He found Annabel in a highly agitated state: “Don’t speak! Keep still! Shut up!” she cried. “I’ve got to hear this.”

She was looking at television. There had been talk of the possibility of a colossal new war; Clinton wondered if its beginning was now being announced. But what he saw on the screen was a familiar master of ceremonies, nearly as overcome with emotion as his mother. He was reading song titles into a microphone. After a moment, Annabel exclaimed, “I would have won!” She was near tears.

Clinton said, “Won what?”

“I had all three! It’s World War I song titles. Give My Regards to Broadway, Hello, Central, Give Me No Man’s Land, and Indianola. Of course, any fool could have got the first one, but the others were real toughies! How many people today know Indianola? ‘Ta-te-ta-te-ta-da, I love your harem eyes’.”

Clinton said, “I thought I’d go out tomorrow and get some kind of a job.”

“Imagine,” Annabel said, “I had the envelope all addressed, everything. The only difference between me and that lady in Milwaukee is, she mailed hers.” And then, “What?”

“I thought just some kind of a job for a while, to keep occupied.”

“Why, that’s a grand idea, maybe part time at the post office. Just for the Christmas rush. Then next semester, who knows? Will you come and kiss me?”

Clinton kissed his mother on the forehead. Her eyes were damp, filled with emotion—but whether for himself or for the lady in Milwaukee, he could not be certain.

“Clinton, you’ll think I’ve lost my mind, but do you know I’ve got Indianola all mixed up with Dardanella?” She turned to the television. “I wish they’d play it again.”

Clinton went to his bedroom and brought the notebook up-to-date.

Now, this day in the Williams house had been like many that had passed before and many that were yet to come. Similar late morning scenes took place in Clinton’s bedroom and in the kitchen and basement, and the issues at stake shifted only slightly. Clinton did not find work. Annabel laid this failure to the fact that only early birds caught worms: no one had ever been hired for any kind of job after twelve o’clock noon; you had to be there wearing a starched shirt when the place opened its doors at 9:00 A.M. Then they knew you meant business.

But the actual reason for Clinton’s continued unemployment was the fact that, even though he appeared at many places in starched shirts, he failed to tell anyone he wanted to be hired. He could not believe that anyone would take his request for a job seriously: a person with nervous habits who needed professional counsel could hardly expect anyone to pay him for his services. They might even laugh at him.

But he did spend five afternoons a week away from the house. Every now and then on a clear day he would go downtown on the streetcar and sit on the steps of the City Hall where old men fed pigeons, or out in front of the Public Library where groups of college students huddled together in the winter sunshine smoking cigarettes and looking wiser than the rest of the world. On colder days or when it snowed, Clinton did not venture far from home. He found a number of places where he could sit indoors without being too conspicuous. Afternoons were slow at the Aloha Sweet Shop, and so long as the visit did not extend itself for more than, say, a half-hour, the manager seemed to enjoy his company.