were objections to a story the previous month that decried the substitution of frame for brick construction in a housing development outside a neighbouring city. The first one was virulent in its condemnation of himself as a judge of building problems. It ended with that favourite phrase of letters-to-the-editor writers, “Cancel my subscription immediately!” Walter laughed, wishing it was in his power to do just that.
The second letter carried the signature of a lumber company president whose firm was a regular advertiser in the magazine. Instead of virulence it relied on the veiled threat of the polite executive coward. Walter crumpled it in his hand and threw it in the basket.
The rest of the mail consisted of brochures advertising the virtues of pre-cast stone and aluminum siding. There were three letters from new home owners wanting information on waterproofing a cement block basement wall, on the best way to age cedar shingles, and what to do about a humped hardwood floor. Beneath these he found an unopened envelope addressed to him personally, and he knew it was from his lawyers.
He read it slowly, amused by its juridical tone. There had been a slight hitch in the mortgage provisions and the buyer and his lawyer were holding a meeting with his own lawyer on Monday next. Would he also like to attend? There were a couple of paragraphs at the end of the letter regarding his fire insurance policy and a typographical error about taxes in the sale documents, which would have to be cleared up.
He rang for Jane, and when she entered he indicated that he had some dictation.
“You haven’t forgotten the trade editors’ conference this afternoon, Mr. Fowler?” she asked.
“I had, but I’ll attend it. Two-thirty, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
When she had sat down he dictated a letter to his lawyers. Then his eye fell on the letter from the man who had told him to cancel his subscription. He picked it up and read the name of the angry subscriber.
“Take another letter, Jane,” he said. After reading her the name and address he continued: “Mr. Collins, colon, Go to hell, period.” Sign it, “Yours vengefully, comma, Walter Fowler, editor.” Crumpling Mr. Collins’s letter in his hand and flinging it into a corner he said, “That’ll be all, Jane. Type the letter to the lawyers on plain paper and the one to that last gentleman on a Real Estate News letterhead.”
He saw his secretary purse her lips around a smile as she left the office. He sat back and wondered why he had let his own anger and frustration make him dictate such a letter to the unknown Mr. Collins. And why hadn’t he written an equally nasty letter to the president of the lumber firm? Yes, why hadn’t he? He knew the answer to that. Because the lumber dealer was a big advertiser, and would have him fired from the company if he did. He swung his swivel chair forward and stamped his feet on the floor. “You’re all guts, Fowler,” he said to himself. “All little-cog-in-the-big-wheel guts!”
He picked up the three letters seeking building and maintenance information and walked across the outer office to Grant McKay’s desk, where he placed the letters before the grey-haired old man who occupied it.
“How’s things this morning, Mac?” he asked.
“Not bad, Walter. Great day, isn’t it? Almost the first real spring day we’ve had so far.”
Walter pulled a chair from against the wall and sat down opposite the old man. “Did you read the bulletin this morning, Mac?”
“I glanced through it. Couldn’t say I read it.”
“They’ve given MacFarlane’s job down at Living to Bob Clauser.”
“I know, Walt. I heard about it last week.”
“The guy knows nothing about writing magazine copy. Here they are trying to bring the book’s circulation up to a half-million by the end of the year and they promote a dud like that to associate editor. George MacFarlane used to rewrite half the stories Living bought, especially the stuff from ministers’ wives and literary schoolteachers. That job needs a good journeyman journalist who can write bright readable English, not a son of a bitch who visits Matheson’s house and plays the recorder in the family band and secretly screws Mrs. Matheson on the side.”
Grant smiled and glanced quickly around the office, habitually searching out an eavesdropper. “It’s the old story, Walt. You know it as well as I. Naturally Matheson, who isn’t a publisher anyway, but a guy who sucked his way up from the accounting office, is going to give a promotion to a family friend —”
“Friend!” Walter shouted.
McKay glanced about him and lowered his voice. “Whether what you say about Clauser and Mrs. Matheson is true or not, that’s the way these things go. Just wait for six months; Clauser won’t last.” He shifted some papers on his desk with a nervous gesture. “You only survive, Walt, if you learn to roll with the punches. Wait and see what happens.”
It was on the tip of Walter’s tongue to say “What, wait the way you’ve done for thirty-five years?” But he realized he couldn’t hurt the old man like that.
He stood up and turned to go back to his office, seething with the injustice of Clauser’s appointment.
Grant said, “In six month’s time, or even less, the job could be yours if you work for it.”
“I’ll try to keep my nails clean and learn how to play the recorder,” said Walter. “And even try to work up a passion for the other thing.”
Back at his desk he thought about Grant McKay. Before the First World War he had been one of the brightest newspapermen in the city. Now he was a soon-to-be-pensioned hack who spent his working day answering letters from householders who wanted to get rid of silverfish, or re-prime septic tanks, or wished to know the amount of interest to be stuck for on a second mortgage.
When Walter took the editorship of the magazine in 1954 he had quickly made friends with the old man. During the first summer he and Brenda had entertained Grant and his wife Edna a few times at their house. Mrs. McKay, who was a semi-invalid with a kidney ailment, had enjoyed these visits very much. She used to sit in the Fowler front room gazing fondly through the picture window at the children playing in the street. His boys, Walter Jr. and Terry, had soon sensed the old lady’s need of them, and young Walter used to save the things he made in kindergarten to show her, while young Terry had climbed on her lap and chattered away to her for hours on end. Walter had taught them to call her “Grandma,” and she had been very pleased with this.
Then one day Brenda had said to him, “I hope you’re not going to invite the McKays up here for Sunday dinner again this week.”
“Why?” he had demanded.
“Corinne Adams and Bill are going to drop over, that’s all.”
“But I’ve already invited them.”
“You had no right to without first asking me,” she said petulantly.
He had said, “But it’s such a treat for them to come here, especially for Edna who’s stuck in their little flat all day. What are the Adamses coming across the road for, has Corinne got a new outfit to show off, or is Bill going to bend my ear for hours talking about his summer cottage and new motorboat!”
“They’re coming because they’re my friends, and I’ve invited them. And besides, Bill Adams has
