“I’m with him,” said Jimmy. “Whatever he says goes.”
Glances were exchanged. It was over.
“Go home,” said Mancuso to Will. “Go home to your wife.”
And when they passed the glass-walled room again, the cot was already empty, and the receptionist’s face was creased with grief as they passed her desk. Already, the cover-up had begun. Without words to convey her sympathy for a man who had, in one night, lost his child, and the mother of his child, she could only shake her head and watch as he disappeared into the night.
When Will at last returned home, Elaine was waiting for him.
“Where have you been?” Her eyes were swollen. He could tell that she had been crying for hours.
“Something came up,” he said. “A girl died.”
“I don’t care!” It was a scream, not a shout. He had never heard her utter such a sound before. Those three words seemed to contain more pain and anguish than he had ever thought could be contained inside the woman he loved. Then she repeated the words, this time softly, forcing each one out, expelling them like phlegm from her mouth.
“I don’t care. You weren’t here. You weren’t here when I needed you.”
He knelt down before her, and took her hands in his.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“I had to go to the clinic today.”
“Why?”
“Something was wrong. I felt it, inside.”
He tightened his grip on her, but she would not, could not, look up at him.
“Our baby’s dead,” she said softly. “I’m carrying a dead baby.”
He held her then and waited for her to cry, but she had no more tears left to shed. She simply lay against him, silent and lost in her grief. He could see his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind her, and he closed his eyes so he would not have to look at himself.
Will led his wife to the bedroom and helped her to get between the sheets. The doctors at the clinic had given her some pills, and he made her take two.
“They wanted to induce it,” she said, as the drugs took hold. “They wanted to take our baby away, but I wouldn’t let them. I wanted to keep it for as long as I could.”
He nodded, but now he could not speak. His own tears began to fall. His wife reached up and wiped them away with her thumb.
He sat beside her until she fell asleep, then stared at the wall for two hours, her hand in his until slowly, carefully, he released it and let it fall to the sheets. She stirred slightly, but she did not wake.
He went downstairs and called the number that Epstein had given him when they first met. A woman answered sleepily, and when he asked for the rabbi, she told him that he was in bed.
“He had a long night,” she explained.
“I know,” he replied. “I was there. Wake him. Tell him it’s Will Parker.”
The woman clearly recognized the name. She put the phone down, and Will heard her walk away. Five minutes passed, and then he heard Epstein’s voice.
“Mr. Parker. I should have told you at the hospitaclass="underline" it’s not good for us to stay in contact this way.”
“I need to see you.”
“That’s not possible. What’s done is done. We must let the dead rest.”
“My wife is carrying a dead baby,” said Will. He almost vomited the words out.
“What?”
“You heard me. Our child is dead in the womb. They think the umbilical cord got wound around its throat somehow. It’s dead. They told her yesterday. They’re going to induce labor and remove it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Epstein.
“I don’t want your pity,” said Will. “I want my son.”
Epstein was silent. “What you’re suggesting isn’t-”
Will cut him off.
“Don’t tell me that! You make this happen. You go to your friend, Mr. Quiet in his nice suit, and you tell him what I want. Otherwise, I swear I’ll make so much noise that your ears will bleed.” Suddenly, the energy began to leach from his body. He wanted to crawl into bed and hold his wife, hold his wife and their dead child. “Look, you told me that the boy would have to be taken care of. I can take care of him. Hide him with me. Hide him in plain sight. Please.”
He heard Epstein sigh. “I will talk to our friends,” he said at last. “Give me the name of the doctor who is looking after your wife.”
Will did so. The number was in the address book beside the telephone.
“Where is your wife now?”
“She’s asleep upstairs. She took some pills.”
“I’ll call you in one hour,” said Epstein, and he hung up.
One hour and five minutes later, the phone rang. Will, who had been sitting on the floor beside it, picked it up before it had a chance to ring a second time.
“When your wife wakes up, Mr. Parker, you must tell her the truth,” said Epstein. “Ask her to forgive you, then tell her what you propose.”
Will did not sleep that night. Instead, he mourned for Caroline Carr, and when dawn broke he put his grief for her aside and prepared for what he felt certain would be the death of his marriage.
“He called me that morning,” said Jimmy. “He told me what he intended to do. He was prepared to gamble everything on the possibility of holding on to the boy: his career; his marriage; the happiness, even the sanity, of his wife.”
He was about to pour some more wine into his glass, then stopped.
“I can’t drink any more,” he said. “The wine looks like blood.” He pushed the bottle and the glass away. “We’re nearly done anyway, for now. I’ll finish this part, and then I have to sleep. We can talk again tomorrow. If you want, you can spend the night. There’s a guest room.”