A Century of Progress Read Free

while there I simply forgot—”
    “Good.” The clear relief in the young woman’s face showed how strong had been the tension before it. “Then today I will sit down and talk with you for a while.”
    “Sure.” Norlund sat, then, as before, moved over minimally. Looking at his companion carefully as she sat down, he estimated that she was six or seven years younger than Marge’s thirty-two. “Ginny Butler, is that right?”
    “Quite right.” She nodded, waiting, willing to be questioned.
    Now he was sure of the faint British flavor in her voice. “I’m sorry,” Norlund said, “but do I know you? Should I?”
    “No, not apart from our meeting last week. I do have the advantage of you, as they say. But I think that you are going to get to know me fairly well.”
    “You’re not asking me how Sandy’s doing.”
    “I didn’t ask you about that last week either, did I?” Ginny Butler continued to be pleasantly business-like. Definitely a salesperson, thought Norlund. Big-ticket items. She went on: “We both know that Sandy’s doing very well right now. So today we can start talking about a certain job that you can do for me, in return.”
    Norlund cleared his throat. “Wait, now, just a moment.” He was interrupted by kids shouting and speeding past them on roller skates—just as, thank God, Sandy ought to be doing again soon. If . . . “Let me get this straight. It sounds to me like you’re claiming to be responsible for Sandy’s improvement. And you’re saying you want me to do something for you in return.”
    The woman nodded. It was only a slight movement of the head, but it was very firm. “Yes, absolutely, Mr. Norlund. I—or the people I represent—have helped Sandy. And I think you do owe us a return favor now.”
    Norlund thought that hallucinations would have been relatively easy to understand. He crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t even know who you are.”
    “I’ve given you my name,” the young woman answered patiently. “Telling you my life story wouldn’t help right now. I think that by helping your granddaughter we have established a perfectly legitimate claim on your friendship.”
    “Who’s ‘we’? Who’s this group you say you represent?”
    “We ask only for a day or two of your time, time that I know you can well afford to spare. You will not be asked to do anything illegal during that day or two, I promise you that. But at the same time I must continue to insist on secrecy.”
    “Lady . . .” Norlund paused, sighed, shook his head, and tried again. “Look here, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t admit that you’ve established any kind of claim on me.”
    Ginny Butler remained patient. “Mr. Norlund—may I call you Alan?”
    “Why not?”
    “Alan, then—I certainly wouldn’t expect you, at this stage, to completely understand what I’m talking about, as you put it. But I really think we have established a claim. Just think back seven days. You sat here on this bench, and you knew that your granddaughter was dying. And she was. The funeral would have been over by now.”
    “Just a minute.”
    “Please, let me finish?”
    “A week ago, as I recall, you made no claim that you were going to be responsible for curing her.”
    “Would you have believed me for a moment if I had? You would have been angry instead of only puzzled. We preferred to make a demonstration instead. I’m sure you remember what I did tell you a week ago.”
    “Not word for word.”
    The young woman waited silently.
    Norlund muttered something like a curse. “All right, you told me she was going to get better.”
    “And what happened?”
    “I don’t care for catechisms, lady.” Norlund was starting to get angry. He supposed it was largely something bottled up from when Sandy had seemed to be dying. “You come here and talk to the next of kin of all the cancer patients, is that it? And when one of them does get well, you try to cash in.”
    Ginny Butler