There was a childish drawing hanging on the wall opposite him and on it, in English, in awkward, block letters, "Shana Tova," and the date of Rosh Hashanah, "September 7". That was like a signal, a reminder; it made me glance at my watch and realize that between last night's confusion and this morning's haste, I hadn't noticed that it was already September 4th.
Although he was weak, K. immediately caught on what I was looking at.
He said: "My son. That's all he knows of Judaism. That our New Year isn't in January." He tried to sit up. Something about the effort he had to make touched me, banishing my reticence, and I moved to help him. He was extremely thin underneath his pajamas, and had difficulty holding his head up. From up close I could see that his eyes were glazed, and that the rash which had begun to flare under his skin yesterday had erupted in great, dark blotches on his cheeks and neck. There was a huge black-and-blue mark on his forehead. He touched it, as if to make sure it was still there.
"I always get one or two just like that every year," I said from an urge to show empathy, "in baseball, I stand too close to the batter, and I get a bat in the face."
It was stupid and self-righteous, but he didn't get angry; he actually took it as a request for an explanation.
"I fell," he said, "yesterday evening, in the library, on the back stairs. From there they brought me here."
"I was worried. You kind of disappeared on me."
"There was a reason for it."
"The woman who was standing next to me?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
He was silent, his eyes closed, and for a moment I thought he'd sunk into an exhausted sleep. Finally he said, "It doesn't matter anymore."
I told him about how I'd found her in his office.
He listened with some difficulty but without surprise, as if he already knew about what had happened, or had expected it. When I finished he said, "I wanted to ask a favor of you."
"Sure," I said gladly. I was willing to do anything he'd asked.
He poked a grayish hand into the night table drawer and felt around. I helped him reach a small leather toilet kit that was crammed with bottles of pills and medicines, pillboxes, and tubes of ointment. He pulled it toward him, dumped its contents onto his blanket, and handed it to me.
"There's a membership card in there. You'll find it in between the lining and the leather. The club's address is listed on it and the magnetic strip will open the door. My locker number is 1956; remember it by the Sinai War. Take whatever's left there, then throw it out or burn it. Including the card."
I tucked the toilet kit under my arm and said, "You can count on me."
He really was counting on me, and acted as if it was the most obvious, natural thing in the world. He didn't even bother to thank me. For some reason it made me respect him, maybe because I get carried away with a kind of sickening gratitude any time someone does something for me.
"I'll come visit," I promised. "In another...” again that number seven on the wall. What would the 8th or the 9th of September be like? "... two days it'll be Rosh Hashanah...”
He shook his head. "It would be better if you didn't come any more. There will be people...”
"After the holiday, early in the morning."
"I don't know if I'll still be here." I wondered whether he meant the hospital, or life, but he didn't leave any room for doubt. "I'm dying."
I didn't know what to do. It was the first time I'd had to say goodbye to someone I would probably never see again.
"Thanks," I said, "for everything...”
"Take care of yourself," he waved weakly.
When I got to the door I stopped. I wanted to tell him that despite everything, we had been friends. But when I turned around to look at him he had already sunk back onto the pillows, his eyes closed.
Outside I took off the johnny-coat, the mask, and the gloves and threw them into a large hamper that was standing nearby. The nurse peeked at me from behind a small mirror that she was using to put on lipstick. The morning bustle had already begun on the corridor, and in the lobby a black guy was lining up wheeled beds. I crossed the street to Prospect Park, sat down on a bench, and separated the lining from the sides of the toilet kit. There was a plastic card in there, cleverly concealed behind the inner pocket. Above the magnetic strip were written the words, "The Patrician Club". The address - someplace near the end of 42nd Street - was printed in tiny, almost illegible letters. I wrapped it in a piece of lining that I'd torn out of the toilet kit, and wrote "#1956" on it; I didn't want to have to depend on remembering some war I'd never heard of.
*
Something in my scheduling got fouled up; maybe I'd spent more time in Prospect Park than I'd intended. It was already 9:40 when I reached the steps of the library. Ms. Yardley waited until I'd gotten to my post before click-clicking on her high heels across the room to stand opposite me.
"Do we have an explanation, young man?"
"The bus," I replied without batting an eye, "there was an accident on Palisades Parkway and we were held up." A mere week earlier I would never have been able to make up a lie that fast.
She placed her hands on her hips. "For your information, I also arrive via Palisades Parkway, and there was no accident there this morning. At least not at the hour you should have been on your way here, if you had made an effort to come to work on time."
I was silent.
She really went to town. "I think you've got a problem, mister. You're given an inch and you take a mile. I didn't say anything when you roamed around all day without working. I didn't say a word even when you were caught in the most despicable, reprehensible act, stealing...”
At this point, I lost my cool.
"What are you talking about?" I screamed in a voice that would have made Mom hide her face in shame. "You never caught me stealing anything...” Of course everybody turned around to watch, and they were enjoying themselves immensely. Such tones had never before been heard in the hallowed halls of the library. The guard at the entrance to the Reading Room straightened up a little and placed his hand on the butt of his gun - if only as a matter of form.
Ms. Yardley was breathing fire. "I must ask you to leave the premises, Mr. Levin. Your continued employment here will be raised in a different forum."
"As you wish," I said as I walked from behind the counter to freedom. "I've had enough of this place, anyway." On the way out I pounded hard on one of the tables.
Ms. Yardley said, "It seems to me that hauling freight down at South Street would suit your character far more, and by the way, don't bother trying to call your friend from the third floor to your assistance. He can't help you any more...”
Back out in the street I felt rotten. Maybe it was the way Mom had raised me, her hatred of "scandals", or maybe I'm just not built for confrontations like that. My sudden freedom made me edgy, and no matter where I turned the date seemed to jump out at me: from the clock shops on Fifth Avenue, from banks on 6th Avenue, from a lighted display on the corner of 42nd Street not far from K.'s club, which was closed.
There was a small but clear sign above the entrance: "5:00 to 5:00". The locked door didn't leave any doubt as to which 5:00 was the one when the club opened. Nevertheless, I passed the magnetic card through the lock. I heard a "click", but it didn't open. I continued down the street until I reached the wharf. An old man was loading cases of beer onto a small truck. I remembered Ms. Yardley's advice about hauling freight. Why not do a man's work and get a real wage? I went up to him.
He sent me to the boss, who looked at me and said, "You're built big, kid. Just right." Then he looked at my hands and said, "Where'd you work 'till now?"
"The library," I said.
He laughed and sent me to help the old guy. After four hours during which I managed not to think about anything at all, I had sore shoulders and $18.00. There wasn't any more work. I sat down to rest for a few minutes on the loading platform, and then I got up and left.
It was 3:00
o'clock. K.'s club was still closed. Again I felt restless. I decided the club could wait till tomorrow. In any case no one but me could take what was stashed there as long as I had the membership card and the locker number. I went to Port Authority, planning to go home. From one of the phone booths in the lobby I called you.
This time it wasn't a machine that answered, but Dorothy, the black woman who was your housekeeper.
"Mr. Steinman's residence," she said with some formality. I didn't think she'd remember me, that's why I asked for Mr. Steinman. "Who's calling please?" she asked. I said who I was.
She responded with such warmth that I was touched: "Why Ronny, you big baby, how long has it been since I've seen you, not since you were a real little thing and your parents brought you here for the first time and left you with me in the kitchen while they went out to look for an apartment. Yes, he got your message, sure, but he's real busy. You know how business is... and now what with Rosh Hashanah he's got a big mass going over at the Temple... I'm sure he must have meant to call you back but he probably forgot. That's how it goes. Even the mayor had to leave him a couple of messages before he had a chance to get back to him...”
When she paused to breathe I asked to speak to you.
"Oh, no, that's not possible, Mr. Steinman, he's talking to some people now and then he's going to his office on Lexington, but I tell you what, why don't you come on over for dinner, ok? That's what we'll do. Tonight I'll set another plate and another knife and another fork and I'll tell him we have a guest. Mr. Steinman, he doesn't usually permit that, but after all you're family and besides," her voice softened with longing, "it's been such a long time since we've had someone with an appetite over here."
We agreed on 6:30. I went down to the Village, spent three hours at the cinema watching back-to-back features and then took the subway back uptown. Opposite the building where you live I slicked down my hair and tucked my shirt into my pants. When I entered the lobby the doorman had a big "no" on his face, but after he'd called upstairs everything changed, and he even accompanied me to the elevator. Dorothy was waiting by the apartment door. She fell on me like a big, black mountain, and looked at me lovingly as if she really had raised me. I was afraid she might start to kiss me, so I thrust out my hand and pumped her black, fat arm up and down, up and down, until you arrived.
From here on, I'm not sure what I should tell. After all, you were there just like I was. On the other hand, it's important for me to summarize and crystallize what I felt when I was with you, maybe even to compare how each of us felt, what each of us was thinking, and what each of us hoped. Maybe that way we'll be able to understand why everything happened the way it did.
You seemed different to me than usual. Somewhat distracted, though you tried to conceal it. As usual, you put your arm around my shoulders and led me into your study. After you'd closed the door and sunk into the big chair behind the desk, everything seemed just like it had always been.
The contents of that room are so significant to me that I can recall them, item by item, from memory: the chairs, the fireplace, the large photograph of the Western Wall, the smaller photograph of you and President Harry S. Truman (whose face always seemed to too pinched, his mouth pursed), the decorative llama pelt given to you by the Indians who work your fields in the Andes ("To the Big Man from the North", it says on the side, "On the Anniversary of His 60th Rainy Season"), the jars of spices and dried herbs that line the mahogany shelves, and the books, millions of books, in all the languages that you know, on all the subjects that interest you. It's enough for me to sit there in the midst of all that plenty for me to become a different Ronny, an ageless Ronny and a Ronny of all ages: Ronny at eleven, just come to New York, whose parents have left him with you while they look for a house; Ronny at thirteen, who you wisely realized should know about masturbation; or Ronny at fifteen, who asked for a loan to buy an electric guitar (until you persuaded him of what he now knows only too well: that he hasn't any musical ability) but instead got an electronics set, because you wanted him to develop the talents he had and not be influenced by what was popular; and Ronny at sixteen-and-a-half, who needed a place to turn when he had problems like the one he and his girlfriend had when they came back from summer camp in upstate New York.
But more than anything, that room filled me with something that only you knew how to give me: security. It grew out of your vast life experience, represented by all the objects and knick-knacks collected in that room, and also by the knowledge that no matter what problems I had, you would always listen attentively, never leave me without a solution.
But this time as I sat there, the room's usual calming effect on me was replaced by a kind of panic. For the first time I realized that everything was about to change, that within a month you'd be far away from us. For some strange reason I translated my fears into a silly question: "What's going to happen to all this stuff?"
"Is that what's bothering you?" you said in amazement, nevertheless explaining that the really personal things would go with you, and that everything else ("scenery", you called it) would be sold with the apartment.
I asked whether it wasn't difficult to part with so many familiar things.
You smiled and said, "Sometimes it's actually difficult to stand all these old, familiar things. That's why when you start to get bored you should change location, start fresh."
I asked if you were starting to get bored.
You answered simply, "Yes." I liked the fact that you didn't try to lie to me, and I liked the way you explained, honestly, that other, younger people were taking over the market, and that anything you could sell for a dollar they could sell for 80 cents and still make a profit. When you finished you leaned back, looked at me and said, "If only you were a little older, and I a little younger...”
For a moment, I felt awful. That inviting sentence was exactly what Dad would have loved to have heard you say. As I wondered how to respond, you asked whether I was asking after you out of politeness, or whether I was having trouble talking about what was bothering me.
"Neither," I explained, "it's just this banter between us is like tuning up...”
"Tuning up," you smiled, "that's nice." Then, without beating around the bush, you addressed my problem. "When I was at your house, you said something about fear...”
I started to talk. I remember using Aunt Ida's phrase, "bad things are happening," two or three times. So as not to bore you, I described very generally all that had happened to me since that night in the Lincoln Tunnel. I didn't bother to explain how I'd come to know things that were supposed to be secret, and I weeded out a few incidents that seemed to me to be inconsequential. Dorothy poked her head in in the middle to tell us dinner was ready. I looked at you, trying to guess your reaction to what I was saying. You stared back at me blankly, and asked if I wanted to freshen up a bit before dinner.
That was a good idea. I was worn out and dirty from the day's events. Dorothy trailed after me to bring me a fresh towel. In the hall she stopped to rub smooth with the tip of her shoe a corner of the carpet that had become folded over.
"Just like a little boy, your uncle," she said in her thick kindergarten-teacher's voice. "All the carpets in this house are ruined...” It was a stubborn fold. She asked me to hold down the corner of the carpet while she tugged at the opposite corner. "... I've shown him, I've asked him. He promises to be careful, but at night - he forgets everything. Instead of going to sleep, he wanders around here, drinking...” she pointed at the umbrella stand crammed with golf clubs, "and when he drains a glass, he rests it on the floor and shoots those golf balls into it. By morning these carpets look like the hide of a whupped dog!" She came into the bathroom with me and took a folded and ironed towel out of the cabinet under the sink. "It's a shame that such a good man can't get any sleep at night...” I smiled awkwardly and took the towel from her. She wiped the door handle with the edge of her apron. "It's a shame he's leaving. There aren't too many gentlemen like him left...”
When I came back, you were sitting at the table. I sat opposite you. You looked troubled.
When I said so, you answered, "Not troubled. Confused."
I suggested telling everything from the beginning again, even writing it down. If you had agreed you would have received these six-and-a-half notebooks long ago, and maybe we could have prevented everything that came after from happening, but you insisted, "No, no. It's more important that you try and tell me what the heart of the matter is, the most important thing...'
Without hesitating I answered, "Mom."
You pressed me. "But your father is the one who... who's involved in such affairs, isn't he?"
"With him it's something steady, professional, and no one's threatening him. She, on the other hand, has gotten involved in something over her head and," I swallowed hard, "is even planning to get herself in deeper."
"What is she planning?" you asked, and from the tone of your voice I gathered that you didn't trust her any more than I did.
I told about the last letter I'd read, in which she'd written of her willingness, "to leave it all, in order to be with you," and her, "renewed hope."
It was a little embarrassing, and for a minute rang unconvincingly in my own ears. You thought so, too.
"Aren't you jumping to conclusions from only one letter?" You pulled the meat toward you and began to slice with seemingly measured strokes. The big, uneven slices gave you away; you were angry with me, either for having spied on Mom, or for suspecting her without sufficient grounds.
As if to confirm it, you said, "Letters from one side only are a dangerous thing, especially letters like that. They're filled with hope, delusions, sometimes lies...”
"I've got lots more proof," I said, and told about all the other letters I had managed to read with the help of Mom's face powder, and about the night that Mom had waited by the window.
The Last of the Wise Lovers Page 14