"Mister Chubb is here, sir," came his secretary's voice sounded tinny over the intercom."Send him in, please."Wally felt nervous as he strode through the door, "Yes sir, you wanted to see me?"In a dry voice, Stanley Green answered, "Yes, otherwise you would never have been summoned to my office."Without preamble he began, "I am aware you have been seeking employment elsewhere. That's fine. A man should look out for his own interests first. I have an assignment for you that should make the letters you sent out in the last two months unnecessary." You are a very good photographer, better than anyone here ever realized. Although a little flowery, your prose carries its message quite well." Yes sir?" Wally Chubb felt he was standing on quicksand. One word from Stanley Green and he would be unemployed and unemployable."You are now the political reporter at large for this paper. You are answerable to me and me only. Your first assignment is to follow the Friend campaign and find nice things. I knew from her demeanor what the situation was. My mother, mom, had passed.I took a seat at the wall to my right and waited to gather my thoughts, emotions, everything.“How?” I said.“Not sure, Lee. Maybe and aneurism, but we won’t know for sure till a little later,” she said. She sat with me for some time. I finally came to my senses, sort of.“Can I see her,” I said.“Yes,” she said. “I’ve arranged it. Come.”She led me into the room. The room where my momma had died. It was July of 1987. Caroline Wyatt was only 55-years-old. She looked to be asleep, only that. But there was no movement or breathing. Penelope pulled a chair up next to the bed. I sat in it.I don’t know how long we were there, but it was a while. Eventually, somehow, she got me home. We didn’t talk much. We would be, maybe tomorrow, but today, no.Everyone from the salon from where she had worked for so many years attended the funeral, even some long-time customers. The wake was at her house, my house now, I guess. I’d.
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