"I won't," he answered, and came back into the kitchen. He would take home his father's presents and dump them in the garbage, the inkstand he had made when he was seven, the Chinese bank he had received as a gift when he was ten, and the Harvard notebook from his undergraduate days. He would dump them in the garbage.
"Pop," he said, "why haven't you ever…" and stopped.
"Yes?" his father said.
"… gone back to that doctor on Park Avenue?" Sidney improvised.
"I went."
"You did?"
"Sure. He says it's nothing to worry. It's arthritis, I'll keep taking the cortisone, it isn't God forbid anything worse."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Sidney said. "Does the cortisone help?"
"A little."
"Well, that's good."
"Sure."
"Her nickname is Ch-Chickie," Sidney said suddenly.
"What?"
"My f-f-fiancee. Her nickname is Chickie."
"That's a funny name," his father said, and smiled. "Chickie."
"Yeah."
"Your mother, when she was a girl, they used to call her Sarale."
"I know."
"May she rest in peace."
"Mmm," Sidney said. He had finished the second scotch, and he wanted another drink, but he knew his father would frown upon a third. He sat at the kitchen table, jiggling his foot and looking up at the wall clock. It was only six-thirty.
"Do you remember your Aunt Hannah?" Louis asked.
"Yes." He was always asking Sidney if he remembered people he couldn't possibly ever forget. His Aunt Hannah had lived in the apartment next door on Houston Street when he was a boy. He'd spent half his childhood in her kitchen, and now his father asked if he remembered her. How the hell could he possibly ever forget Aunt Hannah?
"Her daughter is going to have a baby," Louis said.
"Another one."
"This is only three."
"I guess it is."
"You should go see your Aunt Hannah every now and then."
"I always mean to."
"Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have liked it."
"Maybe when the trial is finished," Sidney said. "Maybe I'll stop by one day."
"Well, I know you're busy. What did you call it? The trial?"
"Plagiarism."
"That's important?"
"I guess so."
"I'll have to tell my friends."
Yes, you tell them, he thought. Tell them your very important lawyer son is arguing a very important plagiarism case downtown. "There's ten million dollars involved," Sidney said.
Louis whistled softly.
"If we win the case, Carl and I will share four million dollars."
"That's plenty," Louis said.
"Tell your friends," Sidney answered.
He sat in his father's beet-smelling kitchen, and he longed to tell him about Chickie, about the love he felt for her, longed desperately to discuss something important with his father for once in his life, not cousin Marvin's idiotic troubles, or Aunt Hannah's third grandchild, but something important to him, to Sidney, to your son, Pop, to me. And he knew in that moment that winning the case would mean nothing to him if he did not also win Chickie. He almost made a bargain with God on the spot. Look, he thought, visualizing himself once again as a sunset-stained rabbi raising his eyes to heaven, Look, God, let me lose the case even, I don't care, really I don't care, just so long as you permit me to win Chickie. The offer startled him, and he revoked it at once because he didn't want God to take him too seriously. And yet, what difference would it make, win or lose, except for the money involved? And was even that important if he could not share the future with Chickie? Would it really matter, win or lose, if…
If there was no one there to…
Without realizing why, he suddenly said, "Why don't you ever…" and hesitated.
"Why don't I ever what?"
"I thought you might like…"
"Yes, what?"
Ask him, Sidney thought. At least give him the opportunity.
"Would you like to come down?"
"What?"
"Downtown."
"What do you mean, downtown?"
"The courthouse. The court. Tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?"
"Friday. I'll be giving my summation. I thought…"
"I have to be home to light the shabiss candles."
"That's not until sundown. I'll get you home by then."
"How would I get there?"
"By cab. Or I can pick you up, if you like."
"Where is this?"
"Foley Square. Downtown."
"In New York?"
"Yes. I could pick you up in the morning, if you like."
"I have my medicine here," his father said.
"Well, you can take—"
"What time does it start?"
"Ten in the morning."
"The super's coming in tomorrow. To fix the radiator there in the bedroom. It leaks all over the floor."
"I just thought you might like to see…"
"Yes?"
"… a… a court case," Sidney said. "Me," he said.
"I saw a court case when Harry Bergner was sued that time."
"I just thought…"
"They're all the same, no?"
"Yes, they're all the same," Sidney said. He paused. "I'd like another drink."
"Don't drink too much, Sidney," his father said.
It began raining at half-past seven, and the pressure call to Arthur came not ten minutes after the storm started. He knew at once that it was going to be a pressure call because when he answered, two voices came back at him with "Hello Arthur," one from Stuart Selig and the other from Oscar Stern on the extension.
"Some storm, huh?" Stuart said.
"Yeah," Arthur said.
"We aren't interrupting anything, are we?" Oscar asked.
"No, I was reading."
"Anything good?" Stuart asked.
"Anything that might make a play?" Oscar asked.
"I don't think so. What's on your mind?"
"We might as well come straight to the point," Stuart said.
"That's right," Oscar asked.
"Kent Mercer was up here just a little while ago. He told us he met you for lunch today."
"Yes, we had a long talk," Arthur said.
"According to Kent, you've got some doubts about making these changes Hester wants."
"I'm still thinking it over."
"Well, when do you think you'll know, Arthur? This is Thursday night."
"I know what it is."
"Tomorrow's Friday, Arthur."
"We promised Mitzi we'd let her know by Friday, Arthur."
"We don't want to pressure you…"
"That's right."
"… but you haven't got all the time in the world to make your decision, you know. Maybe you don't have a clear picture of the situation."
"I think Kent gave me a pretty clear picture."
"Did he tell you he's dropping out if you don't make the changes?"
"He hinted it."
"Well, he did more than hint it when he was up here. He's the man for your play, Arthur, you realize that, don't you?"
"Yes, but if we have to lose him…"
"We don't have to lose him," Stuart said.
"That's right," Oscar said.
"We don't have to lose anybody. If you agree to make the changes, we'll have one of the best directors in the business and one of the brightest young actresses around, and we'll also get our financing — which is the most important thing."
"You know how much money I'll get if I win this case?" Arthur asked.
"Meantime," Oscar said, "you haven't won it."
"I could produce the play myself, six times over. A hundred times over."
"I don't bet on horse races or on trials," Stuart said. "Will you make the changes, or won't you?"