Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

it had (always) been the 1948 election, wherein President Truman would spectacularly “upset the dope”—and come away, with a, totally-unexpected, earthshaking, upset, win—that had, forever, intrigued him! The stupendous result—of the ’48 campaign—had signaled the second presidential defeat for that same Thomas Dewey!

The two-years-plus that the, by-now-familiar, “Jimmy Root” had spent, at WXXD, had turned out to be quite productive! Slowly, he’d managed to become “Number One Talent”, at the station! This was due—in no small part—to his, by-now-legendary, his extensive, knowledge, of the “music business”.

When Jo Stafford’s recording of It Could Happen To You made its way into the top ten—as seen by the, ever-influential, Your Hit Parade powers that be—Jason did not hesitate, to remind his “adoring fans” that he’d predicted big things for the singer (as well as for her “genius” husband, Paul Weston, who’d arranged and conducted the recording).

The couple would, a few months later, top the charts—with Jerome Kern’s beautiful ballad, Long Ago (And Far Away). Well, the Number-One rating, for the tune, had wound up being a real dogfight. The recording had been in direct competition—with Bing Crosby’s also very popular rendition, of the always-stirring, sentimental, ballad! Both recordings had turned out to be “chartbusters”. The Stafford/Weston duo had—obviously—been in good company.

So, “Jimmy Root’s” career was—definitely—in the “Ascension” mode. And appeared set to remain so! One could always hope, anyway!

Sunday, June 25, 1944: As had been the custom—during the two-years-or-so, that Jason and Valerie had been married—the couple would attend Mass, with Susan and Eric (by now, to also be known as “Aunt Susie” and “Uncle Eric”—once Mary Rose had “burst forth”, as her father had always described her birth). “Uncle Eric” would—forever—proclaim, that his new “niece” would/had/did (in his words) “always mop up the floor with me”.

The older couple would “often as hell” (quoth Jason) offer to babysit their “niece”. The “blanket invitation” was extended—as soon as Cynthia had put in her “grand” appearance. Expanded—to include the cherished newcomer.

From time to time, “Uncle Eric” would call—and offer to finance a night out, for the young couple. Our Hero’s former landlord and landlady loved their newly-acquired “nieces”. Had always loved them! The affection was self-evident in, practically, every word and deed.

It was patently evident—blatantly, in Susan’s case—that they were still grieving the loss of their own son. Jason also came to feel, that Eric had—forever—regretted the fact, that he’d never sired a daughter! Truly, Mary Rose did, forever, “mop up the floor” with him! And Cynthia was “catching on quick”!

Both Our Boy, and his wife, were plainly touched by the out and out love that the older couple, unfailingly, showed—toward both, of their offspring. But, there was always—always, always—a copious amount of sadness, enveloping the situation. Always! On the other hand, there was (also always) a considerable amount of gratification involved, in the constantly-touching situation. Always!

After Mass—on these richly-satisfying Sundays—the ever-expanding “posse” (Eric’s term) would repair, to the Atkinsons’ home, where they would never fail to enjoy “some little banquet, I’ve whomped up”, courtesy of the hostess. (The hostess, who would—immediately—take over “care and feeding… and general maintenance” of two little girls.

This particular Sunday—June 25th—was, of course, one of “those” Sundays. Except that—upon their arrival, at the little white house, on Sussex—Susan advised her guests, that there’d be an “added starter”, on that day. A “surprise guest”—who would not be arriving, till about one-thirty, that afternoon. So saying, she—immediately—dove into her normal routine, of “devoting her life” to her nieces. Neither she—nor her husband—would disclose the identity, of the “mystery guest”!

Jason happened to be looking out the front window—when the newcomer pulled into the driveway (at a surprisingly-fast rate of speed). He didn’t recognize the fairly-new, blue-and-white, 1941 Buick club coupe. But, he did recognize Nicholas Stainback—when the man stepped out. Obviously, the late-comer had traded in, the green ’38 Buick four door. Traded it in—or something.

Our Hero had met Stainback—only the one time. At that hamburger joint, on Joy Road—near the Herman Gardens worksite. He’d issued that, still-chilling, warning, vis-a-vis the eminent Hurley Stackhouse—a man, who had, long ago, “disappeared”! What could Mr. Stainback be doing here?

The newcomer had hurried across the lawn—then, had bolted through the front door! Before the portal had even been opened, for his entry. An act—which was virtually never done, in the early-forties. He’d reached the small vestibule well before Eric had. He grunted hellos, to (more or less) everyone. Then, he. immediately, seated himself—in the dinette. He was saying nothing to the “assembled multitude”.

Immediately, Susan had, carefully, placed Mary Rose, into the playpen—and “handed off” Cynthia, to her mother. Then, she swept into the kitchen. Within six or eight minutes, she’d finished off her “usual miracle”—and dinner was, at last, served!

For the first 15 or 20 minutes, Eric did his best to engage Stainback, in some manner of conversation. But, the only “feedback” he’d gotten, from the latest diner, was an assortment of grunts—and the occasional, far-from-silent, belch.

The whole scenario was—highly—disconcerting! Especially to Jason! And most especially troubling to Valerie! Eric seemed to be unconcerned! Was Susan? In this instance? Who could tell? She’d not been her usual sunny self—since they’d arrived home, from Church. Well, except for the “endless” time, spent—with the little girls, of course.

Finally the late-arrival cleared his throat—and muttered, “Jason… I’ve got something for you!”

“For… for me?”

Stainback nodded. Then, he reached into the inner pocket, of his rather-gamey suit-coat. The added guest produced seven dog-eared, somewhat-ruffled, legal-sized, papers—and shoved them across the table, to Our Dear Radio Personality!

“These,” he explained—his voice showing a slight bit of, highly-unusual, excitement, “are papers… ones that’re from, an accounting executive, of my acquaintance.”

“Yes?” responded the recipient—picking up the sheaf, from the table top.

“They show,” noted Stainback, “a long record… of payments! Good-sized payments! And it’s all graft! They’re all graft! Pure, out and out, corruption! The guy that got this money… all twenty-seven thousand of it, well, it’s a little over twenty-seven thousand… is a man named Anthony Keen. He’s head of an