Manhattan 62
“From the hospital, when I had seen Bounine, I had phoned up the only friend who might still help me. She had said not to call. Said she would be in touch. Then, nothing. It was a chance I had to take. I had been asking friends for help, friends like Clay Briscoe, now this: I hated it. I hated putting them in jeopardy, but what else could I do?
On my way to see Edward Forrester, I saw the fear on people’s faces, fear reflected in their eyes. I walked to Sixth Avenue where I saw a familiar figure. “Hello Pat,” said Muriel Miller; for some crazy reason I wondered if it was accidental. In shop windows, in bars, and cafes, every television was on, and people watched, speechless; a reporter said that the Pentagon had assessed the space in fallout shelters, and concluded that in the whole country there was space for 60 million people. For the rest of us, there was nothing.
The gaslights were already on in Patchin’ Place off Sixth Avenue, as I arrived at the tiny house where Shirley Cowan lived.
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