“Sure. Escargots. Oysters Rockefeller. Champagne. Turtles' eggs and caviar.” He sat up in bed like a mischievous child.
“What a revolting combination, my love.” But she wasn't really listening to him. She was looking at her watch. “But do order yourself something. George should be here any minute. Our meeting downtown is at one.” She walked out of the room distractedly, to look for her briefcase, and Mike heard the doorbell at the front of the suite. A moment later, George Calloway walked into his room.
“Well, Michael, how are you feeling?”
“After two weeks in the hospital, doing absolutely nothing, I feel mostly embarrassed.” He tried to make light of his situation, but there was still a broken look around his eyes. His mother saw it too, but put it down to fatigue. She had closed any alternative explanation from her mind, and she and Michael never discussed it. They talked about the business, and the plans for the medical center in San Francisco. Never the accident.
“I stopped in at your office this morning. It looks very handsome indeed.” George smiled and sat down at the foot of the bed.
“I'm sure it does.” Michael watched his mother as she came into the room. She was wearing a light gray Chanel suit with a soft blue silk blouse, pearl earrings, and three strands of pearls around her neck. “Mother has excellent taste.”
“Yes, she does.” George smiled at her warmly, but she waved nervously at them both.
“Stop throwing roses; we're going to be late. George, do you have the papers we need?”
“Of course.”
“Then let's go.” She walked quickly toward Michael's bed and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “Rest, darling. And don't forget to order lunch.”
“Yes, ma'am. Good luck at the meeting.”
She raised her head and smiled with pure anticipation. “Luck has nothing to do with it.” The two men laughed, and Michael watched them go. And then he sat up.
He sat patiently and quietly, waiting and thinking. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He had planned it for two weeks. He had lived for this moment. It had been all he could think of. It was why he had suggested the hotel, insisted on it in fact, and urged her to attend the meetings herself for the new Boston library building. He needed the afternoon to himself. He just didn't want to spoil anything by having them catch him. He wanted to be sure they were gone. So he sat exactly where he was for exactly half an hour. And then he was sure. He had rehearsed it a hundred times in his head. He went quickly to the suitcase on the rack at the foot of his bed and took out what he needed. Gray slacks, blue shirt, loafers, socks, underwear. It seemed a thousand years since he had worn clothes, and he was surprised at how wobbly he felt as he got dressed. He had to sit down three or four times to catch his breath. It was ridiculous to feel that weak, and he wouldn't give in to it. He wasn't going to wait another day. He was going there now. It took him nearly half an hour to dress and comb his hair, and then he called the desk and asked for a cab. He was pale on his way down in the elevator, but the excitement of his plan made him feel better. Just the thought of it gave him life again, as nothing had done in two weeks. The cab was waiting for him at the curb.
He gave the driver the address, and sat back with a feeling of great exhilaration. It was as though they had a date, as though she were expecting him, as though she knew. He smiled to himself all the way over, and gave the driver a large tip. He didn't ask the man to wait. He didn't want anyone waiting for him. He would stay there alone, for as long as he wanted. He had even toyed with the idea of continuing to pay rent on the place, so that he could come there whenever he liked. It was only an hour's flight from New York, and that way he would always have their apartment. Their apartment. He looked up at the building with a familiar glow of warmth, and almost in spite of himself, he heard himself say the words he'd been thinking. “Hi, Nancy Fancypants, I'm home.” He had said the words a thousand times before, as he walked in the door and found her sitting at her easel, with paint splattered all over hands and arms and occasionally her face. If she was terribly involved in the work, she sometimes didn't hear him come in.
He walked slowly up the stairs, tired but buoyed by the feeling of homecoming. He just wanted to go upstairs and sit down, near her, with her … with her things…. All the same familiar smells pervaded the building, and there was the sound of running water, of a child, a cat meowing in a hallway below, and outside a horn honking. He could hear an Italian song on the radio, and for a strange moment he wondered if the radio was on in her studio. He had his key in his hand when he reached the landing, and he stopped for a long, long moment For the first time all day, he felt tears burn his eyes. He still knew the truth. She wouldn't be there. She was gone forever. She was dead.
He still tried the word out loud from time to time, just to make himself say it, to make himself know. He didn't want to be one of those crazy people who never faced the truth, who played games of pretend. She would have been scornful of that. But now and then he let the knowledge go, only to have it return with a slap. As it did now. He turned the key in the lock and waited, as though maybe someone would come to the door after all. But there was no one there. He opened the door slowly, and then he gasped.
“Oh, my God! Where is … where …” It was gone. All of it Every table, every chair, the plants, the paintings, her easel, her paints. Her clothes, … Jesus Christ, Nancy!” And then he heard himself crying as hot angry tears stung his face and he pulled open doors. Nothing. Even the refrigerator was gone. He stood there dumbly for a moment and then flew down the stairs two at a time until he reached the manager's apartment in the basement. He pounded on the door until the little old man opened it just the width of the protective chain and stared out with a look of fear in his eyes. But he recognized Michael and opened the door as he started to smile, until Michael grabbed him by the collar and began to shake him.
“Where is her stuff, Kowalski? Where the hell is it? What did you do with it? Did you take it? Who took it? Where are her things?”
“What things? Who … oh, my God … no, no, I didn't take anything. They came two weeks ago. They told me—” He was trembling with terror, and Michael with rage.
“Who the hell is ‘they’?”
“I don't know. Someone called me and said that the apartment would be vacant. That Miss McAllister was … had …” He saw the tears still wet on Michael's face and was afraid to go on. “You know. Well, they told me, and they said the apartment would be empty by the end of the week. Two nurses came and took a few things, and then the Goodwill truck came the next morning.”
“Nurses? What nurses?” Michael's mind was a blank. And Goodwill? Who had called them?
“I don't know who they were. They looked like nurses though—they were wearing white. They didn't take much. Just that little bag, and her paintings. Goodwill got the rest. I didn't take nothing. Honest. I wouldn't do that. Not to a nice girl like…” But Michael wasn't listening to him. He was already wandering up the stairs to the street, dazed, as the old man watched him, shaking his head. Poor guy. He had probably just heard. “Hey … hey.” Michael turned around, and the old man lowered his voice. “I'm sorry.” Michael only nodded and went out to the street. How did the nurses know? How could they have done it? They'd probably taken the little jewelry she had, a few trinkets, and the paintings. Maybe someone had said something to them at the hospital. Vultures, picking over what was left. God, if he'd seen them, he'd … His hands clenched at his sides, and then his arm shot out to hail a cab. At least … maybe … it was worth a try. He slid into the cab, ignoring the ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. “Where's the nearest Goodwill?”