The room immediately got quiet, all eyes turned toward him.
"So they called you?... M-hm... M-hm... M-hm.., well, I guess it's one of those things. I'm sorry you got mixed up in it.... Yeah, bye."
"Was that John DiFrancesca?" asked Dr. Kantrovitz. "What happened?"
"One of Dan Cohen's patients died, they couldn't get hold of Dan, so the service called John, he says it was probably a reaction to medication that Dan ordered and—"
"Who was it?"
"Old man Kestler."
"Oh my God!" The cry came from Safferstein.
All turned to him. His face was ashen.
"What's the matter, Billy?" Kaplan asked.
"Maybe it was my fault. I might have switched the pills."
"What are you talking about?"
He explained how he had volunteered to deliver the prescription to the Kestler house. "So I had these two envelopes, one that Al prescribed for Mona and one for Kestler, maybe the one I gave the cop for Kestler was Mona's."
"How about it, Al?" asked Kaplan. "Could what you prescribed for Mona have hurt Kestler?"
"It was penicillin." Dr. Muntz replied. "If Kestler was sensitive to it—" He broke off as another idea occurred to him. "You gave Kestler's pills to Mona?"
"No, I came right here because of the storm."
"So you've still got the other one." Muntz pointed out. "All you have to do is look and see if the pills you still have are Kestler's or Mona's."
"Yeah, that's right, they're in my coat pocket." Safferstein immediately went to the hall closet where Kaplan had hung his coat, the others followed, he picked up a coat and thrust his hand into the pocket. "It's gone," he exclaimed in dismay. "The pills are gone."
"Look in the other pockets."
"I remember putting them in this pocket." But he began to search nevertheless, he drew out a pair of gloves and stared blankly at them. "These aren't mine. Say, this isn't my coat. Somebody must have switched coats with me."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marcus Aptaker stirred uneasily and then came awake, he rubbed his eyes and yawned mightily. His wife, in her bathrobe, was sitting on the rocker, staring out the window.
"What's the matter? Can't you get to sleep?"
"It's a quarter of two," she said, "and Arnold's not home
yet."
"So what? He's a big boy now."
"But the storm— he may have— according to the broadcast a lot of trees blew down, and some telephone and electric-light poles."
"Good Lord, why do you want to imagine such things?" But he got out of bed and put on his bathrobe. "Let me make you some hot milk, then you'll be able to sleep."
She followed him into the kitchen. "I don't want any hot milk. I think we ought to call the police."
He stared at her. "What for?" "Well, you could ask if—"
"Look, Rose, if he's been in an accident, if that's what's bothering you, believe me, they'd let us know."
"So where can he be?"
"How do I know? He probably went to visit a friend and they didn't notice the time passing."
"Who would he go see? What friends does he have around here?"
"I don't know, all I know is he was on the phone a couple
of times."
"I think we ought to call the police," his wife insisted.
"I'm not calling no police. What could I say to them? That it's almost two o'clock in the morning and my twenty-eight-year-old son isn't home yet? I'd never hear the end of it. Chances are he had a flat tire or something and he'll be along pretty soon."
"So why wouldn't he have called? He'd know we'd be worried, wondering what might have happened to him in a storm like this."
"How the hell do I know why he didn't call? Maybe he didn't have a dime."
Grumbling, Marcus Aptaker wandered into the living room and his wife followed after him, he turned on the TV to "The Late Late Show" and stared unseeing at the screen.
"Why don't you go to bed?" she urged. "You've got to get up in the morning."
"I don't feel sleepy." He was as worried as she was but he could not voice his fears lest he increase hers.
At three o'clock, akiva came home, he was happy, he was euphoric, he was uneasy. "Gee, the house is lit up like a Christmas tree," he said gaily. "Don't you folks ever go to bed?"
"Oh, Arnold, we were so worried," his mother wailed. "Where in hell have you been?" Aptaker demanded, his worry instantly converted to dark anger.
"Didn't you know we'd be worried?" his mother sobbed. "Where were you?"
"I— I went to see a girl."
"In Revere, I bet," his father shouted, he turned to his wife. "One of those floozies he used to hang around with. You wondered who he knew around here, who he could go see. I'll tell you who. One of those nice girls in Revere you don't have to know personally, that's who, he's religious now. Goes to the synagogue. Won't eat your food because it isn't holy enough for him, and he's home one night and he goes chasing after whores."
Akiva lost control. "You can't talk to me that way," he shouted. "I don't have to take that from you."
"As long as you're under my roof—"
"Then Goddammit, I'll get out from under your roof," and he flung out of the room, he was back almost immediately with his suitcase in hand, he tossed the house key they had given him onto the coffee table. "There, I'm getting the hell out of here." He started for tha door.
"Please, arnold, please." his mother begged. "Where are you going?"
"Back to Philly. I shouldn't have come." He banged the door behind him.
Unbelieving, Mrs. aptaker stared at her husband, who glowered at the floor. "Oh, Mark, you shouldn't—"
"Let him go. Who needs him?"
"No!" She pulled at the door and ran out onto the porch, she called to him, but he had already backed out of the driveway and was turning into the street.
As Akiva drove through the night, he took on passengers: his mother first, with whom he was contrite. "I knew all along it wouldn't work, Ma, that's why I didn't come back before. Dad is not a bad guy, but our chemistries don't mix, our vibrations don't harmonize. It's not his fault and it's not my fault; it's just one of those things."
Then Reb Mendel, with whom he was inclined to be jocose. "I guess, Rebbe, this is one time the Insight was a bit faulty, a little grease on the telescope lens, perhaps?"
And Leah, with whom he spoke seriously. "It's probably for the best, dear. I'd be leaving in a few days anyway. Of course, if you were to come down to Philly, and get a job there, or even in Washington, where I could visit on a weekend—"
His reverie was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a policeman's whistle. Since his car was the only one on the road, he knew it applied to him. Resigned, he slowed down and stopped. In the rear-view mirror he watched the policeman dismount from his motorcycle and stroll leisurely toward him, he turned on the overhead light and began to fish through the glove compartment for his registration.
The policeman bent down and glanced inside the car. "Hopping right along there, weren't you, mister? You going to a fire?"
"Look, officer, I'm driving down to Philly— say, you're Purvis, aren't you? Joe Purvis?"
"Yeah, You know me?" The policeman peered at him. "You're not—"
"Arnold Aptaker."
"How about that? How are you? What's with the whiskers?"
"Oh, you know, just thought I'd try it. Saves on razor blades."
"How about that? You been in town? I didn't see you around."