“Yes.”
“Yes, my pussy, my mouth...”
“Yes.”
“Everywhere, yes,” she whispered.
He undressed in the glow of the light from the window. She took off one earring, tilted her head, took off the other. She placed both earrings on the phone table. She lay back on the bed then, watching him. They’re all Molly, he thought. None of them are Molly, he thought. Never quite Molly. She cupped her breasts with her hands. She squeezed the nipples. “My nipples are so hard,” she whispered. She dropped one hand to her crotch. She began stroking herself. “Pussy’s so wet,” she whispered. He draped his clothes over the chair near the window. He could still hear the sound of the sea. “Look at that prick,” she whispered.
He went to the bed.
Her hand found him again.
“Will you fuck me now?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
“Mmm, yes,” she said.
The telephone rang.
He flinched from its sound as though someone had struck him in the face with a clenched fist.
“Let it ring,” she whispered.
He looked at the telephone.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispered.
The phone kept ringing.
“Come fuck me,” she whispered.
He picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Weber?” Kaplan said.
So here I am, he thought. Alone at last. Son dead, mother dead, father dead, marriage dead. Little Orphan Annie. Do orphanages take fifty-year-old men? Forty-nine, excuse me. Can they find a good home for a forty-nine-year-old orphan going on fifty?
He had ordered two martinis the moment Hillary left the room. The martinis were gone now. He debated ordering a third one. All gone, see? His mother spooning bread and milk into his mouth when he was still in his high chair. All gone, David, see? All gone, he thought. It is amazing how quickly a long-legged English girl in bikini knickers and heels can get dressed when the telephone rings and a doctor tells you your father is dead. Call me later, David. Scrambling into her clothes. I’ll be in my room, please call me. Breasts jiggling into her bra, blond hair disappearing into the folds of the white dress, head reappearing, dress sliding down over white lace bra and white lace panties, call me later. Amazing how fast a cock can shrivel when someone tells you your father is dead. The tube in my father’s penis.
I have to call Bessie, he thought. Molly first, then Bessie.
He dialed the New York apartment. Molly’s voice came on the line. I’m sorry, we can’t come to the phone just now. Will you leave a message when you hear the beep? Well, she’d said she was going to a movie. Second movie this week. Big movie-goer, my Molly. Had it really been a movie? Or was the “movie” tall and blond and blue-eyed? Younger than Molly perhaps. Did the “movie” leave on his undershorts and shoes? Black shoes and black socks? Where did she go to fuck this “movie” of hers? His place? Your place or mine? he thought. I have no place, he thought. I guess I’ll call Bessie. I’d call Uncle Max, but he’d only think it’s funny that my father died. Ha-ha, very comical. Will Uncle Max even come to the funeral? What arrangements will I have to make this time? Ship his body up north, how do you do that? Is there a service that ships bodies? Come on, Molly, he thought, get finished with your goddamn movie! My father is dead!
He picked up the phone and dialed room service. There was no answer. He looked at his watch. Twenty after ten. Room service closed at nine-thirty. All gone, he thought, everyone gone. He suddenly felt like talking to the Cuban nurse. He wanted to ask the Cuban nurse how it had been at the very last. Kaplan had told him on the phone that his father had died quietly at ten minutes past eight. That would have been just about when he and Hillary had been pretending to be wine mavens. Bad beginning, though. Good middle, however. Explosive end. Not at all explosive, David thought; nothing spectacular, no fireworks. Kaplan had said he’d died a quiet death. But what the hell did Kaplan know? It was all very baffling to Kaplan. Maybe the Cuban nurse could amplify. I’d ask for amplification, Davey, you know what I mean? He supposed he would have to call Sidney, too. Tell him his services as a chauffeur were no longer required. Tell him his son’s debt had been canceled by death. How do you like that one, Pop? Debt? Death? You call Sidney, he was your pal. Call him from the great beyond, wherever that might be, far from the sea someplace, give him a ring, Pop. Tell him, Hi, this is your cousin Morrie, I died tonight at ten minutes past eight, quietly, my heart just began beating slower and slower and slower, and then it stopped. Check it out with Dr. Kaplan, he’ll tell you.
I’ll bet the Cuban nurse could tell me more, though, David thought. She was probably there when it happened, whispering reassuring “swee’hearts” in my father’s ear. I don’t even know her name, he thought. I have to call Bessie. He pulled the telephone directory from under the phone table. What had Bessie told the bossy nurse that day? Wednesday? Thursday? Who remembered? All the days were the same. I’m his sister. Goldblum, was it? He opened the telephone book and began searching under the g’s. He had trouble reading the small print. Get to be fifty, he thought, you can’t even read the phone book. He found a listing for a Goldblum, B. on Fourth Street. Long trip to the hospital every day, he thought. All the way from Fourth Street. By bus, no less. He wrote the number on the hotel pad near the phone. She’s probably asleep, he thought, it can wait till morning. His father’s words when he’d called to tell him his mother was dead. It can wait till morning. Well, no, he thought, it can’t wait till morning. Too damn many things have been waiting till morning, Morning never comes, don’t you know that? Morning is like those South Americans who never arrive. Where the hell are all those South Americans? Call her, he thought. Get it over with.
He dialed the number.
“Hello?” she said. She had been asleep.
“Bessie,” he said, “this is David.”
“Oh,” she said. She already knew. The tone of his voice had already told her.
“Bessie,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to...”
“Oh,” she said again.
“My father died tonight,” he said.
“Oh.” The pain in that single word.
“I thought you might want to know.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“He died quietly,” David said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She was silent for a very long time. He wondered if she was crying on the other end of the line. Then she said, “He was my best friend I ever had.”
Another silence.
“Well, good night,” David said.
“Good night,” she said. “Thank you.”
He put the receiver back on the cradle. The little paper bag with his father’s belongings in it was on the dresser across the room, where he’d left it. He went to the dresser and opened the bag. His father’s wallet, his eyeglass case, his address book, his ring wrapped in a Kleenex. He unwrapped the tissue. He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger. The initials M.W. twined into the heavy gold. The small diamond chip. Boys! Yoo-hoo! Don’t go in the water with your rings! All that gold, the diamonds, the diamonds! His grandmother’s heavily accented voice ringing out over the sea where her three sons were swimming. His father wanted The Shiksa to have his ring. I want Molly to have it, do you hear me? Come on, Molly, he thought, finish with your damn movie already, will you? Don’t you want to know about the ring? Don’t you want to know my father left you his ring?