by Warren Adler
Was he teasing her? Her position, which did not work as well in repose, was getting increasingly uncomfortable.
"Come on, Jack, stop playing."
When he didn't answer again, she jabbed him playfully with her elbow. Instead of the expected reaction, he slipped off her and with a heavy thud fell to the floor. She turned, prepared to rebuke him. He was sprawled on the floor, his naked body unnaturally askew, like a puppet that had been carelessly laid aside.
"This is no joke, Jack," she said, standing over him. Bending down, she grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him slightly, then shook him. His head wobbled lifelessly. "Jack!" she screamed. The jolting reality of his condition sank in finally. "My God." She cradled his head in her arms. "Jack, speak to me."
When he didn't respond, she lowered her ear to his chest. He was breathing with difficulty, each gasp labored. Instinctively, although she had never done it before, she ran to the phone and dialed 911, but when she heard a responding voice she hung up quickly. No, she told herself, surprised at this display of cool logic.
A series of action options crowded into her mind. Yet despite what was clearly a life-and-death crisis, the familiar paranoia still overrode all considerations. What was between them had to be kept hidden. Above all, dead or alive, he must not be found in her apartment. Tabloid headlines surfaced in her imagination. SENATOR DIES IN THE SACK. MAGIC RUNS OUT ON SENATOR'S WAND. SENATOR IN SEX OVERDOSE. SPRINGER TAKES ONE SPRING TOO MANY.
She owed him the avoidance of that, didn't she? Despite the nobility of such an idea, she did feel the tug of hypocrisy. Her reputation was at stake as well. Worse, people would find the ridicule in it. She could be an object of snickers and satire, like the woman who had been with Nelson Rockefeller when he died under similar circumstances.
Then suddenly Jack was moaning, clutching his chest. When she looked at him again, his eyelids were fluttering. But he was still gasping for breath. A glimmer of consciousness was returning. She ran into the bedroom, got a pillow, and put it under his head and kissed his forehead.
"It's all right, darling," she whispered. "Stay still." Gurgling sounds were coming from his throat. "Don't try to speak. I'll get help." An idea had emerged in her mind. Of course, Jenny Burns. Hadn't she helped with the coat? Jenny was already part of it, wasn't she?
She threw a robe over her naked body, then dashed down the stairs and pressed Jenny Burns's buzzer, leaving her finger on the button.
"What is it?" Jenny cried impatiently, responding to the continuous buzzing, opening the door. Seeing Myrna in what was certainly a hysterical state, Jenny reacted automatically, eyes widening with fright and confusion.
"Please, Jenny. I need help. Badly."
"What—"
"Please, Jenny, come up quickly. It's ... it's him."
"Him?"
"I'll explain everything. I promise."
Jenny followed Myrna up the stairs.
"My God," she said, looking at the naked man. "You've got to call for help."
"A minute, Jenny. We've got to dress him first."
Jack's eyes were open, and he seemed to have regained more alertness, although his pallor was ashen and he was obviously in pain.
"Try to relax," Myrna told him. She rushed to the bedroom and gathered up Jack's clothing, socks, shoes, underwear, shirt, tie, the suit he had worn when he'd arrived. "Help is on the way, darling. Just hold on."
Jenny knelt next to her, and both of them began to dress him. It wasn't easy, requiring some gentle manipulation. Myrna wanted him to look neatly dressed. Jenny seemed puzzled by the care she was taking. Both women worked quickly, developing an efficient enough system so that Jack was fully dressed quickly. When they had completed the process, except for the tie, Myrna began to thread it under Jack's collar.
"That, too?" Jenny asked.
"That, too," Myrna replied. When it was clear she could not tie a proper knot, Jenny intervened and managed to make one that was passable.
"You've got to call someone," Jenny pleaded.
"In a minute—911. But first this."
Jack was still gasping for breath, but his eyes seemed to comprehend the situation fully, and he nodded consent for Myrna's action.
"You see, darling? Everything is being done, and help will be coming soon." She lifted Jack by the shoulders and sat him against the wall.
"We're going to get you downstairs," Myrna said.
"Is this wise?" Jenny asked.
"Please. I promise I'll explain."
Myrna pushed Jack gently forward, got behind him, and put her arms under his armpits.
"I'm going to lift you." She shot a glance at Jenny. "Stand here," she said, pointing to a spot on the man's right side. "Grab his right arm when I lift them and brace it on your shoulder."
"I wish I were tall like you," Jenny said. "But I am sturdy."
"One, two, three," Myrna said, lifting. Jack rose unsteadily to his feet, while Jenny draped his arm over her shoulder and held tight with both hands. She felt his weight, crushing at first, but then, as Myrna got to his left side, manageable.
"Easy, Jack," Myrna said. "Help us if you can. Try to keep us balanced."
Jack nodded as they struggled forward. Because of Jenny's smaller stature, he listed to the right, but they managed to drag him through the apartment door. Fortunately no one was in the corridor.
"It's going to be fine, Jack," Myrna repeated over and over again as they maneuvered his slumping body to the elevator. It was slow going. Jenny, grimacing with pain, was having a rough time. They braced themselves against the wall as the elevator lumbered downward from the third floor.
"We can do it, Jenny, I know we can," Myrna said, offering encouragement with a cheerleader's enthusiasm. "See, Jack? We're doing it," she said as the elevator door opened. "Just hold on. Please, Jack. It will be fine. Right, Jenny? Won't it?"
Jenny grunted, unable to respond, obviously saving all her energy for coping with Jack's weight. Myrna led them into the elevator, resting against the wall of the cab. She was sweating, and her robe had opened, but she paid no attention, concentrating on holding Jack and keeping up the patter of encouragement.
After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator reached the first level. With great effort, taking one cautious step at a time, they managed to move him into the corridor. At one point Jenny faltered.
"You okay?" Myrna asked.
After a moment Jenny nodded, and they proceeded to move toward the outside doorway.
"My apartment?" Jenny whispered.
Myrna shook her head. "Outside."
"Outside?" Jenny asked.
As they struggled to drag him through the outside door, Myrna turned to Jack. He was still ashen, but his eyes were open.
"Understand, Jack?" Myrna asked. Jack blinked his eyes in assent.
They paused at the top of the steps.
"Born under a lucky star, Jack," Myrna said. "No people, and it's dark." She called out to Jenny, "Hold on to the banister."
Jenny reached out and braced her arm on the stone banister as they struggled down the stairs. Finally they reached the sidewalk. The street was deserted, although there was pedestrian traffic on Third Avenue.
"Now," Myrna said. "We move to that lamppost."
They dragged him to the lamppost, let him drop to the ground in a sitting position, and braced him against the metal post.
"Now, Jenny," Myrna said, her heart pounding. "Go into your apartment and call 911. Tell them that you saw a man collapsed in front of the building—no, not in front. Near, nearer to the corner on Third. Got it? Tell them to send an ambulance."
"Do I give them my name?"
Myrna thought a moment. "Yes."
Jenny, obviously still reeling from the extraordinary effort, nodded and moved quickly back to the brownstone.
"Am I doing good, Jack?" Myrna asked when she had gone.
Jack's eyes were open and he was still fighting for each breath. But he did manage to nod his approval.
In a cou
ple of minutes Jenny was back. "I did it," she said.
"Now please," Myrna said. She had stood up and moved out of the puddle of light into the shadows, leaving Jack leaning against the lamppost. "You've got to help me on this. Please."
"Haven't I so far?"
In the distance they heard the faint sound of sirens.
"They're coming, Jack. Hear?" Myrna said. Then she lowered her voice and whispered to Jenny, "I hope to hell it's for him."
"I was insistent," Jenny said.
"You stuck to the story, I hope."
"Of course."
"Now when they question you ... here's the way it happened," Myrna said, speaking hurriedly and wrapping her robe tightly around her. The sound of the sirens seemed to be getting closer. "You saw him from your apartment window. He fell on the sidewalk. You called 911. You came out to help him. Nothing more. I was not here. Do you understand? I was not here. I do not exist. Can you do this?"
There was a moment of hesitation as Jenny seemed too confused to answer.
"I can't stay here, Jenny. Don't you see?" Myrna pleaded.
"I understand," Jenny said, nodding. Yet Myrna sensed something tentative about her answer. At the same time it struck her that Jenny owed her no allegiance and, certainly, no favors. How can I possibly rely on her? she thought, wondering if she, Myrna, could be drawn into such a situation if the tables were reversed. No way, she thought, and yet she had to trust this woman, did trust her.
"You'd better disappear," Jenny whispered.
Yes, Myrna decided, she is into the spirit of the thing. And the sound of the sirens was indeed getting louder. She was thankful. The beginning of a sob bubbled in her chest, but she swallowed hard and the sensation disappeared.
"You see, Jack? It'll be fine. You'll see," Myrna said, addressing the man sitting on the sidewalk. His eyes were open, and although he continued to fight for breath, he seemed to comprehend. "You'll know how to handle it, won't you, Jack?" He blinked his eyes in obvious assent.
The sirens grew closer. Myrna could see the bursts of flashing lights in the distance.
"Thank God, Jack. We'll talk later, okay?" Myrna said, moving toward the stairs of the brownstone. Then she turned to Jenny.
"From the bottom of my heart," she began. Then, overcome, she rushed toward the brownstone and dashed up the stone stairs.
13
IT MIGHT have exploded with less impact if Larry hadn't seen it first on the front page of The New York Times. Of course, she hadn't told him about it, knowing it would trigger an outburst, which she was in no mood to endure.
But there it was on the front page of The New York Times. She had been awakened out of a deep, dreamless, comalike sleep after spending most of the night trying without success to tame her revved-up thoughts about the strange turns her life was taking.
He had shaken her roughly, and she had scrambled into a sitting position, frightened and barely conscious. Even Larry's voice had not pulled her out of her disorientation.
"Read that!" he had shouted as he'd thrown the paper at her torso.
"What?" she asked, her mind still foggy.
"That," he said, pointing.
She picked up the Times, then looked at Larry with some confusion.
"That. That. That," he said, jabbing his forefinger at the paper. "The part about Senator Springer."
"Senator Springer," she said, startled, returning to full alertness.
SENATOR SPRINGER COLLAPSES ON EAST SIDE STREET, the headline read. A long story followed, complete with the senator's picture. Apparently the senator was still in intensive care, and his office had released a statement that indicated it was one of the senator's pet eccentricities to walk the streets at night to observe city life and to illustrate the right of citizens to have free access to the streets, especially at night, and not be intimidated by reports of crime. "We must take back our streets from the hoodlums," he was quoted as having said.
Jenny shook her head in disbelief at the contorted reasoning, although the Times writer hadn't completely bought the explanation, even implying that the circumstances and the late hour were somewhat mysterious. The writer also made it clear that the senator had not been molested, which gave the story its only shred of believability, at least to her.
She supposed that the explanation made good political sense, and it was pointed out that the senator would further amplify the incident when he recovered, which was, according to a hospital spokesman, imminent. The heart attack was described as moderate to severe but not fatal, downplaying its impact on the senator's career.
She was more amused than angry as she finished that part of the story, then proceeded to find its continuation on another page. As she read, Larry stood beside her, observing her with an angry look on his face. She had to hand it to Myrna. She might have actually pulled off a clever political cover-up. Not that she, Jenny, particularly enjoyed being a party to it.
She had simply followed Myrna's directions. When the police and rescue people had shown up, she had followed her instructions to the letter. From Jenny's perspective, she'd merely told the police who questioned her little white lies, designed to protect the man's reputation. Simple as that.
Jack was rushed off to the hospital, and she was interviewed by the police. Naturally she gave her name and address and told them, as agreed, that she had looked out of her window and seen the man lying on the street and had called 911. Then she had gone outside and propped him up against the lamppost.
After the police had left, she had gone back up to Myrna's apartment and reported that she had complied with Myrna's wishes and that Jack had been rushed off to Mount Sinai Hospital.
"A true and faithful friend," Myrna had told her, embracing her and vowing sisterly fealty forever. "I'll never, never forget this. We've saved a family from terrible embarrassment."
"I'd like you tell me who this man is," Jenny had said.
"Not yet," Myrna had responded.
"Why not?" Jenny had protested.
"To protect you," Myrna had replied.
"Protect me?" Jenny had asked. It reminded her of Larry's attitude toward her on the issue of whether to approach Terry or not, as if she were some ignoramus who might say the wrong thing.
"Don't you see, Jenny? If you don't know who it is, you have the luxury of deniability. You'll be less a party to it. If somebody asks, you don't have to get involved."
"Like who?"
"Well..." Myrna paused. She seemed to be searching her mind for a way to express herself. "Take the press, for example. You did give your name."
"To the police. Of course. There was no way to avoid it."
"Exactly. You did the absolutely correct thing."
Jenny sensed she was being patronized, treated like the little woman again. "Why, thank you," she replied with just a tinge of sarcasm, which Myrna ignored.
"So you see, the press will find out. They will call. If I told you who he really was ... well ... you'd be vulnerable and might spill the beans." Myrna smiled as if to sugar-coat the message.
"You mean you don't trust me to handle it," Jenny said, but without the force of confrontation. It occurred to her that despite all she had done for this woman, she was still that nice little dumb housewife on the first floor.
"I didn't say that," Myrna said softly, still patronizing, stretching out a shaking hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger against both temples, a gesture of both exhaustion and exasperation.
Jenny shrugged, repressing on compassionate grounds any demand to know more, yet not at all comfortable with her surrender. After all, it was obvious that she was participating in a cover-up. Did the woman think she had fallen off the turnip truck? It didn't take a genius to figure that out.
"Trust me on this, Jenny. I'm in the media. I know how it works."
She had heard "trust me" enough times in the past few months to last a lifetime. "And you don't think I can handle it?" she said.
"These reporters are tricky and clever. They can trap
you."
"You don't have to worry," Jenny interrupted. "I'll be a good little girl if the media calls."
"What's come over you, Jenny?"
"It's all right. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."
"Believe me, I understand. It's all my fault. Bringing you into it. I have no right—"
"Let's just forget it, Myrna. It's okay. You have nothing to worry about from me."
Jenny studied the woman. She looked awful. Dark circles had suddenly erupted under her eyes, and she appeared to have aged ten years. No, Jenny thought, this was definitely not the time for a confrontation.
"You just try to get a good night's sleep, Myrna," Jenny said.
"I don't think that's possible, Jenny." She sighed and shook her head. "I'm even afraid to call up and check his condition."
"Would you like me to do that?" Jenny asked.
"God, no," Myrna snapped, as if to say, "Haven't I made myself clear?" But the anger was quickly repressed, illustrating to Jenny the bare bones of the woman's manipulation. No sense in getting Jenny pissed off. Above all, we must keep the dumb little housewife from blowing everything. Nevertheless, Jenny allowed herself to be embraced yet again by Myrna, enduring her repetitive gratitude and vows of perpetual fealty.
"I owe you, Jenny. More than you know. For now and forever," Myrna said as Jenny started toward the apartment door. "Just stand by me on this."
"Of course I will," Jenny replied. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the only possible reply.
"There is one thing, though," Myrna said, biting her lower lip as if to prevent what she was about to say.
"What's that?"
"Your husband."
"I told you. He's working late these days, setting up a new business."
"Yes. I remember. It's ... it's the sharing part ... you know..."
"You're afraid I'll tell him," Jenny said.
"Third parties water down secrets, Jenny. I mean, what's between us should remain between us. A sister thing."
There it was again, Jenny thought. Like the incident with the coat. Yet she had betrayed Myrna on that, had surrendered to Larry's intimidations. Worse, she wondered if her betrayal was transparent, visible to Myrna's inner eye. She felt both embarrassed and angered by the possibility of being perceived by Myrna as a diminished person, subject to a higher power ... the man, the husband.