“Your father tells me you’re a lawyer,” Kaplan said.
David visualized the man smiling and for the first time felt some sort of kinship with him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m simply trying to get this straight.”
“I’m giving it to you as straight as I know how,” Kaplan said. “If he continues on his present downward course, I think he’ll die, yes. And his chances of surviving surgery in his present condition are fifty-fifty. That’s all I can tell you, Mr. Weber.”
“He’s very fearful of another operation, you know,” David said.
“Well, of course,” Kaplan said.
“Apparently the first one was very painful.”
“Not the operation itself. There’s always some pain following surgery, of course. But we try to moderate that with drugs.”
“He told me he was suffering.”
“Not now? You don’t mean now?”
“No, not now. After the first operation.”
“Well, yes.”
“Are you sure you have to operate again?”
“I would not take the risk unless I were positive.”
“When would you do it?”
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. He should be back down by the time you get there.”
“At eleven, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Back down where? The Recovery Room?”
“Intensive Care.”
“Will he recognize me?”
“Not until the anesthesia wears off.”
“But I can see him.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will you be the only surgeon?”
“I plan to ask the chief surgeon to attend.”
“What about my father? Will you tell him, or shall I?”
“I’ve already told him,” Kaplan said. “He had to sign an authorization form. I think we’ll need your signature as well. His hand was a bit shaky.”
His father’s signature on the hospital form almost moved David to tears. The fine curlicues and loops of the Morris L. Weber had deteriorated to a scrawl that meandered across the page. He looked at his father’s signature for a long time, remembering the signs he had meticulously hand-lettered for the puppet show and posted all over the building, the signs he had made announcing the first issue of the short-lived newspaper. He read the consent form while the Cuban nurse waited. He signed his name in the space provided for next-of-kin and hoped he was not signing his father’s death warrant.
He went into his father’s room. The machines blinked and beeped beside his bed, electronic sentinels. His father’s eyes were closed. It occurred to David that he had never seen him asleep before. He kept looking at his face. They had not shaved him today; a gray beard stubble covered his chin and his jowls. Asleep, he did not look sick. Three thousand calories a day, the Cuban nurse had said. He hadn’t lost a pound of weight. But he was dying. He would die unless they found whatever they were looking for and cut it from his body, or drained it, did whatever they had to do to it.
His father’s eyes popped open.
He let out a startled little gasp.
“Oh,” he said.
“Hello, Pop.”
“Another operation, right?” his father said, instantly awake.
“Yes, Pop.”
“When?”
“First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Terrific. Just what I need, first thing in the morning.”
“It is what you need, Pop.”
“What’d they find? All those pictures.”
“Something that may be an area of infection.”
“How’d I get so infected all of a sudden? I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”
“Well,” David said.
“I forgot to dot the i,” his father said.
“What?”
“On that thing they gave me to sign. I forgot to dot the i in Morris.”
“That’s okay, Pop, don’t worry about it.”
“They’ll think somebody forged my signature.”
“No, they won’t think that.”
“Maybe you ought to get it back, so I can dot the i.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“The ayes have it,” his father said, and suddenly twisted his head on the pillow. “Where’s my jaw?” he asked.
“Your jaw? Right there, Pop, where it’s supposed to be.”
“My jaw, my jaw.”
“What do you mean?”
“Half of my jaw is gone.”
“No, Pop, all your...”
“How am I supposed to chew, if I ever get anything to eat here?”
“Your teeth, do you mean? Your dentures?”
“My jaw,” his father said, and nodded.
“They’re right over there in the tray. On the sink there. Do you want to see them?”
His father nodded.
David went to the sink. He picked up the pink plastic tray in which his father’s dentures rested. He carried the tray to the bed.
“Okay?” he said.
His father nodded. He kept nodding. He seemed very tired all at once. “They steal things, you know,” he said. “To put on the shelves.”
“Well, I don’t think they’ll steal your teeth,” David said, carrying the tray back to the sink.
“They’ll steal anything,” his father said.
“They’d get about thirty cents for them,” David said, smiling.
“More than that,” his father said. “For the jawbone of an ass? At least a buck and a quarter.”
He took his father’s hand between his own.
“Pop,” he said, “you’re going to get better after this operation, you’ll see. They’re going to fix you up this time.”
“They fixed me up last time,” his father said. “They fixed me up just fine.”
“I mean it,” David said.
His father nodded.
“I have to go,” David said, looking up at the wall clock opposite the bed. “I want you to get a good night’s...”
“That thing keeps going around,” his father said.
“What thing?”
“On the wall.”
“The clock, do you mean? The sweep hand on the clock?”
“No, no.”
“What then?”
His father pointed to the wall. His finger rotated in a small circle.
“The wallpaper? The design in the wallpaper?”
“No, no. The thing they have. The shelves with all the stuff on them. It goes around and around, so the people can see the goods.”
“Pop, don’t worry about all that, okay? You get a good night’s sleep.”
“Fat chance of that.”
“Well, you try to sleep, okay? And tomorrow, once they finish the operation, you’re going to feel much better. I promise you.”
“Who are you to promise me?” his father asked, and then abruptly said, “Did I give you Josie’s address?”
“Josie? Who’s Josie?”
“A friend of the family,” his father said, and David remembered when they used to call his grandmother’s boyfriend “a friend of the family.”
“I don’t know her,” David said.
“I know it by heart. Her address. Write it down.”
“Josie who?”
“Write it down,” his father said.
The Cuban nurse appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry, swee’heart,” she said, “your son has to go now.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” David said. “Right after the operation. I’ll be here at eleven, waiting for you to come down. You get a good night’s sleep, okay?”
“You can write it down tomorrow,” his father said.
“I will.”
“Bring a pencil and paper. They don’t have any paper in this cheap hotel. Why don’t you get some paper in here?” he asked the nurse.
“We ha’ paper, darlin’.”
“Bring a mirror, too. I want to see what I look like.”