ON WV.:I)NI-SDAYS， Thomas Edgecombe put the paper<br >to bed. Thursday mornings he pretended to relax， sleeping as late<br >as allowed for a man with two teenage sons at home， one of whom<br >prepared for school by blasting bass-thumpy， arrhythmic rock<br >which roused even the decrepit collie from his puddled sleep be-<br >neath the dining room table. Thursday afternoons， Thomas pre-<br >tended to play golf. After nine years in Trent， he d splurged on<br >country club memberships for himself and Strickland， his partner<br >at the newspaper， telling himself it would be good for business，<br >they d sell more advertising， even though he d written an editorial<br > criticizing the club s racist membership policies and lived in tear<br > that Sidney Showenstein， owner of Trent s only deparm~ent store<br > and one of his most loyal advcrtisers， would discover that he was a<br > member of a club that as late as 1974--last year-- excludedJews.<br > On the golf course he tried to enjoy himself， but usually found<br > the weight of the next week s work too heavily with him. But<br > sometimes in fall， when the light was generous and brilliant and re-<br > tlected off tbe wide plate glass windows of the doctors houses lin-<br > ing the fairways， Thomas managed moments of ease. Thomas<br > liked golf courses， admired their artificial and manicured clarity，<br >
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