Hand-Me-Down Days: At the Crossroads

By Valerie Banfield

The Great Depression looms heavy and dark, but beneath its shadow, hope takes root and struggles to bloom.

 

Indianapolis, 1933. Life has been at a standstill since the 1929 stock market crash crippled the economy, and Mae Lewis is tired of going nowhere. Government officials keep launching recovery programs, but the results are as fickle and unpredictable as a bride who is anxious to set her wedding date. Leo, her dearest darling, is holding fast to a practical path that fails to give notice to the dreams and possibilities that walk beside him every day. Her patience is teetering toward bitterness, and if they wait much longer to say "I do," their picture-perfect future might fall apart.

 

Leo Coyle's fiancée is in a lather over postponing their nuptials, but a man who is living on the low side of "for richer or poorer" doesn't have any business walking down the matrimonial aisle. They both have jobs, and that's terrific, but working for a company that operates as a democracy is better still. Employee ownership, though, can instigate unrest and uncivilized behavior as easily as it inspires optimism. It's often hard to imagine that Columbia Conserve Company will ever be prosperous again, but Leo's holding onto hope. Joy is just around the corner, and he and Mae will savor it together as soon as the country rights itself again.

 

At the Crossroads selections are stand-alone novels, each with unique characters and story lines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Banfield
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223810179

Book preview

Hand-Me-Down Days

~

At the Crossroads

~

Valerie Banfield

At the Crossroads ~ Book 1

The Great Depression looms heavy and dark, but beneath its shadow, hope takes root and struggles to bloom.

––––––––

Indianapolis, 1933. Life has been at a standstill since the 1929 stock market crash crippled the economy, and Mae Lewis is tired of going nowhere. Government officials keep launching recovery programs, but the results are as fickle and unpredictable as a bride who is anxious to set her wedding date. Leo, her dearest darling, is holding fast to a practical path that fails to give notice to the dreams and possibilities that walk beside him every day. Her patience is teetering toward bitterness, and if they wait much longer to say I do, their picture-perfect future might fall apart.

Leo Coyle’s fiancée is in a lather over postponing their nuptials, but a man who is living on the low side of for richer or poorer doesn’t have any business walking down the matrimonial aisle. They both have jobs, and that’s terrific, but working for a company that operates as a democracy is better still. Employee ownership, though, can instigate unrest and uncivilized behavior as easily as it inspires optimism. It’s often hard to imagine that Columbia Conserve Company will ever be prosperous again, but Leo’s holding onto hope. Joy is just around the corner, and he and Mae will savor it together as soon as the country rights itself again.

Copyright © 2023 by Valerie Banfield

ISBN: 979-8-3932-2576-6

Cover photograph / Shutterstock

King James Bible scriptures are in the public domain.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, entities, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements are the product of the author’s imagination.

Alfred's father, Leander Joseph Fuller, would often look at his son’s hands and say, These are your fortune, boy. Be suspicious of anyone who shows you how to make a living without using them.

Alfred Carl Fuller

Founder, Fuller Brush Company

Chapter 1

June 1933

Mae braced herself as she stepped away from the conveyer belt and wiped the back of her hand against her sweaty forehead. She tugged her damp collar, smoothed the front of her uniform, and prayed that the warm air she gulped into her lungs held a smidgin of confidence. She had three minutes to take her seat in the classroom.

Wanda raised her voice a notch or two above the drone of the machinery and offered a sarcastic Take good notes, Genius. Evelyn delivered her good riddance with a condescending Don’t hurt your pinkies, Chisel, and punctuated her opinion with a cackle that could curl the edges off the soup can labels.

Mae held her tongue as she dodged the barbs, dashed out of the sweltering room, and headed down the hallway. Her nose crinkled at the fumes that smothered the canning factory and the surrounding neighborhood, an unpleasant clash of cooked vegetables and, depending on the schedule, the pungent aroma of simmering beef, ox tails, or chicken. How the ingredients came together to generate a tasty finished product was a mystery.

So, too, was the level of provocation her coworkers displayed. What compelled Evelyn and Wanda to ridicule her for taking classes that would lead to a job in the company’s offices? Genius, in modern lingo, described a horribly stupid person. And chisel? Why, Mae wasn’t looking to swindle her way out of two hours on the assembly line any more than the other workers who wanted a shot at a job that required a higher level of training.

Earlier in the day, a misplaced screwdriver made its way to their work area, jammed the rollers, and sent shrapnel flying. While men rushed to get the idled line back in service, Mae took to her knees, gathered debris, and gave thanks that no one was hurt. Evelyn and Wanda celebrated the unscheduled break by speculating which genius among the workers was responsible for the incident.

Mae was irate by the time she turned the corner and ran smack-dab into Leo Coyle. As she spun sideways from the impact, he steadied her with a hand to her shoulder and offered an amused, Good day, Miss Lewis.

Leo. Her clever and handsome, one and only love. He’d deliberately put himself in her path—and they both knew it. Even so, her pulse quickened. He made a game of popping up during the work day. How he managed to materialize and waggle his eyebrows at her in between inspecting and servicing equipment that ran from one end of the building to the other was as inexplicable as it was endearing. He didn’t have to account for his ever-changing whereabouts, but so far as she knew, no one ever accused Leo of chiseling.

He leaned forward and squinted past the strand of light brown hair that fell over his eye. What’s the matter, doll?

The usual Evelyn and Wanda insults.

Aw, they’re just bumping gums.

Idle chatter or not, their words stung.

Leo hunched his shoulders until he looked her square in the face. Dark brown halos bordered his pale brown irises, and when his pupils contracted, the movement drew attention to the gold starbursts at their centers. That trait alone could make her knees wobble.

Goodness, he was a distraction. And she needed to get to class. When she shook herself free of his charm, Leo took the action as a shudder.

They’re just jealous.

Why would they be? Mae shouldn’t have asked a question that demanded an answer. She didn’t have time to chat.

You finished ninth grade, Mae.

So?

The average Columbia Conserve Company worker has a fourth-grade education.

So? Every one of the them can apply for training. In fact, the company encouraged schooling. Employee-owners needed to learn how a company earned a profit, and if they didn’t quit squabbling with one another, the canning factory wouldn’t survive the Depression.

William Hapgood, president of the company, launched an industrial experiment that benefited the workers, but boy oh boy, did he earn the wrath and judgement of other business owners. And how. These days, those pessimistic and suspicious undercurrents were spilling into the factory, as were the ardent opinions of workers swayed by trade unions and the social movement.

Mae’s snide coworkers were a case in point. Mr. Hapgood needed to reiterate his perpetual We all have to work together to be successful on a daily basis, for if his industrial democracy concept failed, Mae’s employment and her bright future would vanish.

Hold on a minute, doll. Your education is way beyond basic reading and arithmetic lessons, and anyone who didn’t finish grade school would have a lot of catching up to do. Instead of letting them get to you, you ought to consider their state of affairs.

Leo’s gently delivered rebuke may have doused Mae’s temper, but the admonition brought heat to her cheeks. She managed a tight-lipped smile as she backed away. I’m late.

He dipped his chin and pressed his hand to his heart. I promise to bump into you as often as possible, darlin’.

Soon, I hope. But first, Mae had to dazzle the grammarian and spelling authority who was already lecturing the students who managed to arrive on time.

She walked away, and with each of her forward steps, Leo’s humming trailed after her. His rendition of Did You Ever See a Dream Walking? chased away her frustration, but it also tempted her to slow her pace so that she could sashay her way to the classroom in the manner that a dancing and romancing dream girl was wont to do.

The high-pitched screech of metal scraping metal and the hollow thud that ricocheted off the walls were nothing compared to the seconds of absolute silence that followed. Moments later, while her breathing stalled and her hair stood on end, she heard workers in the factory area shouting to one another. What she didn’t hear was a warning bell. Just like the previous incident, the malfunction was loud and frightful, but it didn’t create a safety hazard or induce harm. Whatever the calamity, the dashing Leo Coyle would fix it in a jiffy. He always did.

She picked up her pace, and when she reached her destination and slid into her chair, she hid her blush behind a hastily folded paper fan. Mrs. Peabody, a volunteer instructor whose enthusiasm and bubbly personality were as constant and predictable as the volume and temperature of a vat of stewing tomatoes, didn’t miss a beat as she acknowledged Mae’s tardy arrival.

Minutes before the clock announced the end of the workday, Mrs. Peabody gathered the students’ spelling quizzes, stepped to the front of the class, and clasped her hands. Before we dismiss, I want to congratulate three students who have demonstrated solid skills in grammar and spelling as well as aptitudes for subjects best taught elsewhere. Miss Daniels, Miss Miller, and Miss Lewis, please stay after class, and I will share the details with you. As for the rest of you, remember that you, too, may have an invitation to follow in their footsteps.

Mae’s imagination whirled as some of her classmates wished her well. Did Mrs. Peabody think she had the smarts to be a stenographer? She’d wear office attire instead of a uniform and would keep a spare, sharpened pencil balanced above one ear so that she would always be prepared. The job would demand that she be a tight-lipped professional because she’d have the inside scoop when she transcribed the important letters Mr. Hapgood dictated to her. Wouldn’t that be something?

Mrs. Peabody’s voice pulled Mae out of the executive office and back into the classroom. When you discuss your schedules with your supervisor, please take into account the time you’ll need for transportation to your classes. Miss Daniels and Miss Miller, beginning next week, you will take typing and dictation classes at the YWCA. They begin at one o’clock on Monday and three o’clock on Wednesday.

If quivering shoulders and subdued squeals were indicators, the two budding stenographers were giddy with anticipation.

Miss Lewis, you will continue your training at Indiana Business College.

No fooling? That was the best news ever.

Mrs. Peabody beamed when she said, The school is recognized for their bookkeeping coursework.

Mae gulped. Bookkeeping? Well, she could do that. Maybe. She did all right with numbers. Add here, subtract there. How hard could it be?

But their Accounting and Advanced Accounting programs are top-notch. I’m certain you’ll excel in those. Congratulations.

Congratulations? Didn’t Mrs. Peabody know? No, how could she? Mae’s only encounter with accounting had to do with the term depreciation, and the word sent her skin crawling. She mumbled her thanks to her kind teacher and walked into the hallway where she pressed her shoulders against the wall and tried to make her lungs exchange air. Clatter arose from every section of the factory as the work day officially ended. Mae’s eagerness to flee matched those who were the first to sprint out the doors.

Congratulations were in order. They were.

But . . . accounting?

It sounded like a career instead of a job. Did she want that? Really? She’d rather put her best efforts into being Leo’s bride, but judging by the way he was dragging his feet, she’d become Mr. Hapgood’s personal assistant long before she became Mrs. Leo Coyle.

Chapter 2

The crash of bowling pins against the hardwood coincided with the bowler’s animated victory leap. The fella in the lane to Leo’s left wasn’t biding time with friends or strutting in front of challengers. The four ten-frame sets the young man finished during the same time it took Leo and his two pals to complete the eighth frame of their first game suggested that his visit to Pritchett’s Alleys was all about practice. Anyone who knew anything about serious bowlers knew that practice was all about winning.

The embroidery on the redhead’s leather bowling ball bag identified him as Everett, and his last maneuver marked his fifth strike in a row. A remarkable feat. He was a formidable, consistent player who lobbed his Brunswick Mineralite ball with the finesse of a professional. If he didn’t make it in the sports circuit, though, his jaunty celebratory footwork might make him a winner in a Lindy Hop contest.

Before Leo sauntered toward the foul line and released his well-used, alley-owned ball, he made a show of wriggling his hips and adjusting his grip in the same manner Extraordinary Everett had done. In light of the measly pin action that followed, he did not repeat the tomfoolery with his second roll.

While the pinboy set up the seven pins Leo managed to knock over in the ninth frame, Dale recorded the figures on the threesome’s scorecard and elbowed Morris. No wonder Columbia Conserve quit sponsoring the bowling league.

Leo took a seat, stretched out his legs, and leaned his head against his interlaced fingers. At least my scores are dependable.

Watch it, pally. Dale met Leo’s challenge as quickly as Everett’s potent ball toppled another ten pins. That last league game was a fluke.

Dale’s average bowling score was a commendable 198, but the competitive bent that led to his best bowling scores was just as likely to humiliate him. All it took was one throwaway roll of the ball, one misstep, or one miscalculation. Once he erred, his exasperation directed every frame that came thereafter.

If we hadn’t taken pay cuts, Dale groused, we’d still practice three nights a week, and we’d still belong to the league. Then, I’d show ’em.

Morris grunted when he stood. The dark-haired technician—the term Columbia gave to those who had enough job knowledge to hold a supervisory position—stuck a thumb under each suspender and pulled upwards until the belt loops on his baggy pants lined up with his waistline.

Columbia wasn’t the only company to back out of its sponsorship. When you take into account the number of leagues and teams that folded during the past three years, you have to wonder how the bowling alleys stay in business.

Morris joined Columbia Conserve in 1920, three years after Mr. Hapgood turned the company into a democracy, and it was Morris’ tenure that gave Leo reason to watch his coworker’s reactions as the company stepped through—or waded through—the Depression. Middle-aged Morris wasn’t book smart, but he was a wise old coot.

He glided toward the foul line and sent a lazy ball rolling toward the pins. Morris had a wicked hook that managed to tip over a mess of pins despite the limited momentum. This particular effort awarded him a coveted strike.

Dale was still whining while Morris waited for the pinsetter to return his ball. If we hadn’t given up half of our wages, we could practice like we used to and join some other league.

Morris looked over Leo’s shoulder and made sure an X marked the first ball in his ninth frame before he turned his attention to Dale. You’d have to work for some other company in order to join a business-sponsored bowling league.

That’ll never happen, Dale said. Bowl your frame, Morris. Then get out of my way so I can show you how to finish your game.

Soon enough, Dale proved to be the best of the three, having trounced Morris by a dozen pins and Leo by two dozen more.

Dale ran a comb through his well-oiled blond hair, slicking the longish top strands back into place. I’d best be going. The wife is keeping dinner warm for me.

In the next lane, Extraordinary Everett secured his Brunswick ball in its leather bag, his eyes on Dale and his ear tipped toward the conversation. Dale buffed his fingernails on his inflated chest. Next time, gents, see if you can muster a little more competition for me.

As he strutted to the exit, the redhead caught up with him and the two exchanged a brief conversation. If Leo wasn’t mistaken, Dale’s sucked-in cheeks and bobbing head signaled that he’d found a worthy challenger. He shook Everett’s hand before they left the building.

Morris was still gaping at the now-empty exit when Leo let out a quiet huff. I don’t have a nickel for entertainment, but I’d fork over a dime if I could see those two take their egos to the alley.

If we volunteer to keep score, maybe we won’t have to pay admission.

No wonder you’re a technician, Morris. Listen to you.

Morris scratched the side of his stubbly neck and mumbled something about needing a shave and haircut. It doesn’t take a lot of smarts to supervise a kitchen crew. Same can be said for serving on the Columbia Committee. Brain power doesn’t have much to do with it. It’s mostly about common sense. That and respecting the differences between skilled and unskilled workers.

And the seasonal tomato workers?

Them too, Morris replied.

Come the end of September and the long and wearying weeks that would follow, Leo would be grumbling along with every Columbia worker. Even those who held office jobs would cover their garb with an apron and pitch in to render tons of the slippery, slimy, finger-staining fruit into an array of products.

Besides being a technician, Morris was one of seven elected members of the Committee, which was always presented with a capital C. William Hapgood, and two others appointed by him, filled out the rest of the group. The Committee ran the weekly Council meetings—another capital C entity—where the agenda could range from absenteeism to zealous union supporters.

Until now, the bowling alley conversation held a high degree of levity, but it was with absolute sincerity that Leo said, I appreciate your representing me.

You’re not going to lecture me about being too cautious?

I like caution. It’s a lot safer than a knee-jerk outlook.

How about caution as it relates to safety? Morris asked.

What are you getting at?

We’ve had a lot of equipment failures recently. I got to thinking that we might want to step up prevention instead of rushing to fix things after they break.

If we’re moving product from the loading dock to the soup cans, we’re doing all right. It’s not as if we can hire more people and spend dough to repair and replace parts that are working.

Morris narrowed his eyes. You don’t suppose some of the Columbians . . . naw. No one would sabotage equipment for the sake of making a point.

A stunt like that would endanger the vandal’s source of income.

People don’t always use common sense. It’s fair and square that the workers vote for the Committee representatives, but a couple of the elected members won’t heed Hapgood’s vision, which makes their participation worse than useless.

Worse? Leo asked.

If they’re not on board, they’re in the way. I’m not saying someone is setting out to damage equipment, but I wouldn’t put it past the hard-core rabble-rousers. I’ll admit I was hardheaded when the workers elected me.

What changed?

I held the working-class attitude my father passed down to me, complete with the fear and suspicions of those in power. It’s all I’d ever known. It took me a long while to understand that in order to support a workplace democracy, I needed an understanding of capitalism.

Leo didn’t know much about that, and based on the politicking and finger-pointing that had covered the front page of every newspaper since the stock market went bust, he didn’t want to enter the fray. From where I’m sitting, it seems that unless a person has money or power, capitalism is just another word for greed.

I won’t argue that attitude, Morris replied, "not when advertisers in The Saturday Evening Post are making money off rich people who can still get on an airplane and fly to Europe or buy a Stutz Cabriolet Coupe to take the missus to buy a new fur at the department store. Morris looked as if he’d just gulped a mouthful of unsweetened lemonade. Tell me, Leo. Who has five thousand dollars to spend on a car?"

Hold on a minute. You just said you appreciated capitalism.

I said I understand the concepts. It works when it’s carried out properly. It wouldn’t hurt for you to attend Council meetings.

I’d rather remain neutral.

"How can you know what’s best for the workers and the company if you don’t know how one decision affects another?"

What I know, Morris, is that we gave up half our wages, but every one of us is still employed. I’ll be a good worker as long as my family has a roof over their heads and food on the table.

Leo wouldn’t complain. How could he? Even after the reduced salaries, Columbia workers earned more than others employed in the canning industry, and Columbia’s health care, vacation, and retirement programs were unprecedented. His gratitude, however, did not seem to impress his coworker.

I hear you, but whether things improve or get worse, Columbia needs to make a profit so that it can pay its employees and take out loans to finance operations. Considering the predicament you have hanging over your head, you ought to show up at the Council meetings.

My predicament? Leo asked.

The patent-infringement lawsuit?

What about it?

You may be the only person who cares enough to defend your untimely invention.

That’s not true. Mr. Hapgood will defend me. He knows I didn’t copy some old goat’s cable-driven can conveyor. I created the one I installed. Any judge worth his weight in the courtroom would have to admit that the saying, ‘two great minds work together,’ is a common statement because more than one person can come up with the same brilliant idea.

I won’t argue your opinion, but it’s a fact that the accuser filed a patent for the mechanism almost nine years ago.

Leo didn’t know that. Says who?

Says an in-the-know Committee member.

Why does the Committee care? The lawsuit can’t amount to much. Could it? Leo’s empty stomach took a sour turn.

You haven’t seen the paperwork?

No. The other day, I ran into Columbia’s attorney when he came out of Mr. Hapgood’s office. He mentioned the lawsuit in passing but told me not to worry about it.

He didn’t tell you how much the plaintiff wanted for damages? Morris’ eyebrows shot sky-high, which was a pretty good indicator as to the scope of Leo’s problems.

He did not.

They’re asking for fifty thousand simoleons.

Leo, who just moments earlier had been ready to walk to the door, thumped back into his seat. Fifty thousand dollars? Does Columbia have that kind of cash?

Morris didn’t say a word, but the way he tilted his head and pressed his lips together spoke volumes. After all the sacrifices and hardships Columbia’s workers faced with their reduced wages, was Leo to be the company’s undoing?

Chapter 3

After the streetcar reached the Garfield Park entrance, Leo and Alvin disembarked and headed toward the pavilion. They ambled toward the highest spot in the park, veering on and off the paths each time something caught Alvin’s attention. The almost-five-year-old darted from one fountain to another, a busy bee dashing from one tempting source of nectar to the next.

Eventually, they reached their destination, an Asian-inspired pagoda constructed of iron, concrete, and stone. The structure offered a spectacular view of the manicured grounds. Its copper roof, aged some thirty years now, was a pale green verdigris, a soft contrast to the dark summer hues that infused their surroundings.

Leo reached for Alvin’s hand before the boy tried to race up the wrought iron spiral staircase that led to the observation deck.

Hold on there, partner. You need to hang onto the rail and watch your step. If you take off like a runaway horse, I’ll have to rein you in and take you back to the barn.

Alvin’s giggle was as musical as the birdsong that drifted across the landscape. We don’t have a barn.

We have a shed. Same thing.

Is not.

Is so.

Are you two cowpokes coming up today or not?

With the steps in the way, Leo couldn’t see but a tiny sliver of Mae’s face, but the sound of her voice made his heart gallop.

Alvin grabbed the rail with his left hand and wriggled his right hand free of Leo’s grip. He didn’t take a step until Leo gave him a nod.

Mind your manners, buckaroo.

The boy didn’t waste a second, and by the time Leo climbed the stairs, Alvin had grabbed Mae’s hand and was tugging her toward the railing. She looked over her shoulder, gave Leo a wink, and offered a sultry, Good day to you, cowboy.

Howdy-do, darling’. Couldn’t ask for a better view. Leo covered the space that separated them and leaned toward her ear. And I’m not talking about the setting. Pride got the best of him when his comment turned her cheeks crimson. She appreciated his appreciation. He wanted to lasso his cowgirl and pull her into his embrace. Instead, he turned his attention to the scenic terrain where a steady breeze set a multitude of leaves a-twirlin’. Directly below them, mature deciduous trees bordered a wide walkway that stretched across a vast expanse of grass until it seemed to disappear.

The view was exhilarating, as was the glee on Alvin’s face when Leo lifted him to his shoulders. What a glorious summer day it turned out to be, with his best boy overhead and his sweetheart at his side. During that splendid moment, nature’s blessings eclipsed the harsh realities of life and restored his soul.

I’m as high as the birds, Daddy.

As Leo gazed in the direction of his son’s pointed finger, an indigo bunting emitted a high-pitched zeep before it flew toward the ground and darted into a dense shrub. You are, indeed.

Did you see that one? It looked like Strauss.

It sure did. It had the same bright blue hue as the canary, but its tail was shorter and its body considerably rounder than the messy household pet that sprayed empty hulls beneath its cage.

Can we bring him next time?

Why would you want to bring him here?

So he could play.

Leo balked at the implications. His mother would collapse if her beloved bird disappeared. When his father surprised her with the canary, she was playing Johann Strauss’ The Blue Danube waltz on the phonograph. She dubbed the bird Strauss when he started dipping his head in time to the music. The blue-feathered friend was more than a pet to her. He was family.

Grandma Mary wouldn’t be happy about that.

Why not?

Strauss isn’t a wild bird, Alvin. He’s a pet that needs someone to take care of him. If we take him out of the cage, he’ll fly away, and before we can catch him, he’ll get lost. That would make all of us very sad.

He’ll come back when he’s tired.

He won’t know the way home. Leo hoisted Alvin off his shoulders and knelt beside him. Look me in the eye, Son. It’s important for you to understand what I’m telling you.

Sunlight shimmered against Alvin’s strawberry-blond hair and danced on the tiny spray of freckles that dotted his nose. Near-colorless lashes framed his pale blue eyes, and when he wrinkled his forehead and displayed his attentiveness, he reminded Leo so much of Ruth that a wad of grief blocked his airway. That sensation hadn’t engulfed him in a long while, but whenever it materialized, it still hurt. He hurt for himself, but more for his boy losing his mother and his mother missing out on the life they’d created. She would have loved every vibrant facet of her little man.

Leo pulled himself together and put a hand on each of Alvin’s shoulders. Will you promise that you won’t ever let Strauss out of his cage?

Yes sir.

That’s my boy.

Alvin’s countenance changed in a blink. His eyes sparkled when he asked, Can I play on the curly stairs?

Will you hold onto the rail and promise not to go too fast?

If Alvin’s smile was a bright blue feather, it could have knocked Leo over. I will and I won’t.

Now hold on a minute. What’s that supposed to mean?

Alvin pinched his lips into a frown and—who taught his tender-hearted boy to roll his eyes? And the tsk? Well, it reminded Leo of the neighbor’s just-finished-kindergarten daughter. Heavens to Betsy, soon Leo would have to contend with the wider vision of the world that Alvin would encounter when he walked into a classroom.

"I will hold the rail and I won’t go too fast."

Oh. Leo caught Mae smothering her grin with her hand. Well, that’s a good plan. Go ahead.

Leo and Mae leaned over the railing far enough to get a glimpse of the top of Alvin’s head as he clopped down the steps.

I can’t tell whether he’s being cautious, Leo said, or if he’s thumping his feet hard enough to make his imaginary spurs jangle.

Maybe both. He’s having fun, and so am I. I’m surprised it only took me ten minutes to walk here. I ought to visit at least once a week. She closed her eyes and inhaled a dose of balmy air.