“Yes, Uncle Cy?” “Someone here to see you.” I paused in my task of setting the tables for Friday’s lunch. My hands were full of flatware. I dropped the knives and forks in a clattering heap and headed for the front desk. I couldn’t imagine who had come to see me, though never in a million years would I have guessed Marcus Wiant. Yet there he stood, in grimy overalls, his cap in his hands, a smear of grease over his left brow. Breathless, I stopped in the archway of the dining room and stared. He misunderstood what surely must have been my shocked expression. Running a dirty hand through his hair, he said, “Sorry. I didn’t have time to clean up. I just ran over from the station for a minute.” I nodded as I searched vainly for my voice. Marcus glanced hesitantly at Uncle Cy, who at that moment turned away and pretended to be busy behind the desk.
