Matt took a fraction of a second, standing on the bottom step of the bus, to look for Marshall Silberwetter, or, more likely, one of his aides. Marshall himself would probably not bother to venture out into the thighbiting wind just to witness another of his wife’s assignations.
That fraction of a second was all Matt got before he was pushed out onto the sidewalk by the passengers behind him. He stumbled, and twisted to the right, veering away from the north-south current so he wasn’t sucked into the mainstream. Why were all those mounted polcemen out in the street? A horse or two on the sidewalks would do wonders for navigation. Or would that be cruelty to the horses? A tank might do better.
He took his bearings, braced himself, and plunged through the mob, using his briefcase as both shield and spear. Pulling left, he made his way to a peaceful eddy between the traffic charging into Water Tower Place and the crush pushing past it. He paused in the moment’s calm to study the herd instinct in his fellow pedestrians. Everyone was even aiming for the same revolving door, while those to the left and right sat quietly unrevolved.
Matt felt the doors to the right looked calmest, far from the main torrent. No one stood anywhere near it, even, save for a lone Santa Claus, sheltered by a jog in the wall grom the prevailing winds.
He swung to the side, blinking into that wind, to check the big Salvation Army tree across the street. Their sign showed that a few million had been dropped in the Santa pots so far. Matt recalled he hadn’t dropped in anything so far this year; he didn’t recall dropping anything in last year. His left hand snaked through his coat pocket, under his jacket, and down into the change that clumped in the depths of his pants pocket. Lurching still against the wind, he noticed that Santa had no pot. In fact, it was a remarkably unplump Santa.
Santa’s eyes met his and Santa’s rosy cheeks dimpled encouragement. Then Santa’s hands gripped Santa’s red suit, and flipped it open.
Matt could still remember his older brother Pete, coming upon a puzzled ten year-old flipping through some magazines that had been tucked under a mattress, and snarling, “Not a breast man, uh?” Matt was rivetted nonetheless. His eyes froze on target, despite an inner voice reminding him that when his eyes were stuck in one place that was the time he most desperately needed to turn them elsewhere.
No comment rose from the crowd pushing to get into Water Tower; Matt was the only one who had noticed anything besides that one popular revolving door. This kind of thing surely happened only in books and dreams! He refused to believe a moment of this. Steam curled away where frigid air hit rosy warm skin. Matt understood who had to be under that triangle of thick white curls.
He believed everything now. He started forward again. Santa closed her jacket and braced her feet shoulder-width apart.
Assert yourself, Matt advised Matt. Be strong, be calm. He came to a halt a few feet from the impudent Claus.
“You know,” he said, his voice cracking only a little. “This is getting to be a habit with you.”
She replied, dimples blazing, “How did you guess who it was?”
Telling the truth—that he had recognized her between beard and belt buckle—would send the conversation spiraling into the gutter. “You’re the only person I know who’d go to the trouble,” he napped. “Have you tried therapy?”
Ada took off the Sata hat and ran one hand through her hair. “I do wish so many great people weren’t deranged,” she said. “It sometimes gives me doubts about myself.”
Matt turned and pushed into the nearest revolving door. Not until he reached the escalator and saw bustling shoppers turn to stare behind him did he look back. And even then he asked himself if he really wanted to know.
She had removed her beard and was now slipping off the jacket. He started to lunge, but his briefcase caught him just below the right knee and nearly sent him toppling down the moving stairs on top of her.
“Don’t fret.” She smiled kindly. “I closed cover before striking.”
A shiny white blouse had been pulled up somehow over the offending frontal features. Matt watched, burning, as she turned the jacket around, pulled the sleeves inside out, and produced, stepping off at the top of the escalator, a perfectly serviceable black down jacket. Some of the escalator crowd applauded and she bowed, dimpling in all directions.
Then she held the coat out. Matt automatically took it from her and held it up for her. “I designed this myself,” she told him, slipping her arms into it. “For December. Most people don’t get all psychiatric on me when I wear it.”
She was almost pouting. Matt would have felt triumph at scoring a point, but he was sure she had already plotted her next four moves with revenge in mind.
They rode escalator after escalator to the level of the bakery. “Um, wait here,” he told her at the door, without much hope.
To Matt’s surprise, she stopped outside the door. He felt her eyes on him as he gave Beth the latest rejection slips and took back the little yellow box. There was no opportunity for conversation. The manager was helping up front today, and was duly suspicious of the transfer of documents. Matt nought a pair of macadamia brownies to mitigate his crime.
“You have strange tastes,” Ada told him as he came out again. “She looks like the kind of kid who hides under tables and waits to bite people.”
Matt held out the box of photos. He was not going to argue with such a perfect description.
She shrugged, glancing toward the escalator. “Whatever bumps your busy. What’s she like about pictures of tombstones?”
“Well,” Matt ventured. “Well, she’s a poet.”
This sounded lame to him, but Ada nodded as if it explained all. “Do you like poetry?”
“Um, er, ah, yes.” He tried to push the yellow box into her hands again.
She tucked them out of the way. “You must come over to the house some time. I’ll recite limericks.”
Matt resisted an impulse to jam the box square into her midsection: the down jacket would have spoiled the effect. She didn’t appear even to notice the yellow rectangle. “What kind of poetry does the feral cookie chef write?”
“Oh, ah, well, er….have you heard of Jinx Bottym?” Ada shook her head; he supposed it had been a long shot. “Well, all kinds, you know: free verse, haiku….” He punctuated this catalog with a shrug as his voice trailed off.
Her eyes rolled wide. “And she gets money for that? What a racket!”
Matt pursed his lips, but could think of no retort. Beth herself had said accepting money for haiku was like getting paid to wash your toes. He cleared his throat.
“Here,” he said, waving the box at her one more time. “I’ve got to be getting home.”
“Aw.” She finally slipped her hands under the collection of photographs. “And I thought you’d join me for supper.”
Matt’s head shook fiercely enough that his glasses nearly flew off. “My mother’ll be waiting.”
“True,” said Ada. She tucked the box somewhere under the big black jacket. “Let’s go down to the third floor.”
Matt had been heading for the big glass elevator anyhow, but glanced back. “Why?”
She smiled. She let her jaw drop a little when she smiled, accenting the cheeks and letting her soft lips plump out. “That’s where your mother’s waiting,” those soft lips whispered.
Matt stared at them, and they went up. “I thought the three of us could sit and discuss our case over dinner. So I told her I’d fetch you while she looked at the travel books in Rizzoli’s.”
“I…I…you left my mother…she’s alone…the crowds….” Matt ;et three scalding breaths out through his nostrils before he felt cool enough to go on.
“There is no ‘case’,” he growled, marching up in front of Ada Silberwetter. “We are not going to supper. We are going home. Each of us to our own home. Don’t you ever talk to my mother again.”
Ada smiled some more, and her lips didn’t look so soft. She reached up and pinched his cheek. “Whatever you say. You can explain that all to Mom, then. Rizzoli’s. In the travel books.”
She turned and strolled for the elevator, each bounce daring him to follow. Matt closed his lips and gritted his teeth.
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