Right Where We Live - 6. Chapter 5: New Alliances and a Tour of the Store

Chapter 5: New Alliances and a Tour of the Store

 

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…Handle with Donkey Gloves… ?

Lillian Griesedieck (Main Floor Fashion Bar) was showing a gentleman a fine pair of men's gloves. The client seemed to like them very much . . . but kept hesitating and inspecting the maker's trade-mark. "Can those elephant labels be removed?" he asked timidly, pointing to the paper stickers. "You see, I don’t want the particular friend I'm giving these to to know I'm a Republican yet."[1]

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We Bet They Had Fun

A little birdie told us that Miss Margie Lynch (Welfare Office) and Miss Leota Gligros (Price Control Office) went to Greenville, Illinois, not long ago. We're not sure how enthusiastic Leota was about it, but we're certain Miss Lynch filled her girl friend's car with lots of antiques from the farm auction they attended. Cheers, girls! We bet your flat looks stunning.[2]

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Walking

on Air

Mystery

Billy Richards and Sebastian Rose (both of Basement Men's Clothing) accidentally switched one shoe with each other and walked around like that for a whole week. Sebastian, who wears one size larger than Billy, barely noticed his aching foot . . . for some reason . . . and could not discover why, since both boys wear the exact same style and brand of shoe. Finally the mix-up was sorted when a salesman . . . reading the size on Sebastian's shoe . . . brought Billy the wrong size slippers. As for how this could have happened . . . we suggest, boys, the next time you find yourself slipping your shoes off together, you tie a knot in the laces. [3]

 

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They had regular Store Chat editorial meetings, and this Wednesday before Christmas – while as she went over pieces with him – Betty wondered about Voin's uncharacteristic lack of comments.

"I was working on this one; what do you think?

"Does Keith Spencer (Drug Stock) have a false bottom to his car . . . ? One afternoon last week we almost thought a circus was in town when he pulled up to the staff entrance on Locust Street and seven Famousites magically appeared from his Buick."[4]

Betty lowered the proof sheet in her hand, eying her correspondent's lackadaisical pose. He was slouched in a chair across the desk from her, a finger to his lips, his glasses dully glinting light from the window he stared sightlessly out of it.

"Say, what do you think?"

"It's good."

"Well, it better be. It's for the New Year's issue, and since the store's only open for three days after Christmas, we've got to have it all together."

"Yes, I have two columns prepared."

"Good job," she chuckled. "The Democrats better be careful; we Americans could get used to three-day holiday weekends."

Watching Voin's non-reaction suddenly made her remember the 'clown-car incident' occurred while she was inspecting the store's Meet me in Saint Louis windows. Betty rifled through her stack of pieces to retrieve the other one inspired at the same time. "Voin, what do you think of this one? I think it's cute."

She found it, and lifted it up so she could read and simultaneously catch her colleague's reaction.

"You might think we are very quizzical . . . but while admiring the historic and educational store windows for this holiday season, we bumped into Ernie Hadden of the Carpet Workroom. We wonder why he doesn’t wear an overcoat this time of year. Could it be his true Canadian spirit on display . . . ? Or, could it be another speciality of his native land . . . fur-lined undies!"

Voin grunted his approval, but his lack of a laugh made Betty narrow her vision and question what exactly was on the man's mind. Clearly he was distracted by more than just thoughts of where he'd break a patch of lake ice to go fishing during his time off.

She picked up a blank sheet of paper and 'read' him a ruse.

"We have word from Admiral Byrd (Second Floor Men's Negligees) that President Truman ordered a set of cotton candy tires to be delivered to the White House by a troupe of performing elephants from the Saint Louis Zoo."

She stopped 'reading' and eyed him down.

"Yeah, that sounds good," he muttered.

From out of the blue – or rather, from a remembrance of their last Wednesday meeting – clarity found the Store Chat editor. She inquired in a sympathetic tone. "How was your dinner with the Johnsons?"

He sat bolt upright. The blink behind his lenses told Betty that Voin had fully arrived in the moment.

"Ummm…" he started. "Fine."

She knew he was holding out, but she wasn't going to force the issue. However, since he was back with her, she decided to get his feedback on something of importance.

"You remember I was talking about a new feature, the Famous Family column, where we'd highlight actual family members working in the store?"

"Yes."

"Well, I have the first one, and I decided to feature a lovely mother and daughter, who happen to be black."

A glance confirmed this had caught Voin's interest.

"May I read it to you?"

"Yes."

"Georgina Cox is a long-time Famousite, having started over twenty years ago in the stock room of Misses' Coats on the Fourth Floor. She was also an Elevator Operator for a stint, and later did work in the Sample Room on the Eleventh Floor. Now she's a Maid on the Twelfth Floor, and spoke so highly of the company, that her daughter, Mrs. Elsie Browne, joined the firm a year ago as a Relief Maid. Now both girls find time daily to meet for family chit-chat."[5]

Most of the account was correct, although one word in particular was slipped in to give Voin the chance to lecture her.

Betty's musings were interrupted by the Store Chat columnist straightening nobly on his seat. "You know, Miss Higginbotham, it's not appropriate for grown, married – sometimes war-widowed – women to be called 'girls' just 'cause they are black."

She set her paper down. "You know – you are correct. I think it's high time the editorial policy of this paper, and of this company, be changed – permanently."

His upper torso relaxed; an 'I get it' smile cracked his former seriousness. "Oh. I see. You were yanking my chain, huh? Well, it's still true."

"And it's still true; I will not run anymore pieces using 'girl' for married women, of any race." She held his gaze firmly. "Did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Tell Captain Smith and Patti Johnson that you cannot help her?"

He slowly shook his head.

"Good." Betty inhaled deeply, and let it come out again as a high-pitched invitation to join forces. "So, what'ya think, Voin? With your help, we can move an already-great organization into the future a bit. I always say, a person who's not moving forward is already stuck in the past."

She shot her hand out. He shook it.

"Now," Voin said with resolution. "I have two Voin's Views to rewrite before 1946 springs on us with more challenges, but before I get to them, there's one other place I want our new alliance for progress to start."

"By any chance, is it Basement Mezzanine Cosmetics?"

"Yes. Exactly. Any chance you and I can influence – "

"Edith Tuthill, manager of said department?" Betty's fingers were already operating her flip-top card organizer.

"Yes, that's the person. Patti says she's nice."

"Oh, they all are, Mr. Reinhardt – they all are. But let's say I make a call and tell her you are coming down to shoot the breeze." She extracted the card triumphantly. "And if she picks up on some hints from me that – well, that perhaps some especially delicate intel has come to Store Chat's notice – "

"Has it?!" Voin was astounded.

"No. But Edith does not need to know that. I'll soften her up; you talk up Patti's qualifications, experience, personality, and how we need to move FB towards its ever-brighter future. Sound like a plan?"

"Carrot and a stick." Voin smiled ear to ear, and rose to his feet. "Sounds like a winning approach to me."

"I think it is."

"Betty, I'm glad you're on my side."

She rose to join him. "I'm glad we're both on the right side."

 

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VICTORY CLOTHING COLLECTION

For Overseas Relief

The National Victory Clothing Collection for victims of the war-torn countries starts on January 7th. Everyone is asked to give at least one article of clothing, a pair of shoes, or a piece of bedding to the Victory Clothing Collection. Famousites have always responded whole-heartedly to any worthwhile enterprise, and we know that this will be no exception.

In the City of Saint Louis, clothing for the war destitute abroad can be turned in to police and fire station depots where it will be picked up and immediately placed in freight cars. Schools will serve as depots for the drive west of Lindbergh Road in the County. County residents east of Lindbergh will take their donations to volunteer fire stations.

Clothing desperately needed by war victims will get to them much sooner if contributors heed these suggestions:

1. Tie shoes, boots, galoshes, mittens, gloves securely together in pairs.

2. Fasten the parts of a suit together firmly, or the skirt and jacket of a two-piece dress.

Remember that without adequate clothing and other necessities of life to sustain victims of war on the long road to rehabilitation, there can be no lasting peace.[6]

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UNCONCEALED JOY!

Mr. Erich Petzall (Price Ceiling Office) can hardly keep his feet on the ground these days since he received the cable recently that his mother had arrived safely in England after surviving life in a concentration camp during the war. She will soon be coming to Saint Louis to live, and we wish her and Erich all the best. [7]

 

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Voin was unpacking in his new office on the Eleventh Floor. It had only been two days since chatting with the manager of the Basement Mezzanine Cosmetics Department, and here it was Friday and tryout day for Reed's mother.

As he positioned a few choice bowling trophies on a low shelf, he chuckled softly. It turned out neither he nor Betty had to do much 'suggesting.' Edith Tuthill did remember and like Patti, did need a salesperson right away, but asked both Reinhardt and Higginbotham the same artless question: "Is it okay?" The Store Chat staff assured her how correcting this oversight in hiring policy was well past due, and if not for a qualified person like Mrs. Johnson, then for who? If not now, then when?

Voin pulled out his large store calendar for 1946 and tacked it prominently on the wall above the trophies. The image was of a proud weathervane surmounted by the glorious figure of Louis the King, symbol of the city and massive equestrian statue crowning Art Hill. This bronze gift to the people from The Louisiana Purchase Exposition Company was shown on a wine-red background facing north, as he did in real life. On his right side – to the east – was Famous-Barr's downtown building, beyond dispute one of the world's greatest department stores. And yet, times were changing, and times were growing, for new store locations to carry Famous forward were to the north, south and west of the Saint.

His heart glowed thinking how this calendar and its image of progress had inspired his rewritten columns to close out 1945.

A soft knock arose from the frame of his open door.

Captain Smith and Reed Johnson stood halfway in, the Captain wearing his blue uniform and cap, and Reed again attired in his two-toned jacket; today he wore a tie with cowboy hats on it.

"Come in, come in!" Voin called out, sidestepping his desk and eagerly motioning.

The boy stepped in first looking around, and the retiring gentleman strode right up behind him.

Voin shook Duffy's hand, saying excitedly, "I'm so happy to welcome both of you. You are my first official visitors."

Duffy removed his cap. "I wanted to stop by, Mr. Voin, and thank you personally."

"Oh, I didn't do very much."

"Yes, you did. Not only for Patti Johnson, but for all the young men and women of color in this organization. We hope a new day is dawning."

"Well, it's only a trial in Cosmetics, and we'll have to take our days one at a time." Voin turned his attention to Reed. "Fingers crossed, huh?"

Reed grinned and held up two pairs of crossed fingers, one set on each hand.

Voin's high spirits came out as a good-natured laugh and shoulder-pat for the lad. "What about your big day? You ready for Santa Claus' visit on Tuesday?"

Reed shrugged, and the Store Chat contributor did not even try to hide his happiness.

"Well," Duffy confessed in a deepening tone. "We have another reason for stopping by, Mr. Voin."

"What's that?"

"The young man is here until 3:30, when his mom's trial for the day is over. But…. I thought…. See, my replacement's needing a bit of training, so I can't really look after Reed like I'd like to."

Voin smiled cluelessly, standing like an akimbo dolt.

"So…" the captain was forced to spell it out. "I was hoping you wouldn't mind showing the boy around."

Voin's grin dropped with hot-potato speed. "But…. I…."

Duffy placed his hands on the lad's shoulders and leaned over the top of him to speak more confidentially to Reinhardt. "I was hoping you would take him around the store, get him into places he might not otherwise see."

Suddenly Voin's heart was broken. He got Duffy's message without it needing to be fully said.

As the gentleman replaced the cap of office upon his gray head and stepped to the door, the brand new Buyer for Girls' Toggery and the Hi-School Shop on the Fifth Floor placed his hand on Reed's upper arm and crouched down to the boy's level. He smiled. "What'd ya say, young man? Wanna see Toyland? I'll even take you to lunch."

Grown large as half dollars, Reed's eyes blinked in open expectancy. "You don’t mind?"

"No, son. It'll be my pleasure."

 

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Lunch was now a memory.

After considering where in the store he could take Reed, Voin had settled on the Tunnel-Way Café. Technically, African American staff members were only supposed to eat at the 'colored' break rooms in the store and warehouse facilities, but Patti Johnson's son was not staff, and anyway, who in their right mind would care about an eight-year-old eating a hotdog? It was one occasion where Voin Reinhardt's likeability and storewide respect could be used for an unimpeachably good purpose – feeding a hungry boy!

The Store Chat columnist had led Reed through the 'Staff Only' doors in the Basement, and as they walked fifty feet below the sidewalk level and the half-block to the restaurant, Voin told the lad about the bustle of people and goods, and how this lifeline kept the 'store without a backdoor' humming along.

Reed had been most impressed, admiring the rubber-wheeled handcars – known as 'trucks' – running along full of crates and barrels for various departments to restock. More trucks flowed from the store, this time full of brown-paper-wrapped packages to be delivered tonight right to people's doors by the fleet of vans the store maintained.

Voin had explained how this was the busiest time of the year and by tomorrow evening at 5, the store's holiday's sales for the year would be over.

Positioned midway between Famous and the Saint Charles Street Warehouse and Power Plant, the Tunnel-Way Café was likewise carved halfway out of the wide circulation space. Seats and counters offered a crinkle-crankle number of deep 'S' curves. About fifty Famousites could sidle up for all-day breakfast or lunch here, and the kitchens and support space were carved all the way back to Seventh Street so they took no further space from the passageway.

They had selected a pair of stools at one narrow end so Reed had an unobstructed view of people and goods coursing through the lifeline.

Voin noticed a few hostile glares, but he smiled and called on each person by name with the blessing of the seasons. Most had responded with instant smiles and felicitations of the same for Reinhardt.

The waitress did not hand Reed a menu, but no nevermind. Voin and the young man shared one, and the Store Chat contributor cheekily ordered for both.

While they waited for lunch, they chatted and Voin heard all about Reed's awe concerning how deep they were, and marveling at how all of this busy-bee bustle happened out of sight. And the entire time Voin felt his admiration grow for how polite and lovely a young man Reed Johnson really was. Voin suspected – and was glad – most if not all of the possibly less-than generous feelings towards the idea of Reed's presence passed by the boy unnoticed. Or, at least Voin hoped they had.

Now anyway, as they rode the glamorous chrome and stainless steel escalators up to the Fifth Floor, he was confident good fellowship and fun were all Reed and Voin would see.

"Where are we going, Mr. Reinhardt?"

"Now, first of all – I want you to call me 'Voin.' Your grandmother may not approve, but when we're just together you and I, I want you to think of me as a friend. All right?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, aw-reet, Voin." A puckish grin slid across his angel features with devilish ease.

"Good," he chuckled. "And to answer your question, Reed, I am taking you to the Trim-A-Tree Shop. Ever been to one before?"

The lad shook his head. "I'm not sure what it is."

"Doesn't your grandmother shop downtown?"

"No, sir – Voin. She shops in The Ville."

"Oh, that makes sense. Support the community."

"Yeah, that's what she says."

"And where does she get her holiday decorations?"

"Hendry's Hardware always has a big stock."

They neared the top, so Voin latched onto the boy's shoulders and faced him forward. In another moment, they were off the escalator and heading to a fairyland of evergreen arches.

"Well at Famous-Barr, we have an entire Trim-A-Tree Department."

Reed glanced up and into the man's face. The unspoken 'wow' did not need saying; it was written all over the young man's expression of wonder.

They passed side by side beneath the gate of living greenery and lights into a forest of winterland glory.

Groupings of decorated trees in threes and fives – as odd numbers always make for greater marketing appeal – stood in the corners of the space. Display tables, like larger examples of the record troughs in the Music Department, held un-lidded boxes of ornaments, while wreaths with price tags on long strings for easy examination, dangled above the boxed-sets of tree baubles.

Voin's vision drifted up, and an actual murmur of "Wow" fell from his lips. A myriad of red honeycomb paper bells floated above their heads on nearly invisible fishing line. They were all different sizes, ranging from the size of a child's hand, to larger than a man's chest, and slowly twisted with the currents of air at differing heights.

"Do you like them, Reed?"

"Yes."

Voin looked to a rotating display stand in the center of the Trim-A-Tree Shop and found the packaged bells: a dozen small ones for 69¢; the biggest one, only a $1.50. The Store Chat columnist had a desire to get some for Reed, but he wouldn't make a fuss now; he'd come back later. Perhaps he could mail them to the Johnson home and say they'd come from Santa Claus.

In the man's absence of attention, Reed had wandered over to stand before a massive tree – ten feet tall, at least. Ivory-colored light bulbs, of the bigger, newer C7 size, tracked along branches inside and illuminated un-silvered balls of chalky hues.

"Reed, it says this is the Meet Me in Saint Louis tree." The man pointed to a placard near the base, and now Voin realized that along with the glass ornaments were postcard-sized colored stills from the film, each one pasted on cardboard and framed in soapy glitter.

"Look at this tree!" Reed had already moved on.

The neighboring tannenbaum was smaller but every bit as glorious. Here, pale amber bulbs and Shiny Brites in only blue and purple floated ethereally behind a waterfall of frozen movement. Instead of Olive's pre-war mass of metallic tinsel, the new kind giving life here consisted of sparkling strands of cellophane. Each one was both partially opaque and see-through.

"I bet your grandmother doesn't cotton to plastic on the Christmas tree."

Reed rotated his head with pursed lips. The expression asked 'What do you think?'

Voin laughed.

They spent another twenty minutes looking around: at the artificial trees fitted with branches of green nylon straw, or Visca, as it was known; at the wreaths wrapped in cellophane garlands of ruby, blue and magenta; at foil-backed cardboard ornaments, in three-dimensional shapes of USA shields, drums, planes, ships; at bristly candy canes and fat icicles of flocked nylon; and angel treetops like dolls with plastic heads, but fabric skirts and foil wings.

"Wait until you see upstairs," Voin said as they left the Trim-A-Tree Shop.

"Why, Voin?"

"You'll see."

They boarded the up-bound escalator again, and followed the "UP TO 8" arrow in the terrazzo flooring. Soon they were nearing a clamor of happy sounds.

Even before they could see his feet, they saw the white, made-up face and bright-red juggling balls of a clown at the top of the landing. As Voin took Reed's hand to help him step off the moving staircase, the clown burst forth into a jolly: "Welcome to Toyland!"

A little way out in front was a magical display. Low cabinets were stacked full of boxed toys with examples to play with on shelves above. Kids ran with items to and from beleaguered parents; sales girls and boys acted like porters, their tired arms extended while grandmothers and aunts loaded them down.

But off to the right was a clearing, and Voin delighted in how Reed's entire visage lit up like a Christmas Tree seeing it. A snow-tiled wonder of Victorian gingerbread architecture stood as a station of sorts. The frosty sign hanging from the eves said 'Hodiamont Trolley.'

"That's my line!" the boy exclaimed, slipping his hand back into Voin's.

"Yes, but it's not your streetcar – it's a recreation of the Hodiamont in 1904."[8]

"Really?"

But before the man could answer, they first heard it, first felt it rumble through the floor beneath their feet. Turning left, they caught a glimpse of it moving through the departments. A bell clanged, and a yellow trolley on tracks built to circuit the entire floor appeared.

"Oh, my God." Reed gripped harder.

"Do you want to ride it?"

Reed's cherubim face went blank. He blinked.

"We can ride it, Reed. Come on!" he tugged on the small hand within his own and led the stunned child to the station.

Steel rail and tie sections – like oversized toy train tracks – were laid on the floor, and as Voin and Reed looked down the length to their left, the vintage-looking trolley rounded the last turn before the station.

The bell clamored again, and Reed tightened his grip while he stepped back.

It pulled in, and a conductor in old-time uniform and handlebar mustache tugged on his watch chain and brought the three-quarters-scale trolley to a halt. "Exit to your right, please." Laughing passengers of all ages disembarked on the opposite of Reed, Voin and a few others waiting shoppers.

"All aboard, please!"

Voin used Reed's hand to help him manage the step, and let go as the boy ran to the front.

They sat down on the open side behind the conductor.

"Did you see the movie, Reed, Meet Me in Saint Louis?"

"Oh yes! We just saw it in our local movie house after Thanksgiving."

"Well, remember the scene where Judy Garland is on the streetcar, singing about Clang, clang, clang went my heartstrings?"

"Yes."

"This is it. The whole store is doing the holidays like it's part of the movie."

"Wonderful," the boy said with reverence, and Voin silently agreed.

"Next stop," the conductor announced, "Sporting Goods, Bikes and Fishing Equipment."

The bell rang out sharply twice, and the trolley rolled ahead. As it did, music started to play from small speakers in the wooden slat ceiling: a chorus sang Judy's streetcar song and the machine seemed to rock and rumble in perfect timing with it.

Reed stood up and grabbed into the brass bar blocking off the driver's area.

Voin saw fun and adventure in the lad's eyes.

They pulled into another 'station,' and passengers boarded and disembarked.

Reed turned to Voin. "How far does it go?"

"Around the whole floor – sixty-two thousand square feet – to Toyland!"

"Oh, wow."

The conductor rang the bell, and announced once they had started moving again, "Next stop, Automotive Accessories, Flags and Garden Supplies."

Reed returned to his seat and held the man's gaze. "You're nice, Mr. Voin."

Choking back broader sentiment, Reinhardt simply answered with the truth. "You're nice too, Mr. Reed."

They both settled in to enjoy the ride.

After another stop, and an announced visit to "Records, Record Players, Radios and Television," both stood up and watched the scene roll by.

Voin had an idea, and spoke lowly to the conductor. The man listened in confidence, his eyes settling on the boy, and then pulled back with a friendly nod for Voin.

Completing their next stop, the uniformed man called out "All aboard," undid the brass bar and glanced at Reinhardt.

Through his smile, Voin told Reed, "Your turn."

"My turn for what?"

But before Reed could get an answer, Voin had hoisted him into his arms and stepped to the pull cord.

"Go on, Reed. The conductor will let you do the honors."

"Two nice tugs on the rope, son," the driver said with reassurance.

Reed reached up.

Clang! Clang!

The trolley pulled ahead, then the streetcar operator sang out, "Next stop – Toyland!"

 

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They had about thirty-minutes left before the Store Chat reporter would take Reed down to the Basement Mezzanine and drop him off with his mom.

As they held hands and stepped onto the escalator which would take them down to Seven, Voin knew just the place to show the boy.

After their trolley ride, they had spent a long time investigating all the toys on the market for Christmas 1945. Metal was out, so were the cheap and cheerful tin toys of the pre-war days; toys now were made of wood, composition, fabric, and that new-fangled substance – plastic.

Reed had admired a farm set. About a dozen buildings could be assembled from printed cardboard, and a huge collection of people and animal figures came along too.

Reed naturally also spent time checking out footballs, the catchers' mitts, and other sports equipment for young players.

While looking at the toys, Voin again felt a desire to collect together and purchase all that caught Reed's eye and fancy, but he knew the instinct was wrong. It was up to the boy's folks to determine what was best for him, and the columnist even remembered Olive Johnson saying at the dinner party that toys should be practical, and not just of a momentary interest.

Recollecting Olive's parental attitude had the opposite of the desired effect on Voin, for his childhood had been the same, and the young Reinhardt had craved the store-bought jollities of his buddies.

"Where are we going, Voin?"

Reed's simply stated question snapped Voin back to the present. "Reed, did you know we have fish and hamsters – and puppies and kittens too – right here in the store?"

The boy shook his head slowly.

"Well, we do. Fancy a visit to the Pet Shop?"

His companion simply smiled; 'Yeah,' Voin thought, 'silly question.'

They stepped off, and Reed gripped his hand tighter when Voin turned to the right and headed to a corner by the north elevators.

Crowds with string-secured, brown-paper-wrapped parcels rushed about, but as they neared the glass doors of the bright and warm Pet Department, the people faded into the background.

Inside, Reed let go, and immediately walked past the aquariums and terrariums with nary a glance. The object of his interest was a glass wall, on the other side of which were puppies in cages. Stacked a few high in tiers, larger breeds – like Shepherds and Pinschers – frolicked on the bottom level. Medium-sized pups – like terriers and spaniels – played in the center row. Lap dogs and those of the miniature ken occupied the highest shelves and played boisterously with each other.

"Which one, Reed, do you like the best?"

The boy pointed straight ahead. A yellow American cocker spaniel pup, with a dome head and beautifully floppy ears, was eying Reed with just as much interest as the boy regarded the dog.

Without Reed noticing it, Voin grabbed the attention of an attendant. He strode up to the young man with a grin; his finger reached out when in striking distance and gently flicked the young man's tie.

"Did the ladies in Check Writing get you that bib? I don’t see any spots."

Henry Bartholomew, the fellow Betty had spot-cleaned near the Main Floor Soda Fountain one day last week, blushed. "Awww, come on, now."

Voin laughed, and then spoke to him in a soft tone, gesturing to Reed.

In another minute or two, the Store Chat contributor told Patti's son, "Come with me."

Reed looked up. "Where we going?"

"Not far. Come on."

Voin led the way to a small room within the Pet Sop. The door had a glass window, and man and boy entered.

"What are we doing here?" Reed asked innocently.

Voin played dumb. "Don’t you want to meet him?"

"Meet who?"

But before Reed could say anymore, Henry Bartholomew knocked on the open door and came in. Cradled in his arms was a yellow cocker spaniel puppy.

Henry smiled and set the bemused canine on the floor before he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Reed slid halfway on his knees and shins to the puppy, who for his part, wagged his tail.

The boy opened his arms, and the dog came to him.

In Voin's mind, he knew there was tacit disapproval of puppies in the Johnson household, but when something was right, sometimes rules must be bent.