“No.” Max covered his eyes with the fingers of his right hand, as if hiding from the question.
“Good. Let me take a look.” He came up to the bed, snapping on a flashlight in the shape of a pen. Carla thought he was too young to be so presumptuous with Max.
Max persisted in shielding his eyes with his fingers. To coax them down the intern pulled gently on Max’s wrist. He shined the penlight into one eye and then the other, each time asking Max to roll his eyes up and then down. “Good,” the intern said. “Things blurry, especially in the distance?”
“I can’t really see,” Max said in a tone Carla had never heard from him; he sounded afraid.
“You can’t see!” the young man was skeptical. “You can see everything in the room, right? Things are a little cloudy, right?”
“Right,” Max said dully.
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Mr. Klein. You’re the patient, you tell me. But you see everything — it’s just not sharp, right?”
“Right,” Max said angrily.
“But he can see,” the intern said to Carla.
She understood then why Max wasn’t laughing or talking cleverly. She sat by the bed after the kid doctor left and took Max’s hand. It was soft and warm. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he mumbled bitterly, “It’s not seeing.”
When Brillstein came to the apartment that night to ask if he could offer to settle the case for three hundred thousand dollars, she waited through Manny’s first excited, then suspicious agreement. At first Manny said, “Three hundred thousand!” as if it were all the money in the world. Yet only a moment later he said to Brillstein, “They’d be getting off cheap.” Finally he was satisfied when Brillstein told him that the most any other parent had gotten was one hundred thousand. Carla nodded to indicate it was okay with her and then said, “Are the doctors telling the truth about Max’s eyes?”
While Brillstein assured her that Max’s eyes should be fine, Manny sulked. “He’s lucky to have eyes,” Manny commented.
As soon as Brillstein left, Manny sat opposite Carla in one of the metal kitchen chairs and said in a bullying tone, “I gotta know something. You gonna go on seeing this nut forever?”
“You want me to stop talking to you again?” Carla said.
Manny picked himself and his chair up while still seated and slammed both down. The metal feet and his shoes made a hard and soft clap of thunder. “You’re taking a fuck of a lotta chances with me, woman!”
“When you get your blood money, Manny—” Carla said in a rage, getting to her feet. The white flash of this anger seemed to blind her momentarily. She blinked hard and Manny reappeared. “You can keep it all to yourself and get the fuck out of my life!” She marched to her room and felt bitterly disappointed.
Manny knocked later, came in without permission, and gave her an espresso. “I’m sorry,” he said in a mumble.
She took the cup. She had been sitting at the window, looking out at the street, wondering about the tourists and rich New Yorkers passing below. Max had once said that walking through Little Italy made those people feel they were in a Godfather movie. She wondered if that was entirely a joke. After a while, she said to Manny, “Thank you.”
Manny studied her while she sipped the coffee. It was good.
“Do you want a TV in here?” he said eventually.
“No thanks,” she said. She liked the room this way, all white and empty except for the small bed, dresser and rocking chair she had kept from the nursery. A television would spoil it.
“You’re my wife,” Manny said quietly.
“Yes, I am,” Carla answered.
Manny nodded and left. She got up early the next morning and made him pancakes. He kissed her with syrupy lips on his way out. He hummed with pleasure and pushed his sweet tongue between her teeth. She eased him out the door.
She cleaned the apartment in an hour. The laundry was done and there was food for dinner. She thought about going to Old Saint Pat’s. She could pray for Max’s eyes.
I need a job, she thought.
Manny would want her to get pregnant again. She didn’t think she could have another child — at least not physically. To raise one, yes; to make one, no. But Manny would never adopt.
Her intercom buzzed. When she asked who it was, she didn’t believe the answer: “Debby Klein. Max Klein’s wife. Could I come up and see you?”
Carla was so taken aback she didn’t reply, she buzzed her in, wandered to the front door in a daze and opened it.
Carla was surprised by Max’s wife. She was slight and nervous, not commanding as Carla imagined she would be, and although Debby looked to be around forty years old, she had the uncertain expression of a timid girl.
“I’m sorry,” were Debby’s first words as she climbed the last few steps.
“That’s okay.”
“If I’m interrupting something—”
“That’s okay,” Carla said again.
Debby offered her hand. “I’m Debby.”
“Hi, I’m Carla.” Carla shook it. “Come in. How’s Max doing?”
Debby passed her and entered the apartment with open interest in the objects. She peered at the furniture and the photographs as they moved into the living room. “I guess physically he’s getting better. I’m worried about what’s going on in his head.”
Carla nodded. She gestured for Debby to sit and asked, “Do you want something? Coffee?”
“No. Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you. I guess this is crazy. I’ve never done anything like this in my life.” She laughed and it was a surprise. Her laugh was deep and mature and confident. “When have I ever been in a situation like this? I don’t even know what my situation is—” Her amusement shut off, as suddenly and completely as a light going out. “There are no rules about what’s happened to you and Max. I guess that’s what I realized last night. What a terrible night.” Debby looked into the distance and there was grief in her eyes, the sort of hopelessness that Carla understood very well. “It was the worst night of my life. I thought there would never be anything as bad as the night I thought Max had died—” she found Carla’s sympathetic eyes and stopped. She smiled feebly. “Did Max help you? I talked to Bill Perlman yesterday. He said Max helped you.”
Carla waited to think how she could say it. She felt she owed Debby the truth, if she could figure out what the truth was. She considered and then had an answer that was right. “He saved my soul,” she told Debby.
Debby’s eyes filled with tears. Her lips trembled. “Well,” she stood up, so agitated that she obviously wanted to hide. “Well, then, that’s that. Thank you. I’m going to go.” She turned away. Carla stood up. She hadn’t wanted to make her feel bad and yet she seemed to have hurt her. It was confusing.
Debby moved toward the door. Carla hurried after her. She wanted to say more but she didn’t know what else to say; she had an impulse to take care of Debby, she seemed so fragile. Debby was still upset, only barely managing to contain her tears. She pulled at the front door but couldn’t get it open. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“It’s okay,” Carla said, unlocking it.
Debby opened the door. Her eyes were awash with tears. “I think,” she said to Carla and swallowed hard. “I think maybe you’re the only one who can help Max.” And she rushed out, hurrying down the stairs.
It was sometime later that Carla found herself sitting in the kitchen eating from a box of crackers. She had been thinking so hard it was like a trance: What did Debby mean? How could she help Max? Was there anything wrong with him? To her it seemed that he was as great as anyone could be, that he was fearless and kind and smart and loving. Why would anyone want to change that? She didn’t know, except that obviously he wasn’t being a good husband to Debby. She seemed lost, grief-stricken. Was it Carla’s fault, somehow? Had she done this to them? That was an awful thought, a sin she couldn’t bear. The crackers were so dry she had to go to the sink and drink two glasses of water. As she put the box away the phone rang.