"As far as I can see, if there is anything at all in what you say, you want an old-time deathbed scene."
"What difference does it make what you call it?"
"I should ask him to forgive me? Are you serious?"
"I am perfectly serious."
"But how could I--It goes against everything. You're talking to the wrong person. Even for my father it would be too hokey. I can't see it."
"He's been a good man. And he's being swept out. Can't you think of something to say to him?"
"What is there to say? And can't you think of anything but death?"
"But that's what we have before us."
"And you won't stop. I know you're going to say something more. Well, say it."
"In so many words?"
"In so many words. The fewer the better."
"I don't know what happened in Mexico. The details don't matter. I only note the peculiarity that it is possible to be gay, amorous, intimate with holiday acquaintances. Diversions, group intercourse, fellatio with strangers--one can do that but not come to terms with one's father at the last opportunity. He's put an immense amount of feeling into you. Probably most of his feeling has gone toward you. If you can in some way see this and make some return..."
"Uncle Sammler!" She was furious.
"Ah. You're angry. Naturally."
"You've insulted me. You've been trying hard enough. Well, now you have--you've insulted me, Uncle Sammler."
"It was not the object. I only believe that there are things everyone knows, and must know."
"For God's sake, quit this."
"I shall mind my own business."
"You lead a special life in that dumpy room. Charming, but what's it got to do with anything! I don't think you understand people's business. What do you mean about fellatio? What do you know about it?"
Well, it hadn't worked. What she threw at him was what the young man at Columbia had also cried out. He was out of it. A tall, dry, not agreeable old man, censorious, giving himself airs. Who in hell was he? Hors d'usage. Against the wall. A la lanterne! Very well. That was little enough. He ought not perhaps to have provoked Angela so painfully. By now he himself was shaking.
The gray nurse at this moment came and called Sammler to the telephone. "You are Mr. Sammler, aren't you?"
He started. Quickly he got to his feet. "Ah! Who wants me? Who is it?" He didn't know what to expect.
"The phone wants you. Your daughter. You can take it outside, at the desk."
"Yes, Shula, yes?" her father said. "Speak up. What is it? Where are you?"
"In New Rochelle. Where is Elya?"
"We are waiting for him. What do you want now, Shula?"
"Have you heard about Wallace?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"He did a really great thing when he brought in that plane without wheels."
"Yes, magnificent. He's certainly marvelous. Now, Shula, I want you out of there. You are not to prowl around that house, you have no business there. I wanted you to come back with me. You are not supposed to disobey me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"But you did."
"I didn't. If we differ, it's in your interest."
"Shula, don't fool with me. Enough of my interests. Let them alone. You called with a purpose. I'm afraid I begin to understand."
"Yes, Father."
"You succeeded!"
"Yes, Father, aren't you pleased? In the--guess where? In the den where you slept. In the hassock you sat on this morning. When I brought in the coffee and saw you on it, I said, That's where the money is. I was just about sure. So when you went away, I came back and opened it up, and it was filled--filled with money. Would you think that about Cousin Elya? I'm surprised at him. I didn't want to believe it. The hassock was upholstered with packages of hundred-dollar bills. Money was the stuffing."
"Dear God."
"I haven't counted it," she said.
"I will not have you lying."
"All right, I did count. But I don't really know about money. I don't understand business."
"Did you speak to Wallace on the phone?"
"Yes."
"And did you tell him about this?"
"I didn't say one single word."
"Good, very good, Shula. I expect you to turn it over to Mr. Widick. Call him to come and get it, and tell him you want a receipt for it."
"Father!"
"Yes, Shula."
He waited. He knew that, gripping one of those New Rochelle white telephones, she was marshaling her arguments, she was mastering her resentment at his ancient- father's stubbornness and stupid rectitude. At her expense. He knew quite well what she was feeling. "What will you live on, Father, when Elya is gone?" she said.
An excellent question, a shrewd, relevant question. He had lost out with Angela, he had infuriated her. He knew what she would say. "I'll never forgive you, Uncle." And what's more she never would.
"We will live on what there is."
"But suppose he doesn't leave any provision?"
"That's as he wishes. Up to him, entirely."
"We are part of the family. You are the closest to him."
"You will do as I tell you."
"Listen to me, Father. I have to look out for you. You haven't even said anything to me about finding this."
"It was damn clever of you, Shula. Yes. Congratulations. That was clever."
"It really was. I noticed how the hassock bulged under you, not like other hassocks, and when I felt around I heard the money rustle. I knew from the rustle, what it was. Of course I didn't say anything to Wallace. He'd squander it in a week. I thought rd buy some clothes. If I was dressed at Lord and Taylor, maybe I'd be less of an eccentric type, and I'd have a chance with somebody."
"Like Govinda Lal."
"Yes, why not? I've made myself as interesting as I could within my means."
Her father was astonished by this. Eccentric type? She was aware of herself, then. There was a degree of choice. Wig, scavenging, shopping bags, were to an extent deliberate. Was that what she meant? How fascinating!
"And I think," she was saying, "that we should keep this. I think EIya would agree. I'm a woman without a husband, and I've never had children, and this money comes from preventing children, and I think it's only right that I should take it. For you, too, Father."
"I'm afraid not, Shula. Elya may already have told Mr. Widick about this hoard. I'm sorry. But we're not thieves. It's not our money. Tell me how much it was?"
"Each time I count, it's different."
"How much was it the last time?"
"Either six or eight thousand. I laid it all out on the floor. But I was too excited to count straight."
"I assume it's much, much more, and I can't allow you to keep any."
"I won't."
Of course she would, he was certain of it. As a trash- collector, treasure-hunter, she would be unable to surrender it all.
"You must give Widick every cent."
"Yes, Father. It's painful, but I will. Ill hand it over to Widick. I think you're making a mistake."
"No mistake. And don't take off as you did with Govtnda 's manuscript."
Too late to be tempted. One more desire gone. He very nearly smiled at himself.
"Good-by, Shula. You're a good daughter. The best of any. No better daughter."
Wallace, then, had been right about his father. He had done favors for the Mafia. Performed some operations. The money did exist. There was no time to think about all this, however. He put up the phone and left the marble counter to find that Dr. Cosbie had been waiting for him. The one-time football star in his white coat held his upper lip pressed by the nether one. The bloodless face and gas-blue eyes had been trained to transmit surgeons' messages. The message was plain. It was all over.
"When did he die?" said Sammler. "Just now?"