“To whom?” Paul said. “What?”
“The son. I brought paper what’s got my name on it. Typed,” said Levy, “would be very impressive.”
“I don’t get exactly what you want,” Paul said.
Levy extracted a folded paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s a facsimile. Just fix my contractions is probably all that’s needed.” Though addressing Paul, he had spoken his last words toward Korngold, who seemed to brighten.
“He was some attorney in his day,” Korngold told Paul. “Got gangsters off the hook. How can we miss?”
The letter in his hand — Levy over his shoulder — Korngold begging solace directly in his eyes — how could he protect himself? He read.
Dear Mr. Korngold:
Mr. Max Korngold, your father, has asked for me to contact you on the subject: his condition. What kind of son could leave a man seventy in January to live so? For twenty-five a week life would improve for him by way of a companion. He needs looking after for such simple incidents as toilets and meals even bed sheets are a problem. I am active with the Senator from Michigan and could pull strings by a full scale investigation of what you are up to in your private life — your spending for one thing. My secretary has ready in her hands a letter that the Senate will see eye to eye with me on when I send it special delivery. Why not be a good son and spare us all a mess? If not you will pull down your world out of selfishness and greed. Gone will be your homes up and down Florida. What is twenty-five a week to a man like you? Answer right now or my secretary will call the Senate in the morning long distance no expense spared.
“Do I make myself clear?” asked Levy. “Needs polishing?”
Korngold plucked at Levy’s sleeve. “Maybe we should enclose a snapshot. Let him see what condition I live in.”
“Why plead?” Levy reasoned, making a fist. “He should know I mean business. A wrong move and he’s through. You could type it up, adding here and there a comma?” he asked Paul.
Paul had heard most, but not all, of what the old men had been saying since they had come into his room. He did not have enough strength — given what had happened that day — to attend totally to these two characters. However, as much as they confused him, they touched him, and he was ready to say something helpful when he saw Levy’s hand come to rest again on the lace of Libby’s slip. “I’m not feeling well, Mr. Levy. Maybe you and Mr. Korngold better go out.” Then he smiled, for by choice and breeding he was not rude to elderly people.
“What?” asked Korngold. “A youngster like you with failing health?”
“Dummy, he’s got a bad cut.”
Levy pointed, and Korngold cringed at the sight of the bandage. Levy proceeded to assemble on the tray his cups and saucers. “I’ll leave you a facsimile, Mr. Herz, for when you have the time. That’s all right, not an intrusion?”
“No,” Paul said, wearily.
“So I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Don’t feel you gotta rush. The afternoon is fine. You could slip it under the door. I’d appreciate you wouldn’t knock — of an afternoon I take a little siesta.”
“Me, I can’t even sleep at night,” Korngold put in, holding his forehead. “Up with the birds. Awake all the time with that Nazi. For a radio he’s got a public address hookup. I wouldn’t tell you what he does in the sink — I should turn him in to the public health commission. In his room he’s got shortwave, direct to Berlin.” Korngold pushed back his chair; long and spineless as a sagging candle, he limped from the room. Levy moved after him, and, gesturing with his tray at Korngold’s back, he whispered over his shoulder to Paul, “Senility, a simple case. When the arteries go, you can call it quits.”
Libby’s face was over his. He heard her asking about his wrist before he was fully alive to the hour and the circumstance. Coming out of sleep was like climbing up a ladder. And for a moment he did not want to climb.
“I’m home,” Libby said. “What happened?”
He saw her pale-blue waitress uniform, then her. “I cut my hand at work.”
“Baby, are you all right?” She moved down beside him on the bed. “The bandage is so big.” She held him, careful of the wrist, and he did not know whether she was on the edge of passion or panic. He was hoping for neither.
“I’m all right. I was home for the afternoon, that’s all.” He sat up. “I’m fine.”
She turned on the bedside lamp. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. I was daydreaming.”
She touched the fingers of his bandaged arm. “Will it be all right? Can you work?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Did you lose this afternoon’s pay?”
He controlled his temper and said he didn’t know.
“Didn’t you ask?”
“No, Libby. I was bleeding. I could have bled to death.” Not happy over his histrionics, he got up and went to the sink to wash his face.
“I only wanted to know,” she said. “Your typewriter is on the floor.” She rose from the bed. “Mail?”
“What?”
She was unfolding the letter Levy had left behind.
“No,” he said.
Disappointed, she asked, “What is this?”
“Mr. Levy wants me to type a letter for him.”
She let the paper float out of her hands onto the floor. “He dropped his cane again this morning.”
“Look, Libby, do you want me to say something to him or don’t you?”
“He’s such a poor old man—” Libby began.
“Crap, Libby. We’re poorer than he is.”
“What kind of letter is it?” she asked.
“He brought a friend over with him. The man with the shakes next door. With the limp. Korngold. Korngold’s son has ruined Korngold’s life. Disappreciation—”
“Who’s Dr. Smith?”
“Who?”
She was holding up the little white piece of paper. “Dr. Thomas Smith. BA 3-3349.”
“Where was that?”
“On the table. Who is he?”
“He bandaged my hand. I have to call him.”
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked. “Are you very upset?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I mean the other thing. Me.”
“You are,” he said. “You’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed, I’m just nauseous. Is that possible? So soon? I couldn’t eat my lunch.”
“Maybe you should go to a doctor.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“If you’re feeling nauseous you ought to go to a doctor. You’ve got to eat.”
“We don’t have to start with doctors already,” she said. “I’m not going to pay anybody five dollars to tell me I should be nauseous.”
“Then go to a clinic. Go to the City Hospital.”
The suggestion visibly shocked her. “It’s not necessary.”
“Lib, you’re going to have to see a doctor eventually. Not doing anything isn’t going to make it not so.”
“Don’t lecture me, please. I’m quite aware of my condition and what to do about it.”
Her words confused him — though within the confusion was a strain of relief. “What do you mean?”
“That you don’t have to run to doctors in the second month. Please, Paul.” She picked up Levy’s letter from the floor; after looking at it for only a second, she buried her head in her arms on the table.
“Put something over your shoulders, Libby.”
“I’m all right,” she mumbled.
“Libby …”
She answered only with a tired sound.
“Dr. Smith is an abortionist,” he said.
Her arms remained crossed on the table, and she raised her head very slowly. She had nothing to say.