“My God!” Handry cried. “That’s great! I’ve got to use that. But I promise I won’t mention your name.”
“Please don’t.” Delaney said ruefully. “I’d never live it down.”
Handry left him at the Precinct house. Delaney climbed slowly to his office to put away his “beat” equipment. Then he slumped in the worn swivel chair behind his desk. He wondered if he would ever sleep again.
He was ashamed of himself, as he always was when he talked too much. And what nonsense he had talked!
“Logic…immortality…evil.” Just to tickle his vanity, of course, and give him the glow of voicing “deep thoughts” to a young reporter. But what did all that blathering have to do with the price of beans?
It was all pretty poetry, but reality was a frightened woman who had never done an unkind thing in her life now lying in a hospital bed nerving herself for what might come. There were animals you couldn’t see gnawing away deep inside her, and her world would soon be blood, vomit, pus, and feces. Don’t you ever forget it, m’lad. And tears.
“Rather her than me” suddenly popped into his brain, and he was so disgusted with himself, so furious at having this indecent thought of the woman he loved, that he groaned aloud and struck a clenched fist on the desk. Oh, life wasn’t all that much of a joy; it was a job you worked at, and didn’t often succeed.
He sat there in the gloom, hunched, thinking of all the things he must now do and the order in which he must do them. Brooding, he glowered, frowned, occasionally drew lips back to show large, yellowed teeth. He looked like some great beast brought to bay.
3
In the Metropolitan Museum of Art there is a gallery of Roman heads. Stone faces are chipped and worn. But they have a quality. Staring into those socket eyes, at those broken noses, crushed ears, splintered lips, still one feels the power of men long dead. Kill the slave who betrayed you or, if your dreams have perished, a short sword in your own gut. Edward Delaney had that kind of face; crumbling majesty.
He was seated now in his wife’s hospital room, the hard sunlight profiling him. Barbara Delaney stared through a drugged dimness and saw for the first time how his features had been harshened by violence and the responsibilities of command. She remembered the young, nervy patrolman who had courted her with violets and once, a dreadful poem.
The years and duty had not destroyed him, but they had pressed him in upon himself, condensing him. Each year he spoke less and less, laughed infrequently, and withdrew to some iron core that was his alone; she was not allowed there.
He was still a handsome man, she thought approvingly, and carried himself well and watched his weight and didn’t smoke or drink too much. But now there was a somber solidity to him, and too often he sat brooding. “What is it?” she would ask. And slowly his eyes would come up from that inward stare, focus on her and life, and he would say, “Nothing.” Did he think himself Nemesis for the entire world?
He had not aged so much as weathered. Seeing him now, seated heavily in sharp sunlight, she could not understand why she had never called him “Father.” It was incredible that he should be younger than she. With a prescience of doom, she wondered if he could exist without her. She decided he would. He would grieve, certainly. He would be numb and rocked. But he would survive. He was complete.
In his methodical way, he had made notes of the things he felt they should discuss. He took his little leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and flipped the pages, then put on his heavy glasses.
“I called the children last night,” he said, not looking up. “I know, dear. I wish you hadn’t. Liza called this morning. She wanted to come, but I told her absolutely not. She’s almost in her eighth month now, and I don’t want her traveling. Do you want a boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“Beast. Well, I told her you’d call as soon as it’s over; there was no need for her to come.”
“Very good,” he nodded. “Eddie was planning to come up in two weeks anyway, and I told him that would be fine, not to change his plans. He’s thinking of getting into politics down there. They want him to run for district attorney. I think they call it ‘public prosecutor’ in that state. What do you think?”
“What does Eddie want to do?”
“He’s not sure. That’s why he wants to come up, to discuss it with us.”
“How do you feel about it, Edward?”
“I want to know more about it. Who’ll be putting up the campaign funds. What he’ll owe. I don’t want him getting into a mess.”
“Eddie wouldn’t do that.”
“Not deliberately. Maybe from inexperience. He’s still a young man, Barbara. Politics is new to him. He must be careful. Those men who want him to run have their own ambitions. Well…we’ll talk about it when he comes up. He promised not to make any decision until he talks to us. Now then…” He consulted his notes “…how do you feel about Spencer?”
He was referring to the surgeon introduced by Dr. Bernardi. He was a brusque, no-nonsense man without warmth, but he had impressed Delaney with his direct questions, quick decisions, his sharp interruptions of Bernardi’s effusions. The operation was scheduled for late in the afternoon of the following day. Delaney had followed the surgeon out into the hall.
“Do you anticipate any trouble, doctor?” he asked.
The surgeon, Dr. K. B. Spencer, looked at him coldly.
“No,” he said.
“Oh, I suppose he’s all right,” Barbara Delaney said vaguely. “What do you think of him, dear?”
“I trust him,” Delaney said promptly. “He’s a professional I asked Ferguson to check him out, and he says Spencer is a fine surgeon and a wealthy man.”
“Good,” Barbara smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t want a poor surgeon.”
She seemed to be tiring, and there was a hectic flush in her cheeks. Delaney put his notebook aside for a moment to wring out a cloth in a basin of cold water and lay it tenderly across her brow. She was already on intravenous feeding and had been instructed to move as little as possible.
“Thank you, dear,” she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear her. He hurried through the remainder of his notes.
“Now then,” he said, “what shall I bring tomorrow? You wanted the blue quilted robe?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And the fluffy mules. The pink ones. They’re in the righthand corner of my closet. My feet are swollen so badly I can’t get into my slippers.”
“All right,” he said briskly, making a note. “Anything else? Clothes, makeup, books, fruit…anything?”
“No.”
“Should I rent a TV set?”
She didn’t answer, and when he raised his head to look at her, she seemed asleep. He took off his glasses, replaced his notebook in his pocket, began to tiptoe from the room.
“Please,” she said in a weak voice, “don’t go yet. Sit with me for a few minutes.”
“As long as you want me,” he said. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat hunched over, holding her hand. They sat in silence for almost five minutes.
“Edward,” she breathed, her eyes closed.
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Edward.”
“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m here.”
“I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” he vowed.
“If anything should happen to me-”
“Barbara.”
“If anything should-”
“Dear.”
“I want you to marry again. If you meet a woman…Someone…I want you to. Will you promise?”
He couldn’t breathe. Something was caught in his chest. He bowed his head, made a small noise, gripped her fingers tighter.