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Cappy Salem wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last. As long as that damn air base was out there, and probably even if it wasn't, there would be Cappy Salems. |
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"I guess that's all the questions I have, Mrs. Markle." |
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He helped the frail woman gather up her packages and escorted her to the door. She was crying softly when he tipped his hat and closed the door behind her. |
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Rosemary Markle, still sobbing softly to herself, walked down the steps, traversed the snow-covered sidewalk to the house adjacent to the one where her friend Cappy had lived, and climbed the scarred old stairs to her second floor flat. She knew exactly what to expect. Fred would be angry. She was late preparing his dinner. Fred Markle expected dinner to be ready and on the table when he arrived home promptly every night at six. Now it was a quarter till seven and she hadn't even started the evening meal. |
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She opened the door cautiously, making as little noise as possible. She hung her worn linen coat on a hanger on the back of the door and waited for his verbal onslaught. |
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The balding, heavy-set man looked up from his newspaper. She had seen that look all too many times before. "Where the hell you been?" he grunted. "You're late!" |
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