“I’m running a fever because they’re driving me crazy here.”
“Well, the sooner you get rid of the fever, the sooner you’ll get out of here.”
“I’ll never get out of here,” his father said.
“Of course you will,” David said.
“Never. I keep getting worse every day.”
“Everything’s fine except for the fever.”
“Sure, everything’s fine. I’ve got a hole in my belly and tubes sticking out all over me, everything’s just fine and dandy.”
“You’ll get better, Pop, don’t worry. You’ll be out of here in no time at all.”
“And then what? Then another operation.”
“Not till you’re ready for it.”
“I’ll never be ready for it.”
“Well...”
“Back in again for another operation.”
“A very simple one.”
“Oh, yes, very simple. They’ll just cut me open again. Very simple.”
“To connect...”
“Sure, connect. Two weeks I went to him. He tells me it’s gas pains, the pisher. What kind of gas? It was blockage, is what it was.”
“Yes, Pop.”
“So why did he tell me it was gas?”
“I guess he didn’t know at first.”
“He’s supposed to know, he’s a doctor, isn’t he, the pisher? I had to check myself in here, you think he’d have checked me in here? Had to get here on my own steam. Thank God Bessie was here to help me. She wanted to call you, I told her no, you had the trial. You lost it, huh?”
“Yes, Pop.”
“A big one, huh?”
“Well, yes.”
“What was it, a contingency case?”
“Yes, Pop.”
“How much?”
“Our fee, do you mean?”
“Yes, your fee.”
“Well, a few hundred thousand.”
“And you lost it. So what good did it do, after all? I should have told her to call you. You could have kept an eye on that pisher with his gas.”
“Well, he seems like a good doctor, Pop.”
“What’s his name again?”
“The doctor, do you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Kaplan. You know what his name is, Pop.”
“Yeah, right, Kaplan. I thought it was Wolfe.”
“No.”
“There must be another doctor named Wolfe here. They’re in here all the time, you’d think there was a convention in my room. They have more doctors in this place...” His voice trailed. He shook his head. “So how’s The Shiksa?” he asked.
“Fine, Pop.”
“I want her to have my ring.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I die.”
“Pop...”
“It’s the same initials. M.W. I want her to have it.”
“Well, we don’t have to think about that just now.”
“I want Molly to have it, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Pop.”
“How’s little Stevie?”
He looked at his father.
“Pop...” he said. “Stephen’s dead. You know that, Pop.”
“Come on,” his father said.
“He died five years ago, Pop.”
“Come on, don’t kid a kidder,” his father said. “I can remember when Bessie used to change his diapers.”
“Bessie?”
“What?”
“You said...”
“Your mother, I meant. When she changed his diapers. Does he know his grandpa’s in the hospital?”
“Pop, please, he’s...”
“Does he know I have to have another operation?”
“Well, not for a while yet,” David said, and sighed.
“You don’t know how I suffered after the first one,” his father said, and closed his eyes.
The bar in the main lobby was closed. The clerk at the front desk told him it would be open next week, when a large party from South America would be arriving.
“Things should pick up next week,” he said. “Meanwhile, the disco bar is open.”
The empty lobby was vast, its vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns. His footfalls echoed on the polished marble floors, grew hushed when he crossed the Oriental throw rugs, clicked noisily again as he went down the wide curving stairway to the disco on the lower level at the far end of the hotel. There was no music playing at eight o’clock; a sign on the door advised him that the hours were from 9:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. But lights were rotating over the small dance floor, blinking, flashing. They reminded David of the lights on the machines all around his father’s bed. He sat at the bar and ordered a Beefeater martini, on the rocks, two olives, please. Aside from the bartender, he was alone in the place. The bartender told him they were expecting a large party of South Americans next week. He drank the martini and then went upstairs to the hotel restaurant. It was done entirely in red. Red crushed-velvet wallpaper, tablecloths and napkins the color of blood, waiters in red jackets. It was completely empty of diners.
He sat alone in a room he guessed could comfortably seat at least a hundred people, and he ordered clams on the half-shell and a New York strip, medium rare. As an afterthought, he ordered a Heineken beer. The waiter told him it might take a few minutes because he had to go all the way to the disco bar for it; the bar right next door wouldn’t be open till next week when they were expecting a big party from South America. David assured him he wouldn’t mind waiting, so long as the beer was very cold.
He was eating the clams when the girl walked in.
She was very tall, five-eight or five-nine, David guessed, with masses of blond hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing a pastel blue suit and matching patent leather pumps. David guessed she was in her late twenties. She hesitated just inside the doorway, her eyes opening in mild surprise as she surveyed the empty room. The headwaiter rushed over.
“Are you still serving dinner?” the girl asked.
British, David thought.
“Yes, Miss.”
“I don’t suppose you could possibly find me a table,” she said.
David smiled.
“Yes, Miss, of course,” the waiter said, “please” and bowed from the waist and escorted her to a table on the far side of the empty room. She sat, crossed her long legs, and accepted the menu he handed her.
“One Heineken beer, very cold,” David’s waiter said at his elbow. “Your steak’ll be along in a minute, sir.”
“Thank you,” David said.
The tall girl with the blond hair was still sitting alone at her table when David signed for his check and went upstairs to his room.
Ah, God, he thought, ah, Molly, he thought, how the hell did we get so old so young? You appeared — long blond hair blowing in the wind, the flutter of a summer dress, a hint of petticoat below — you appeared. And started to turn from the boardwalk railing, from the sea, green eyes flashing in the sunlight, golden sunlight splashing wanton freckles onto an Irish button nose (a shiksa, no less), recklessly tossing freckles onto a perfect Irish phizz. You laughed to a girl friend, the laughter was carried by the wind far out over the sea. And you turned. You turned in slow motion, perky Dublin breasts in a flimsy summer bodice, cotton print flapping, ocean breeze lifting the skirt over long legs, your hand reached down to flatten it. All in slow motion.
You stepped out of sunlight, Molly.
And my heart raced like the swift click of your sandals on that splintered Rockaway boardwalk. I stood transfixed and watched you moving away, chattering with your girl friend, drifting off into a crowded distance of hot-dog stands and cotton-candy carts. And I thought, oh, my God, I thought, Move! Follow her! Don’t let her get away! And I...