“I think they’re both meshugah,” Old Turk pronounced.
Chomp-chomp-chomp.
As they were walking through the Loop a few nights later, on their way to a Ronald Colman, Esther began to slow. Sid, now a few paces ahead, turned to watch, stopping as she stopped, following her stare.
She was looking at an elevated train.
Sid returned to her. “What?”
Esther’s voice was soft, far away. “I wonder ...”
“Yes?”
“About trains. I’ve heard stories that it isn’t good to sit on trains.”
“I have heard the same.”
“The bumps, they’re not good for you.”
Sid took her arm then, starting toward a flight of steps that led up to the station. Esther let him lead, slowly, to the steps, then up one, two, another.
Halfway to the top she came alive, her fingers gripping his coat. “God will strike me dead!” She screamed and fled down the stairs, across the street, running, running. Sid pursued, chasing through the crowd, trying to smile at the people he passed (because it was embarrassing), muttering explanations as he went. “It’s all right, everything is all right, just a little misunderstanding, everything is really fine ...” He caught up with her on the corner of Randolph, grabbing her, purling her around to face him. Her eyes were dry.
But wide.
“Sid?” A shake at four in the morning. “Sid?”
“Huh-huh?”
“I woke you; I’m sorry.”
“What is it? You all right?”
“I just wanted to talk to somebody, that’s all.”
“Time?”
“A little after four.”
“How come you’re up?”
“Oh, I’ve been awake for hours. Thinking. I had a dream, Sid.”
“A dream?”
“Yes. I dreamt I was going to die.”
“Now, Tootsie—”
“I dreamt I was going to die but the baby was as healthy as can be.”
“Esther, a dream’s nothing. You can’t go getting upset because of some silly dream.”
“I’m not upset. Really. I’m not. But if that happens you’re going to have to take care of the baby.”
Palms across the eyes. “Will ya stop with this crazy talk.”
“You don’t even know how to change a diaper and I’m worried about the baby. Who’s gonna change the diapers? Who’s gonna feed it? Who’s gonna walk it when it cries?”
“You are! Now go to sleep.”
“I’m gonna die, Sid. You’ll see.”
“Goddammit, Esther—”
“Who’s gonna walk the baby? I gotta know that. I don’t want it catching cold and getting sick and all like that. You’ve gotta promise to take care of it.”
“Like hell!”
“Sid—”
“I’m not gonna take care of it ’cause there ain’t gonna be any baby!”
“I told you. The baby is as healthy as can be.”
“You wanna die?” He took her shoulders, squeezing hard, trying to meet her eyes, but she dropped her head. “Answer me, you wanna die? Yes?” The shoulders commenced to tremble beneath his fingers. Slowly the head raised, the mouth loose and torn, the eyes wide, dry no more.
A whisper. “ ... no ... nnnn ...” Again the head dropped.
“Then I’m going to see this doctor. This great surgeon friend of my father’s. Tomorrow.”
The head shook. “That’s wrong.”
“You wanna die?”
“No ...”
“Then it ain’t wrong.”
“You’re ... sure?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“You swear it’s all right?”
“I swear.”
“You’re making me do this.”
“That’s right.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“This doctor. He’s really good?”
“Best in the west.” Sid smiled.
A package tucked tight under an arm, Sid entered the tiny pharmacy. “So, Manfred,” he called out.
“So, Sidney” came the answer from the sweet-faced cadaver behind the counter.
“How’s with the pill pushing?”
“Slow on the Trojans since you took your business elsewhere.”
Sid examined the aging face. “Good to see you.”
“I suppose likewise.”
“So,” Sid said.
“So.”
“Listen, Mannie ...”
“Here comes the touch,” the druggist said. “ ‘Listen, Mannie, how’s about a ten-spot?’ ”
“Nothing like that.”
“I wouldn’t have given it to you anyway.”
“Mannie ... you interested in a little work?”
“Of which nature?”
Sid took five twenties from his pocket, laid them on the counter. “Guess.”
“Hot afternoon at the snooker table?”
Sid nodded.
Mannie shook his head. “No,” he said.
Sid smiled, picked up the twenties, waved them under the other’s nose, asking, “Smell good?”
“My answer stands, Sidney. No.”
“Why no?”
A shrug. “The heat, shall we say, is on. My place is, I do believe, under surveillance.”
“Use mine?”
“Can’t be done.”
Again Sid waved the green. “They have brothers, Mannie. Nestling in my pocket. Each has a twin.”
“Two hundred?”
“That is correct.”
“Not that I don’t trust you, but can I see?”
Sid produced them.
Mannie grabbed the bundle. “I’m weak and greedy.”
“Nonsense. You’re rich with character.”
“Will tomorrow evening be satisfactory?”
“Not nearly so as tonight.”
“It so happens I’m free.” Mannie shrugged. “So who’s the lucky girl, Sidney? Be sure your wife is gone for several hours at least. In case of complications.”
“If I did that, we would have to talk to each other, and much as I love you, at these prices it ain’t worth it.”
“Ah” from the druggist. “The dutiful and loving husband.”
“That’s right, pill-pusher. I’m rich with character too.”
Mannie produced some capsules. “Give her these at nine. I’ll arrive at ten.”
“They are?” said Sid, pocketing them.
“For sleep. To dull pain.”
“A humanist in the bargain.”
“Tell me, loving father, how far gone is she?”
“Just barely.”
“Good. I’ll see you at ten.”
“Just one thing.”
“So?”
“Before you ring our bell, don this,” and he tossed over the package.
“What is it?”
“The white robe of the physician.”
“There’s a reason, I’m sure.”
“I told her you were a doctor.”
“A doc—”
“A great surgeon.”
Mannie began to laugh. “A great surgeon. Oh, that’s funny. That’s very funny.” The laughter grew and grew. “Me a great surgeon. Oh Jesus, Sidney, you’re a killer.”
Sid saw the joke.
But he did not laugh.
“Dr. Lautmann, good evening,” Sid said, shaking hands with the man in the white coat.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Miller.”
“Come, Dr. Lautmann, in here,” and Sid led him toward the bedroom. “See, Esther, who is here? The great surgeon Dr. Lautmann that was the dearest friend of my father I told you about.”
Esther lay on the clean white sheets, doped, limp, pale. “Doctor,” she made with her lips, but soft. “Doctor,” and she tried to nod, tried to smile.
“Everything will be fine, I promise you,” the surgeon assured. “But first a few words with your husband.” The two men hurried to the living room, closed th
e door. “We’ll need noise,” Mannie said.
“Noise?”
“Fool! You think she won’t scream?”
“Easy,” Sid said. “Easy.” He scampered to the tiny Victrola in the corner, slapped on a record. “Russ Columbo,” he explained. “A favorite of Esther’s. Very soothing.”
“I have been happier,” Mannie said.
“Ya think I’m ecstatic?”
Mannie drummed his fingertips together in no rhythm. Sid rubbed his palms against his pants legs. “It’s this coat,” Mannie said. “This goddam doctor’s coat.”
Sid’s palms wouldn’t get dry.
“I never wore a doctor’s coat before, don’t you see? That makes it ...” He paused for a shrug. “Different is the word. Don’t you see, I’m not a liar. I don’t ...” He pulled at his earlobe. “I’m an honest man. I pride myself on being an honest man.”
“The friendly neighborhood abortionist,” Sid said.
Mannie smiled, the corners of his sweet mouth rising, then freezing there, suspended, the smile fixed, like a photo. No sound. Then-he released the smile and it fled. “Yeah,” he said after a while. “Who’m I kidding anyhow? Yeah.” He tugged at the white coat. “My size. Perfect fit.”
“Like a glove, Mannie.”
“Shit,” Mannie said, and he disappeared into the next room.
Sid flicked on the Victrola, slid a record down, turned the volume up full. Music. Sid sat beside the machine. Now Columbo, with that great rough voice. He could really sing, that Dago. “I can’t forget the night I met you,” Russ sang. “That’s all I’m dreaming of. And now you call it madness. But I call it love.” Esther was showing her fanny when they met, standing on a stool reaching up. For what? Sardines maybe. Sauerkraut. Something. And he’d done a Valentino with his eyes. She wasn’t buying and that was when he should have quit, canceled the account before it opened. When the cock gets hard, the brain gets soft. His father had told him that. “Sidney, listen and don’t you forget. When the cock gets hard, the brain gets soft.” He had been six or eight at the time, so what the hell was the old man bleating about? He remembered the moment, understood it at last, when he was about to score with his first piece, some pig a year ahead of him in high school. It was good advice. The old man was no fool. No. The old man was a fool but still it was good advice. That and vodka. Some inheritance.
A noise from the next room. Esther? Yes, Esther, and he didn’t know what she was doing but it wasn’t laughing. Sid started the record over and this time he joined in, making it a songfest. “You made a promise to be faithful, by all the stars above. And now you call it madness. But I call it love.” Madness. The whole megillah was that. Crazy. He, Super Sid, tossing his life after a round butt and a pair of cans. Meshugah.
Another scream from Esther.
Sid, no drinker, bolted for the kitchen and poured himself half a glass of vodka. He swilled down a goodly portion, but aside from steaming his throat a little it did nothing to relieve. Sloshing the stuff around in the glass, he returned to the Victrola and switched to a couple of Paul White-man instrumentals. When they had run their course he repeated them, tapping his foot to the beat, downing the remainder of the vodka. In a way, it was a shame; if the kid had been a girl with Esther’s looks and his brains she might have been President, Jew or no. He would have steered for her, separating the bums from the worthwhile suitors, ending her up with maybe a Rosenwald, maybe a Lehman (or a Rockefeller if they’d decided to mix the blood strains a little), and that would have been something, Sid hobnobbing with old John D. himself, riding the hounds, then a little whist, finally a little three-cushion billiards with Napoleon brandy. He’d take John D.’s ass at three-cushion, no doubt about that, and that (definitely) would have been something to tell the boys in the neighborhood, so it was, in a way, a little shame.
“Annnhhh!” Sid cried out loud.
Esther answered with a scream.
Back came the Columbo, full voice, with now a little record scratch adding to the fun, Sid singing so his throat burned worse than from the vodka and then sweating Mannie stood in the doorway, pale like Esther. He moved to the sofa, standing over Sid.
“So soon?” Sid said, rising.
“I can’t,” Mannie said, and he sank.
“Whaddya mean, ya can’t? What kind of talk is that, you can’t? Get back in there. Finish it off. What have you been doing? Having, for crissakes, tea?”
“I can’t.” Columbo was still singing, “You made a promise to be faithful ...”
“Why? The coat? Take off the coat.”
“Nix.”
“ ... by all the stars above ...”
“What’ve you been doing in there?”
“Probing. I have been examining the patient.”
“Yer not gonna get more money, you kike son of a bitch!”
“I can’t! Don’t you understand? Nix. Nix!”
“ ... but I call it love ...”
Sid kicked the goddam Vic and it fell. “Why?” He kicked it again and this time the cord came loose from the wall. The record broke and Sid gave the machine another good one because he liked the record more than almost any. “Why?” Panting. “Why?”
A whisper. “You lied to me.”
“What-what?”
From Esther in pain: “Doctor ... Doctor ...”
“You lied to me. You said she was just a couple weeks’ pregnant.”
“She is.”
“Doctor ...”
“Three months,” Mannie said, shaking his head. “Three months if she’s a day.”
“The little bitch. The little bitch lied to me, I swear, Mannie. She knew two months, she kept it secret.”
“That may be, but it’s too dangerous now.”
“Doctor ... please ...”
“No.”
“The longer you wait, the more dangerous to all concerned.”
Sid stood still.
“She’s liable to die.”
Sid sat.
“If I do it, she’s liable to die.”
“What are the odds?”
“In her favor, but still ...” Mannie shrugged. “You haven’t got enough grief on your conscience?”
A wail from Esther. “Dr. Lautmann ... Dr. Lautmann ...”
“Have the baby, Sid. Worse things have happened.”
“Dr. Lautmann ...”
“I don’t want the kid.”
“I’ll give her a sedative and maybe—”
“No. You can’t leave now.”
“Doctor ... Please, Doctor ...”
“It’s best, Sid.”
“I can call the police. A good citizen. I know where there’s this dirty abortionist.’ You’ll go to jail. I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
“Mannie, I don’t want the kid. I don’t want nothing to do with any goddam kid.”
“Don’t make me go back in there, Sidney. It could turn out very bad. Bad for me, bad for you, worse for them in there.”
“Oi, God, Doctor. Come ... please ...”
“What am I gonna do, Mannie? You tell me.” He threw the empty vodka glass against the wall, where it shattered. Sid threw it, Sid was watching it, but when the noise came he jumped with fear. “Tell me, Mannie.”
“I’ll give her a sedative. You get drunk, she’ll sleep. Tomorrow ...” And he shrugged. “Can things be any worse?”
“Shimah Yisroel ...”
Again Sid jumped. “All of a sudden she’s religious.”
“When people hurt, they get religious. No pain, no God.”
“Baruch adonoi eluhenu ...”
“So what do I do, Sidney?”
No quick answer.
“It’s best. I promise. Please take my word. Who needs grief? God gave us enough.”
Sid sat. Then, finally, he said, “Yeah. Enough.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Sidney.”
“Yeah.” It was hard for him to breathe.
“Please, God, Dr. Lautman
n ...”
“Coming,” Mannie said. “Coming.” He stood and started moving for the door. “Coming,” he kept saying. “Coming. Coming,” over and over, which was probably why he did not hear Sid leap up, why he was so surprised when Sid’s hands spun him so viciously around. “What?” he managed before Sid took over.
“Kill it! Now, now, now, kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it now!”
Mannie quietly closed the door to the bedroom, took off the white coat, folded it carefully and dropped it on the sofa beside Sid, who sat too stiffly, nodding his head, nodding his head. “The bloody deed is done,” Mannie muttered.
Sid continued to nod.
“Some instructions, Sidney. Listen. Keep her flat on her back. Don’t let her move around much. Tomorrow I’ll come back and finish it off. I couldn’t scrape, she was too far along, but this works as well; it just takes a little longer. Bamboo expands, you see, and so in time ...” Mannie shrugged. “I think all went well. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sidney.”
Sid heard the door close.
He sat, still stiff, not knowing quite what to do, where to go. Esther lay behind the bedroom door and there was his place, he knew, beside her in this time of ... Time of what? Grief? No, something ... something ...”
Sid crossed to the corner of the room and picked up the shattered vodka glass. His hands moved quickly, carelessly almost, asking for a cut. Pain. A little pain would have felt good, but his fingers were too deft and no blood spilled. Dumping the slivers into the trash, he went to the bathroom and combed his hair, then suddenly threw the comb down hard and dashed into the bedroom.
Esther didn’t look so hot.
“Oh, Tootsie, God,” Sid said, the words out before he knew it. He dropped onto the bed beside her and gently touched her hair. “You O.K.? Huh?”
Esther wasn’t saying much.
She tried with a smile but missed and after that she just lay there while Sid touched her hair, her skin, while he kissed her eyes. He offered her some food but the idea didn’t thrill her; neither did liquid of whatever nature.
Sid, though, felt the need of a little pick-me-up, and with a little kiss, a quick muttered “ ’Scuse me,” he dashed for the kitchen, returning with the bottle of vodka, which he swilled liberally. He held her very close, muttering love, rocking her mutilated body. The motion was pleasing and soon her eyes half closed, her fatigue battling the pain, winning little by little, so that by one in the morning she fell into a dizzy sleep. Sid continued to drink, holding the bottle in one hand, her soft shape with the other, until the bottle deserted him and he dropped it empty to the floor. Then, undressing, he slipped into bed beside her, resting his handsome head on her handsome bosom, hearing only her soft breathing growing louder, louder as his own eyes closed. Sid slept then, along with Esther, their bodies close, their breathing a unison. The sight of the two was close to idyllic and the evening, considering what it might have turned into, wasn’t half bad.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 18