"Of course you do! We're not going to the opera! I want your cloak—for something else."
She went and got it. The car was a big sedan. Alan put on the back seat the cloak and his cloth bag—they were tools from the workshop, he had told me briefly when I questioned. We all three sat in front, as was our custom. Alan drove.
I recall as we left the apartment that I vaguely gazed ahead those few hours to when we would return. The futility of gazing ahead!
"We've got to hurry," said Alan. "Hope we can catch a ferry, without too long a wait."
He threaded us skillfully south through the crowded city streets. I gazed around. This was New York of 1945. I suddenly felt wholly apart from it.
We just made the ferry. The sky continued overcast. It rained a little, and then stopped. We left the ferry, drove into Staten Island toward Turber's.
"I think I know a secluded place," Alan had told us.
He found it, an unlighted country road. He stopped and switched off the headlights. The darkness leaped at us.
"Where are we?" I demanded.
"A mile from Turber's—not much more. You can see it off there."