I stood in the doorway waiting for Chaplin.
Phil and Ruth came from the direction of the dining room. Ruth moved slowly. There didn’t seem to be much left of her.
“Don’t stand there,” Phil said. “Come in and close the door.”
“I brought someone to see you, Ruth,” I said.
“Brought someone?”
She looked at Phil, who shook his head to show that he had no idea of what or who I was talking about. Chaplin was taking a long time for whatever he had forgotten.
“He’s getting something out of the car. He’ll be right here,” I said.
“Is it a killer?” Nate asked hopefully.
“No,” I said. “It’s …”
I heard a movement behind me. Ruth’s mouth fell open.
“Oh my God,” she said.
I turned and saw the Little Fellow. Derby, mustache, tight jacket, baggy pants, cane, and oversized shoes. He took off his hat and smiled at Ruth. From behind his back he pulled a single flower, a violet. He stepped past me and handed it to her.
Lucy began to cry. Phil picked her up.
“Ah, one more thing if I may,” Chaplin said, reaching inside his jacket.
He pulled out a framed photograph of himself as the Tramp and gave it to Ruth who read the inscription:
To Ruth Pevsner, with love, respect and hope.
Affectionately, Charlie Chaplin.
Ruth clutched the flower and photograph to her chest.
Chaplin doffed his hat again and went out the door. We walked after him and watched him waddle away, twirling his cane, and get into the limo.
The baby had stopped crying and was watching, as were her brothers.
“Toby,” Ruth said. “Toby.”
She gave me a hug.
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ve got a date with Anita.”
“Call her up,” said Phil. “Tell her to take a cab here if she wants. I’ll pay for it. We’re having a late dinner.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Least I can do for my brother,” he said.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2001 by Stuart M. Kaminsky
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