“No. Not without the danger of falling. And getting back into the chair from the seat would be even worse.”
“I understand.” He goes outside, opens the umbrella and stands in the street in front of the theater looking for a cab that can take someone in a wheelchair. He’s out there for about fifteen minutes. Several regular cabs slow down or stop but he waves them on. Give up. He’s never going to find one. Shouldn’t have been so confident. Should have known it’d be tough. Now he has to go back there and tell her, but he knows she won’t mind. Not the kind of person to. She might even blame herself. Goddamn rain. If only it wasn’t coming down so hard. He goes into the lobby. “Sorry. No luck. Rainy night. I should have known. And now I’ve wasted your time. Here, let me walk you to the crosstown bus shelter. You three will get under the umbrella. As I said, it’s abnormally large, so you can all fit — and I’ll hold the umbrella over you.”
“Please. You should see your movie. Go. Enjoy it. We’ll make do.”
“I told you. That’s out. I just want you to get home as dry as you can be. I’ll even take the crosstown bus with you and then transfer to the number 10 downtown. I live right off Central Park West.”
“Okay, if you want. I can’t thank you enough. For my daughters and myself.”
Should he try to redeem his movie ticket at the box office? That’ll just waste more time and he also doesn’t want her to think he’s petty or cheap. Anyway, no. They walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Her daughters take turns pushing her and he keeps the umbrella over the three of them. Thank God the rain’s now only a drizzle. Still, he’s soaked, feels chilled, but he’ll be all right once he’s home. Few seconds after they get to the bus shelter, he sees a cab that can take a wheelchair and runs out into the street and flags it down. The cabby stays in the driver’s seat, releases the liftback door, and he pushes the chair up the rear-entry ramp to the one empty place where a seat would be. Then the cabby, without leaving the cab, goes in back to strap the chair down till it can’t move. The younger girl sits beside her and the older one is in the front passenger seat.
“I guess I can take my umbrella now. I don’t think you’ll need it anymore. Actually, keep it. To get into your building from the cab. I’ve got another just like it. Promotion ones, from a bank,” and he folds up the umbrella and puts it on the floor next to her.
“Maybe you can come with us as far as your downtown bus stop.”
“I’d love to, but doesn’t seem to be room. And I’m getting wet, standing here, even for me. Bye-bye, my friends.” He shuts the door. She says something to the driver. Probably their address. Cab starts up. “Wait.” He runs around the front of the cab and knocks on the driver’s window. Window’s lowered, and he gives him a twenty and a ten. “That should take them anyplace in Manhattan. And help them into their building.” Cab drives off and she and the kids smile and wave at him. He waves back and gets in the bus shelter. Damn, should have gone with them. Even diverted the cab first to his building, which isn’t too far from the Central Park West crosstown bus stop. Made room some way. Just to be with her more. Even with one of the girls on his lap. Nah, she might have minded that and the girl too. But get home fast. He goes into the street and flags down a cab.
He gets a teaching job in Baltimore. Two years later he’s in New York for the Christmas holiday and goes to Brad and Susan’s party. He hopes she’s changed her mind about not going to it, if she’s in town, and is there and this time they can really talk. That night it rained and the movie theater and he had so much trouble getting her a cab. Did any of them come down with a cold, after? What’s he thinking. She wouldn’t remember that. “But how are you? It’s so good to see you again. And your kids,” if they’re there. He gets to the party early, just in case she gets there early and is planning to leave early. Hangs his coat in the coat closet and gets a drink and looks around for her. Easy to spot too, if she’s still in a wheelchair. Even if she’s with people or seems deep in a conversation with someone, he’s going to go right over to her. He sees her husband. “Mike Seltzer. Phil Seidel. Maybe you remember me. We spoke here a few years ago. You were with your wife and kids. I don’t see them. Is she here? How is she?”
“Jesus, another one. I can’t believe it. You’re number four.”
“Four of what? I don’t get it.”
“The fourth person to come over to me — and how long have I been here? Fifteen minutes? — and ask after my wife and doesn’t know she died.”
“Oh, my goodness. What a shock. She was such a wonderful person.”
“Please don’t say anything.” He looks like he’s about to cry. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Goddamn fucking mistake,” and he walks away.
Goes over to Brad. “You didn’t tell me Abigail Berman had died.”
“I didn’t know you knew her that well.”
“I didn’t. But you knew how I felt about her.”
“No. I must have forgot. How did you?”
“Come on. You even criticized me for it. Thought I was acting like a love-sick fool. I was completely taken by her. You’re probably the only one I told.”
“So something did once happen between you two? Even once snuck in a kiss or something?”
“Nothing. I told you. It was all in my head. Was I in dreamland? You bet. Not that she would have been interested in me. Well, now that I think of the last time I saw her. . It was at a movie theater on the East Side. I guess before she really got sick. She was with her kids. I got them a cab because it was pouring out and I was afraid she’d catch a cold and even worse. And she might have. She was in a wheelchair and her kids were pushing her and she said something that seemed to indicate she’d be in that chair the rest of her life. What a loss. I mean, I can’t believe it. What I’m saying is. . well, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m glad, though, Mike was a good husband to her. Looked after her when she got sick. Couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t anything like that. He only did so much for her at the beginning and then couldn’t take it anymore when she could only get around in a wheelchair and had her first bout with pneumonia. He left her. Probably around the time you saw her at the movie theater. Her teaching days were over, so she became entirely dependent on him. He gave her enough to keep her comfortable. And kept giving it, though he didn’t have to for too long, so she could stay in the apartment with the kids and have an aide when she needed one, which eventually became round-the-clock. He quickly got hooked up with someone and got Abigail to agree to a divorce so he could remarry. She’s here. Nice woman. Quiet, but accomplished. A pediatrician. Abigail didn’t want the divorce, she told Susan. She thought she’d lose some of his benefits, but he took care of that too.”
“What a scumbag. Why’d you even invite him to the party?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re an old friend, he’s an old friend, and he’s always been a terrific dad. What went on between Abigail and him was their business. Who knows what I’d do if I was in the same situation?”
“I would have become even closer to her, if it were me. If I were Mike. If I were married to her and she had got the same disease. Any disease. I could kick myself that I didn’t move faster that night.”
“What night?”
“The first Christmas party you invited me to. What was it, twelve, fifteen years ago? A long time, when I first saw her at your old apartment. And maybe when I bumped into her at the movie theater, she was already split from him.”
“It’s possible. Everything went very fast.”
“So I could have made a move on her then. She needed someone like me. Got her phone number. Called. Taken her out for lunch. Pushed her in her wheelchair to it. Later, taken care of her. Even married her. Put her on my health plan.”