know soon.”

And without another word, he turned abruptly and hurried off down the windswept boulevard toward Columbus Circle.

Bill could only watch after him, staggered, replaying the words over and over in his baffled brain.

“I don’t know. I’m not certain. I’ll let you know soon.”

A week went by.

Each morning Sideburns faithfully kept his rendezvous in front of the school. Bill would find him standing in his customary spot next to the steps, watching them approach from the distance. He’d watch them kiss good-bye, then turn and hurry off toward Columbus Circle the moment Ivy entered the building.

When, for two weeks, the pattern didn’t change, Bill decided to go to the police.

The desk sergeant was paunchy, dyspeptic, and pushing retirement age. He listened to Bill’s story in a bored, detached manner, then sent him upstairs to “Detectives” to see Detective Fallon.

Bill sat opposite a young, ruggedly handsome man in plain clothes and repeated his story to him. The room was large, painted a dreary green, and filled with an odd assortment of tables and chairs. The table where Bill and Detective Fallon were seated was deeply scored by years of use and mischief.

Detective Fallon listened attentively but without surprise or emotion. He made a few notes, flashed a quick look at Bill when he mentioned the man’s disguise, but allowed him to finish before asking, “Did this person in any way batter you?”

“Batter me?”

“Did he come into purposeful bodily contact with you? Did he push you? Or hit you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Fallon’s face softened somewhat. “Unless there’s evidence of a battery, there’s very little the police can do in a case like this.”

“Isn’t it enough he’s been following me, spying on me?”

“What evidence do you have that he’s spying on you?”

“I told you, he got into my office. He secured my biodata sheet by impersonating me.” Bill’s voice steadily rose in indignation. “Isn’t that enough evidence?”

“How can you prove that he did it? I mean, do you have real concrete evidence that he was the person who entered your office and did this?”

“Well, no, but.…” The energy in Bill’s voice gradually flattened.

Fallon watched him a moment, almost regretfully.

“Officially, there’s nothing I can do for you, Mr. Templeton, but tell me again, what time do you take your daughter to school?”

“The schoolbell rings at eight thirty.”

“Okay. I’m on the nine-to-five this week. I’ll stop by on my way in tomorrow and have a look at this guy for myself.” And with a small, tight smile, he added, “ Un officially, of course.”

The next morning Sideburns didn’t show up.

After Ivy had entered the building, Bill walked over to Detective Fallon, who had been hovering behind a mailbox trying to appear inconspicuous. When Bill informed him that the man had failed to show, Fallon grinned lightly, shrugged, and said they’d try again. The next morning the same thing happened: Fallon came; Sideburns didn’t. The third morning Sideburns waited for them in his usual spot, but Fallon had given up.

The leaves crunched satisfyingly under Bill’s feet as he approached the pedestrians’ exit at Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. Long lines of horse-drawn carriages were parked across from the Plaza Hotel, waiting for tourists to finish their breakfasts and start their day.

Bill waited in a small group for the light to change. In a way, he was glad that Ivy hadn’t gone to school today. He’d have a three-day respite before having to face Monday morning.

Bill thought of the weekend ahead of him. It would be fun staying at home the entire weekend. Bill could do what little food shopping was needed. Maybe they’d have the Federicos up to dinner and some bridge Saturday night.

As he crossed Fifty-seventh Street and veered eastward to Madison Avenue, Bill sensed a light, jaunty bounce to his step. He was almost feeling good for a change. “Que sera, sera,” he thought. “Whatever will be, will be.” The next move is up to Sideburns. Screw him!

While the pressure on Bill had been tremendous over the past weeks, he prided himself that he had never once brought his worries home to Janice. She had been spared any knowledge of his little pas de deux with the man in disguise.

He had kept their fortress inviolate—secure.

The word was M-A-T-E-R-I-A-L.

Ivy giggled excitedly and pushed the letter I into place at the end of the L . Janice considered this deeply, then added a Z to the I . Ivy quickly completed the word with an E .

“There.” She laughed triumphantly.

The time was only ten minutes past ten. The morning seemed endless.

Ivy had just placed an X beneath the E , starting a new word in the vertical line, when the telephone rang. Janice added a C beneath the X , pushed herself up from the floor with a funny little grunt, and quickly walked across the long, elegant room to answer it. It was probably Bill; he often called upon arriving at the office.

The telephone sat on a low table which formed the corner of a right angle connecting two black-covered sofas spiced by small bright pillows of green and lemon peel. A large stubby vase filled with autumn leaves spread a canopy of earth colors over the corner.

Janice picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” she said.

There was no answer.

“Hello?” she said again, in a softer tone, feeling a prickle of apprehension.

Janice was about to hang up when the voice finally came. Male. Quiet. Hesitant.

“Is she all right?” it said.

Janice hung up abruptly.

She stood there, eyes shut, steeling herself against the wave of utter panic about to overwhelm her. It was the man. She knew it was he. It could be no one else. He had found their unlisted number. Somehow. She felt herself trembling. Control! Control! She must not let Ivy see her like this!

A small, static smile affixed to her face, Janice gracefully squatted down to resume the game.

Ivy pushed an E under the C .

“Who was it?” she asked offhandedly.

“Secret Service,” Janice replied with a light, controlled laugh.