Cry in the Night Read Free Page B

and . . .”
    He showed me many of the famous beautiful houses of the small and elegant district, the Dumbarton House on Q Street, where Dolley Madison sought refuge, clutching state papers and a portrait of Washington, when the British burned the White House in 1814, and the townhouse on N Street where John Kennedy and his young family lived when he started his presidential campaign.
    “. . . always spot the early Federal architecture by the fanlight over the front door and the long lintel stones above the windows. The brick is bright red and the shutters . . .”
    I managed to keep up with his long strides and his swiftly paced, eager descriptions. It was a hot, exhausting, but exciting afternoon.
    It ended as abruptly as it had begun.
    We were standing outside a Georgetown bookstore, looking through the rack of old dusty ten-cents-each books, because, of course, you never know, when he looked through the shop window, saw a clock, and exclaimed, “Oh, good grief!”
    He glanced up at the sky and the late-afternoon sun confirmed the time. “Hey, Sheila, I’m sorry; I’ve got to rush. I’m supposed to make a presentation to an old professor of mine and I’m almost late.”
    A cab was stopping two doors down and he hurried toward it, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll look for you at the banquet tonight.”
    I waved after him.
    Tonight I would be on the train to New York.
    But I didn’t mind his abrupt leave-taking. I wandered slowly out of Georgetown, tired but smiling. It had been a marvelous afternoon.
    It was a long way from the sharp sound of shots and blood seeping into the rich green grass of the jungle. It was a world away from murder.

Chapter 2
    That should have been the end of it. In my neat and tidy fashion, that week was catalogued as past, done, finished. But, at odd moments, I would see his face so vividly that I almost felt if I were to look around he would be standing there. Once, in fact, the feeling that he was near was so intense that I deserted a group I was leading through the first gallery with its Old Kingdom exhibits, tossing a hurried “Excuse me, please” over my shoulder and chasing around a model of the Sphinx to catch up with a slender, bony man who turned in surprise at my hand on his sleeve—and of course, it wasn’t Jerry at all. I had hurried back to my patient group, my face flushed with embarrassment, and tried to pick up my spiel where I’d dropped it. As I led them through the galleries, answering questions, describing art and customs and manners, I was amused at myself. What is up, Sheila?
    I managed for a full week to squelch any light-minded memories of Washington, dwelling instead on other sessions I had attended there. I finished my report on the conference and made no mention of Dr. Elliot and his topic. I had myself well in hand.
    Then I received my quarterly copy of
Expedition
and there he was, or at least a thumbnail picture of him, with an article on “Plunder and the Art Trade.” I studied the small biographical sketch. It didn’t tell much about him, only his degrees, his publications, and his formal title with the museum in Mexico City.
    Mexico City.
    It might as well be Bangkok or Calcutta. That was the first thought that came into my mind and a very revealing one.
    I had never in my life deliberately set out to place myself within the ambit of any man, and here I was, admitting that I would like to go to Mexico City to see him again. On the strength of what? An afternoon.
    There was no danger on my following through on that wild inclination, however. I didn’t have an extra penny. Literally. I could write an article on “Penury and the Museum Game.” There are a lot more willing workers than jobs. To the delight of most museums, there are hordes (I see them in my mind, exquisitely dressed, artistically coifed) of well-educated, well-to-do women who are delighted to volunteer their time. This practice, of course, cuts down on the number of