“Where’s Laura?”
Levine waited, unbreathing, and at last the girl spoke the lie he had placed in her mouth. “She’s on the way. She’ll be here soon. But what does it matter, Jay? She still won’t agree, you know that. She won’t believe you.”
“I’ll wait for Laura,” he said.
The son was suddenly striding across the room, shouting, “What is this? What’s going on here?”
Levine spun around, motioning angrily for the boy to be quiet.
“Who is that woman?” demanded the son. “What’s she doing here?”
Levine intercepted him before he could get to Janice Shale, pressed both palms flat against the boy’s shirt-front. “Get back over there,” he whispered fiercely. “Get back over there.”
“Get away from me! Who is she? What’s going on here?”
“Allan?” It was Cartwright’s voice, shouting the question. “Allan?”
Crawley now had the boy’s arms from behind, and he and Levine propelled him toward the door. “Let me go!” cried the boy. “I’ve got a right to—”
Crawley’s large hand clamped across his mouth, and the three of them barreled through to the receptionist’s office. As the door closed behind them, Levine heard Janice Shale repeating, “Jay? Listen to me, Jay, please. Please, Jay.”
The door safely shut behind them, the two detectives let the boy go. He turned immediately, trying to push past them and get back inside, crying, “You can’t do this! Let me go! What do you think you are? Who is that woman?”
“Shut up,” said Levine. He spoke softly, but the boy quieted at once. In his voice had been all his own miseries, all his own frustrations, and his utter weariness with the misery and frustration of others.
“I’ll tell you who that woman is,” Levine said. “She’s the woman your father wants to marry. He wants to divorce your mother and marry her.”
“No,” said the boy, as sure and positive as he had been earlier in denying that his mother would want to see his father dead.
“Don’t say no,” said Levine coldly. “I’m telling you facts. That’s what sent him out there on that ledge. Your mother won’t agree to the divorce.”
“My mother—”
“Your mother,” Levine pushed coldly on, “planned your father’s life. Now, all at once, he’s reached the age where he should have accomplished whatever he set out to do. His son is grown, he’s making good money, now’s the time for him to look around and say, ‘This is the world I made for myself, and it’s a good one.’ But he can’t. Because he doesn’t like his life, it isn’t his life, it’s the life your mother planned for him.”
“You’re wrong,” said the boy. “You’re wrong.”
“So he went looking.” said Levine, ignoring the boy’s interruptions, “and he found Janice Shale. She wouldn’t push him, she wouldn’t plan for him, she’d let him be the strong one.”
The boy just stood here, shaking his head, repeating over and over, “You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
Levine grimaced, in irritation and defeat. You never break through, he thought. You never break through. Aloud he said, “In twenty years you’ll believe me.” He looked over at the patrolman, McCann. “Keep this young man out here with you,” he said.
“Right,” said McCann.
“Why?” cried the son. “He’s my father! Why can’t I go in there?”
“Shame,” Levine told him. “If he saw his son and this woman at the same time, he’d jump.”
The boy’s eyes widened. He started to shake his head, then just stood there, staring.
Levine and Crawley went back into the other room.
Janice Shale was coming away from the window, her face ashen. “Somebody down on the sidewalk started taking pictures,” she said. “Jay shouted at them to stop. He told me to get in out of sight, or he’d jump right now.”
“Respectability,” said Levine, as through the word were obscene. “We’re all fools.”
Crawley said, “Think we ought to send someone for the wife?”
“No. She’d only make it worse. She’d say no, and he’d go over.”
“Oh God!” Janice Shale swayed suddenly and Crawley grabbed her arm, led her across to one of the leather sofas.
Levine went back to the right-hand window. He looked out. A block away, on the other side of the street, there was a large clock in front of a bank building. It was almost eleven-thirty. They’d been here almost an hour and a half.
Three o’clock, he thought suddenly. This thing had to be over before three o’clock, that was the time of his appointment with the doctor.
He looked out at Cartwright. The man was getting tired. His face was drawn with strain and emotion, and his fingertips were clutching tight to the rough face of the wall. Levine said, “Cartwright.”
The man turned his head, slowly, afraid now of rapid movement. He looked at Levine without speaking.
“Cartwright,” said Levine. “Have you thought about it now? Have you thought about death?”
“I want to talk to my wife.”
“You could fall before she got here,” Levine told him. “She has a long way to drive, and you’re getting tired. Come in, come in here. You can talk to her in here when she arrives. You’ve proved your point, man, you can come in. Do you want to get too tired, do you want to lose your balance, lose your footing, slip and fall?”
“I want to talk to my wife,” he said, doggedly.
“Cartwright, you’re alive.” Levine stared helplessly at the man, searching for the way to tell him how precious that was, the fact of being alive. “You’re breathing,” he said. “You can see and hear and smell and taste and touch. You can laugh at jokes, you can love a woman— For God’s sake man, you’re alive!”
Cartwright’s eyes didn’t waver; his expression didn’t change. “I want to talk to my wife,” he repeated.
“Listen,” said Levine. “You’ve been out here two hours now. You’ve had time to think about death, about non-being. Cartwright, listen. Look at me, Cartwright, I’m going to the doctor at three o’clock this afternoon. He’s going to tell me about my heart, Cartwright. He’s going to tell me if my heart is getting too tired. He’s going to tell me if I’m going to stop being alive.”
Levine strained with the need to tell this fool what he was throwing away, and knew it was hopeless.
The priest was back, all at once, at the other window. “Can we help you?” he asked. “Is there anything any of us can do to help you?”
Cartwright’s head swiveled slowly. He studied the priest. “I want to talk to my wife,” he said.
Levine gripped the windowsill. There had to be a way to bring him in, there had to be a way to trick him or force him or convince him to come in. He had to be brought in, he couldn’t throw his life away, that’s the only thing a man really has.
Levine wished desperately that he had the choice.
He leaned out again suddenly, glaring at the back of Cartwright’s head. “Jump!” he shouted.
Cartwright’s head swiveled around, the face open, the eyes shocked, staring at Levine in disbelief.
“Jump!” roared Levine. “Jump, you damn fool, end it, stop being alive, die! Jump! Throw yourself away, you imbecile, JUMP!”
Wide-eyed, Cartwright stared at Levine’s flushed face, looked out and down at the crowd, the fire truck, the ambulance, the uniformed men, the chalked circle on the pavement.
And all at once he began to cry. His hands came up to his face, he swayed, and the crowd down below sighed, like a breeze rustling. “God help me!” Cartwright screamed.