He climbed the broad staircase slowly, pulling himself along with the banister. Once again he vowed that he would retire in two years. Sell the practice and the building. Spend a year breaking in the new man.
Then he and Berthe would leave New York. Buy a condominium in Florida. Most of their friends had already gone. The children had married and left. He and Berthe deserved some rest. At peace. In the sun.
He knew it would never happen.
That night Berthe had prepared mushroom-and-barley soup, his favorite, and a pot roast made with first-cut brisket. His spirits soared. He had a Scotch highball and lighted a cigar.
"It was a hard day?" his wife asked.
"No better or worse than usual," he said.
She looked at him narrowly.
"That Zoe Kohler woman?" she said.
He was astonished. "You know about her?"
"Of course. You told me."
"I did?"
"Twice," she said, nodding. "The first Tuesday of every month."
"Oh-ho," he said, looking at her lovingly. "Now I understand the mushroom-and-barley soup."
"The first Tuesday of every month," Berthe said, smiling. "To revive you. Oscar, you think she… Well, you know, some women enjoy… You told me so."
"Yes," he said seriously, "that's so. But not her. For her it's painful."
"Painful? It hurts? You hurt her?"
"Oh no, Berthe. No, no, no. You know me better than that. But I think it's a kind of punishment for her. That's how she sees it."
"Punishment for what? Has she done something?"
"Such a question. How would I know?"
"Come, let's eat."
They went into the dining room. It was full of shadows.
"I don't think she's done something," he tried to explain. "I mean, she doesn't want punishment because she feels guilty. I think she feels unworthy."
"My husband the psychologist."
"Well, that's what I think it is," he repeated stubbornly. "She comes every month for an examination she doesn't need and that she hates. It's punishment for her unworthiness. That's how she gets her gratification."
"Sha," his wife said. "Put your cigar down and eat your soup."
The cramps were bad. None of her pills helped. The pain came from deep within her, in waves. It wrenched her gut, twisted her inside. It was a giant hand, clawing, yanking this way and that, turning her over. She wanted to scream.
She left work early on Wednesday night, April 9th. Mr. Pinckney was sympathetic when she told him the cause.
"Take tomorrow off," he said. "We'll manage."
"Oh no," she said. "I'll be all right tomorrow."
She went directly home and drew a bath as hot as she could endure. She soaked for an hour, running in more hot water as the tub cooled. She searched for telltale stains, but the water remained clear; her menses had not yet started.
She swallowed an assortment of vitamins and minerals before she dressed. She didn't care what Dr. Stark said; she was convinced they were helping her survive. And she sipped a glass of white wine while she dressed. The cramps had diminished to a dull, persistent throbbing.
She regretted the necessity of going up to the Filmore on West 72nd Street to put on makeup and don her new strawberry blond wig. But she didn't want to risk the danger of having her neighbors and doorman see her transformed.
Also, there was a risk of going directly from her apartment house to the Hotel Coolidge. The cabdriver might remember. A circuitous route was safer.
She had selected the Coolidge because the hotel trade magazine, in its directory of conventions and sales meetings, had listed the Coolidge as hosting two conventions and a political gathering on the night of April 9th. It was an 840-rocm hotel on Seventh Avenue and 50th Street. Close enough to Times Square to get a lot of walk-in business in its cocktail lounges and dining rooms.
She wore fire-engine-red nylon lingerie embroidered with small hearts, sheer pantyhose with a reddish tint, her evening sandals with their "hookers' heels." The dress, tightly fitted, was a bottle-green silk so dark it was almost black. It shimmered, and was skimpy as a slip, suspended from her smooth shoulders by spaghetti straps.
Two hours later she was seated alone at a small banquette in the New Orleans Room of the Hotel Coolidge. Her trenchcoat was folded on the seat beside her. She was smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of white wine. She did not turn her head, but her eyes were never still.
It was a small, dimly lighted room, half-filled. A three-piece band played desultory jazz from a raised platform in one corner. It was all relatively quiet, relaxed. Zoe Kohler wondered if she might do better in the Gold Coast Room.
Most of the men who entered were in twos and threes, hatless and coatless, but bearing badges on the lapels of their suit jackets. They invariably headed directly for the bar. There were a few couples at the small tables, but not many.
Shortly after 11:00 p.m., a single man came to the entrance of the New Orleans Room. He stood a moment, looking about.
Come to me, Zoe Kohler willed. Come to me.
He glanced in her direction, hesitated, then moved casually toward the wall of banquettes.
Lover, she thought, not looking at him.
He slid behind the table next to hers. She pulled her shoulder bag and trenchcoat closer. The cocktail waitress came over and he ordered a bourbon and water. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone.
He was tall, more than six feet, hunched, and almost totally bald. He wore rimless spectacles. His features were pleasant enough, his cheeks somewhat pitted. The backs of his hands were badly scarred. He wore the ubiquitous name-badge on his breast pocket. Zoe caught a look at it. hello! call me jerry.
They sat at their adjoining tables. She ordered another glass of wine, he another bourbon. They did not speak nor look in each other's direction. Finally…
"I beg your pardon," he said, leaning toward her.
She turned to look coldly at him. He blushed, up into his bald head. He seemed about to withdraw.
"Uh, I, ah, uh, wondered if I could ask you a personal question?"
"You may ask," she said severely. "I may or may not answer."
"Uh," he said, gulping, "that dress you're wearing… It's so beautiful. I want to bring my wife a present from New York, and she'd look great in that." He added hastily, "Not as good as you do, of course, but I wondered where you bought it, and if…" His voice trailed away.
She smiled at him.
"Thank you-" She peered closer at his badge as if seeing it for the first time. "Thank you, Jerry, but I'm sorry to tell you that the shop where I bought it has gone out of business."
"Oh," he said, "that's too bad. But listen, maybe you can suggest a store where I can buy something nice."
Now they had turned to face each other. He kept lifting his eyes from her shoulders and cleavage, and then his eyes would slide down again.
They talked awhile, exploring. He was from Little Rock, Arkansas, and was regional manager for a chain of fast-food restaurants that sold chicken-fried steaks and was about to go the franchise route.
She touched the scars on the backs of his hands.
"What happened?" she asked. "A war wound?"
"Oh no," he said, laughing for the first time. He had a nice, sheepish laugh. "A stove caught fire. They'll heal. Eventually."
"My name's Irene," she said softly.
He bought them two more rounds of drinks. By that time, she had moved her coat and shoulder bag to her other side, and he was sitting beside her, at her table. She pressed her thigh against his. He drew his leg hastily away. Then it came back.
The New Orleans Room had filled up, every table taken. Patrons were standing two and three deep at the bar. The jazz trio was playing with more verve, music blasting. The distracted waitresses were scurrying about. Zoe Kohler was reassured; no one would remember her.
"Noisy in here," Jerry said, looking about fretfully. "We can't rightly talk."