Typical, he thought. Why couldn’t she have been a shiksa?
“How about tomorrow night?” he said.
“Well, why don’t you call me in the morning?”
“What’s your number?”
“Look it up. There’s the name of the hotel,” she said, and gestured breezily over her shoulder.
He kissed her suddenly and impulsively. The two old ladies kept looking out at the sunshine, rocking.
She broke away from his embrace. “Hey,” she said.
She was trembling. He could see her trembling. He wanted to kiss her again.
“Just...” she said.
Her green eyes met his.
“Take it easy, okay?” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Have you decided yet, sir?” the waiter asked.
David looked up at him.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
The phone was ringing.
He fumbled for the receiver in the dark and then turned on the bedside lamp.
“Hello?” he said.
“David?”
“Yes, hi.”
“I’m sorry, were you asleep?”
“That’s okay.”
“I just got in. Is everything all right?”
“Where were you?”
“I went to a movie.” She paused. “With Marcia.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Did I tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I was going?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How is he?”
“They’re going to operate again tomorrow morning. See if they can find what... what’s...”
“David?”
“Yes?” He had almost said “what’s killing him.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Where’d you have dinner?”
“A little French place up the street.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, go back to sleep. Call me in the morning, will you? After the operation. What time will they...?”
“First thing.”
“David? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Really. The air conditioning’s on the fritz, but aside from that...”
“You poor thing,” she said.
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Good night. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Good night,” he said.
He lay wide awake, looking up at the ceiling.
He had left the drapes and the window open again, and the lights from his own hotel and the surrounding hotels cast a glow that illuminated the window frame. The window frame was a giant rectangle of light on the southern wall. To the east was the ocean; he could hear its rumble. To the west was the hospital, where his father was sleeping now, he hoped, before an operation tomorrow morning that had only a 50 percent chance of survival as its hidden clause. Caveat emptor, he thought.
What time is it, anyway? he wondered. He pressed the little button on his digital watch, illuminating the dial. Eleven forty-seven. It was never a quarter to eleven anymore. It was always either eleven forty-four or eleven forty-six or eleven forty-seven, but never eleven forty-five, never a quarter to eleven. Digital watches, he thought. Can anybody tell time anymore? She had called — what, five minutes ago? Just got back from the movies. Went with Marcia. Who the hell was Marcia? He tried to think who Marcia might be. He could not think of anyone named Marcia.
That summer at Rockaway, he had not waited till morning to call her. He was sharing a rented room with a dental student who had found a girl with whom he spent virtually all of his days and nights. David was alone most of the time, in a seedy room with sticky sheets. He called Molly at ten o’clock and got no answer. He called her again at eleven, and again at midnight.
“Hello?” she said.
“Molly?”
“Yes?”
“It’s David.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“How was your date?”
“Well,” she said, “what business is that of yours?”
Goddamn Jewish-American Princess, he thought.
“How about tomorrow night?” he said.
“I told you to call me in the morning.”
“Why? How’s the morning going to be different from tonight?”
“Well,” she said again, “what business is that of yours?”
“How long will you be here in Rockaway?” he asked.
“Till Sunday. I’m going back Sunday.”
“Back where?”
“To New York.”
“Where do you live in New York?”
“Well, look it up,” she said, “I’m in the book.” She hesitated. “You really shook me up, you know,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Kissing me like that. I could hardly find my key. It took me ten minutes’ fumbling in my bag to find my key.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
“I’m not so sure it’s good.”
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
“What?”
“What are you wearing?”
“I just got home. I’m still in my dress.”
“Do you have shoes on?”
“No.”
“Put on your shoes, and come on over. I’m all alone here.”
“No, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t need a reason,” she said.
“Then why don’t I come there?”
“No.”
“It seems silly, you being there alone and me being here alone.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s so silly.”
“Come on over,” he said.
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No. Really, now. No. Call me in the morning, okay? You really shook me up,” she said.
There was a small click on the line.
He fell asleep at last.
He awoke shivering in the middle of the night. The air conditioning had been fixed, apparently, and the room was icy cold. He snapped on the bedside lamp, got out of bed, turned on the overhead light, and went to the thermostat. The room temperature was sixty-four degrees. He raised the thermostat setting and then searched the closet shelf for another blanket. He opened all the dresser drawers searching for another blanket. Finally, he took the quilted bedspread from the chair over which he’d draped it and threw it on the bed over the single blanket. He closed the window. He drew the drapes. Even with the drapes and the window closed, he could hear the sound of the crashing sea. He turned off all the lights again and got into bed. He was still cold.
He suddenly had to go to the bathroom.
He turned on the bedside lamp, got out of bed again, and crossed the room. The attack of diarrhea was immediate and surprising. He tried to think what he could have eaten to have caused such a sudden attack. The bland veal chop? The side order of broccoli? He thought of his father’s severed intestines, his father’s body fluids seeping along a soiled tube into a soiled bag.
He wiped himself several times, kept wiping himself until there was no trace of stain on the toilet tissue.
Then he went back to bed.
Wednesday
He awakened with a start.
He did not know where he was for a moment. The room came slowly into focus. The air conditioner was humming, the drapes were drawn, only a thin vertical line of sunlight gleamed where the separate halves met. He looked at his watch. Eleven minutes past ten! He had forgotten to leave a wake-up call, had forgotten as well to set the little alarm on his watch.
He got out of bed and went to the drapes. He fumbled in the near-gloom until he found the drawstrings and then yanked the drapes open. Sunlight splashed into the room. He blinked against it. He went to the dresser, took a cigarette from the package there, picked up his lighter, and went into the bathroom. Sitting on the bowl, he lit the cigarette. He sat smoking and peeing. The diarrhea seemed to be gone. Better get cracking, he thought. He tore a piece of toilet tissue from the roll, wiped the end of his penis with it, and then stood up. He threw the cigarette into the bowl and then flushed the toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked about the same as he had yesterday. No more surprises, he thought. For the longest time, whenever he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he’d seen a thirty-seven-year-old man. He had liked being thirty-seven. Now he looked fifty. He would not be fifty till August, but he had stopped thinking of himself as forty-nine on New Year’s Eve.