“God, not Southampton Hospital,” Jerry said. “I’ll have to drive through seventy-five minutes of traffic on 27 to get there. Ten miles and longer than an hour.”
“No way around it,” Tom sniffed. “You got to get the stuff. But you’ll have to excuse me from the trip, however. No sense in two of us sitting in weekender traffic.”
“I wish we were staying until Wednesday,” Jerry said. “Then I could wait until the traffic subsides. But no, I have to pick up the box tonight, of all times.”
Jerry headed out the door. The screen door banged and Lester barked. And then Jerry turned around and came back inside. “Okay, Lester, you’re coming with me. We’re going for a ride.”
Jerry passed the village, and remarked on the maples, elms, and oaks lining Main Street. East Hampton was always lovely in August – and then he passed the Harriett Beecher Stowe house, St. Luke’s Episcopal (Uncle Arnold had been a priest there back in ’38), and then made the turn toward Bridgehampton. Traffic not to bad ... not just yet.
And then he came to a halt at Watermill. Ironic, he thought – this is where he’d be bringing the stuff back. He’d promised Harry that he’d give Mickey the St. Jude medals. But when the funeral home picked up Harry’s body from the hospital, they forgot about his box of personal effects. So Jerry had to go get it. And keep his promise to Mickey -- and to Harry.
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