Molly looked stunning. She wore a white backless dress and a white scarf across her forehead and tied at the back of her head. Her blond hair cascaded from it. He called her Nurse Regen.
“That scarf makes you look like an old-fashioned nurse,” he said.
“I am an old-fashioned nurse,” she said.
“Florence Nightingale,” he said.
“You can be my patient later,” she said.
“I’m getting impatient,” he said.
“Thank you, Morris Weber,” she said.
There was the usual East Hampton crowd at all of the parties. Writers, artists, actors, television people, movie people, and all the lawyers who represented them.
“Lawyers are boring,” Molly whispered.
“I’m a lawyer,” he whispered back.
“You’re a very special lawyer,” she said. “If I’m any judge.”
“Thank you, Morris Weber,” he said.
The fireworks started shortly after dark. They realized later that Stephen must have been getting behind the wheel of the car at about that time. Molly ooohed and ahhhed as the fireworks erupted against the black sky. He held her hand. She squeezed his hand each time there was another explosion, another flash of color against the black. The Jaguar had been a birthday present to Stephen’s friend. His friend would be a graduating senior next semester. He was seventeen years old. Stephen was fifteen. He would have been a sophomore in the fall. If he’d gone back to school. His friend had allowed him to take the Jaguar for a spin. Stephen did not have a driver’s license. On the phone later, the state trooper would mention that Stephen did not have a driver’s license. Exoneration for the state of Connecticut. The fireworks exploded against the blackness. Everyone ooohed and ahhhed.
The call did not come until almost ten-thirty. There was another party in progress, this one at David’s partner’s beach house. It was David’s partner who called him to the phone.
“Mr. Weber?” the voice on the other end said.
“Is it Stephen?” Molly called from across the room. They had given him the number here before he’d left for Connecticut.
“This is Mr. Weber,” David said.
“Is it Stephen?” Molly called again.
“This is Trooper Harrington of the Connecticut State Police,” the voice said. “We’ve been trying to get you at home, Mr. Weber, we only just now found the slip of paper in your son’s wallet.”
“Slip of paper?” David said.
“With this number on it. Am I talking to Mr. Weber?”
“This is Mr. Weber. My son’s wallet?”
“Mr. Weber, I’m sorry to have to tell you this...”
“No,” David said.
“What is it?” Molly said. She was standing by his side now.
“Mr. Weber,” the trooper said, “your son’s been in a car accident. Mr. Weber, I’m sorry, but your son is dead, sir. He was driving without a license, sir, his car ran into...”
“No,” David said. “He’s not dead.”
Molly screamed.
Outside the house, the ocean crashed in against the shore.
“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” Hillary asked.
“No, no,” he said.
“Good way to drown,” she said. “Are you ready to go back in? The sun seems to be deserting us.”
“Whenever you are,” he said.
“I’d best put this on,” she said.
Treading water, she cupped her breasts into the flimsy bra top. Her nipples were puckered. Her breasts were spattered with freckles.
“Do they suit you?” she asked, and smiled.
They swam back toward the beach together.
“Morrie, it’s me!” Sidney shouted. “Your cousin Sidney! Do you recognize me, Morrie? If you recognize me, blink your eyes once. If you don’t recognize me, blink your eyes twice.”
His father’s eyes looked glazed. He lay flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling. His eyes drifted, floated.
“Morrie? Can you hear me?”
“Lower your voice,” David said.
“I don’t think he can hear me. Morrie, if you can hear me, blink your eyes once.”
There was a tube in his father’s mouth, a thicker one than all the others. A strip of adhesive tape held it in place, partially covering his chin and his lips. There was moisture inside the tube. The tube looked clouded over on the inside. His father’s eyes kept floating, drifting.
“Morrie, can you blink? If you can hear me, blink once,” Sidney said. David wanted to strangle him. “Morrie?”
His father blinked his eyes.
“See?” Sidney said triumphantly. “He can hear me. Morrie, if you know who I am, blink your eyes again.”
“He knows who you are,” Bessie said. She was standing beside the bed, holding his father’s hand between both her own. “Never mind blinking, Morris. Just rest,” she said.
“How will I know if he knows I’m here?” Sidney said.
“We’ll tell him later,” David said.
“What good will that do?” Sidney said. “If he doesn’t know I was really here?”
He was looking for Brownie points, the son of a bitch!
“Are you in any pain, Pop?” David asked. “I know you can’t talk with that tube in your mouth, but if you can just...”
His father slowly shook his head.
“No pain?”
His father shook his head again.
“Good,” David said.
His father’s floating brown eyes shifted, came to rest on David’s face, seemed to focus there questioningly.
“The operation’s over and done with,” David said.
His father’s eyes stayed on his face, waiting, questioning.
“They found what they were looking for, Pop,” he said. “The cause of the infection. They got it, Pop. It’s all gone now.”
Bessie looked at him.
“There’s nothing to stop you from getting well now,” David said.
His eyes met Bessie’s. Bessie turned away. She leaned over the bed, close to his father’s ear.
“That’s right, Morris,” she said. “They found it, and now you’ll get better.”
His father nodded.
“What did they find?” Sidney whispered. David shot him a look. “Well, what?” Sidney asked.
“Pop,” David said, “we want you to rest now, do you understand? We’ll come back tomorrow morning, okay?” He looked up at the wall clock. “It’s almost a quarter past seven, Pop, we have to go now. We’ll be back at eleven in the morning. Okay, Pop?”
His father slowly raised his hand from the sheet. His eyes focused on his hand. He extended his forefinger. He made a downward slash on the air with his forefinger.
“What’s that, Pop?”
He made the motion again.
“I don’t understand, Pop.”
Again a single stroke on the air.
“Are you trying to spell something?”
His father nodded.
“Is that a letter?”
His father nodded.
“Do it again.”
His father’s shaking finger made the downward stroke again.
“I?” David said.
“He’s trying to say ‘I love you,’ ” Bessie said.
His father shook his head.
“Is it the letter T?” David asked.
His father nodded. He made another downward stroke, a loop, a tail.
“R?” David said. “I, R?”
His father nodded. His finger trailed serpentinely on the air, shaking.
“S,” David said. “I, R, S. Oh, the tax form. I found it, Pop, it was in one of the bedroom drawers, just where you said it was. You don’t have to worry, you paid it when it was due.”