Apprehension kept its grip on him as the plane careened through the atmosphere. Soon. This must end soon.
“If we had some cards,” the plump woman’s mouth was almost touching his ear, “we could play Hearts.” She was a sweetheart, after all, reading his thoughts as if they’d shared years together. Unable to speak, he nodded, and leaned back in his seat, exhausted by the effort of staying alive. His stomach felt sour. He should never have had that drink. He swallowed a couple of times, forcing the bile back to where it belonged.
The woman was still speaking.
“My mother was past forty when she had me,” she said. “She thought I was a tumor.”
Something was required of him.
“Is that so?” he said, absently.
“So you see.” The woman’s hand touched his with tenderness. He started, almost pulled away, controlled himself.
“I’m all she has.” The woman’s face lengthened, grew dolorous. “I’m an only child.”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, I’m sure you’re doing a good job.”
“My mother’s seventy-seven.” Her voice would not cease. “She has diabetes and the doctor said they might have to amputate her feet.” For some reason, she smiled as she said this.
“Well, seventy-seven isn’t old these days,” he babbled. “I’d never have known you were that old.”
The smile slid off her face. She sat up very straight, holding up her head so her chins melted into her collar.
“I have a very young face,” the woman said, staring straight ahead.
The loudspeaker crackled. He held his breath, waiting for bad news. The voice of Captain Schultz told them the worst was over and they were making their approach and should be landing at Dallas–Fort Worth in approximately twenty minutes. Until the plane came to a stop, all passengers would please observe the no smoking signs and keep their seat belts fastened. Thank you for flying with us.
He roused himself, studying the other passengers. Their faces looked untroubled as they arranged their clothing, tucked their magazines into the little seat pockets. He was proud of them, of himself. Only the baby had lost its cool. If the plane’s brakes failed now, if a tire blew or a vital pin fell off the plane’s undercarriage, he would have no strength left to fight. What will be will be. He found it easy to be philosophical with the ground so close. He felt the change of altitude in his ears. The plane touched down delicately, taxied bumpily, came to a stop.
“Nice talking to you,” he said, turning to his little fat companion. She, however, wanted no part of him, was up and away, moving down the aisle like a broken field runner.
She thought I was a tumor. He wished Ceil had been with him to share that. She thought I was a tumor. The skin at the corner of his eyes felt tight. His whole face felt as if its skin had shrunk and was now too small to fit over his bones.
He shouldered his bag and walked toward the gate, trying to keep the woman in his sights, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was meeting her. But by the time he reached the main terminal, she’d disappeared, a figment of his imagination.
“Henry!” he heard someone call. “Over here!”
He wasn’t expecting to be met; he had told Ben he’d take a cab. A large blonde woman wearing an orange T-shirt and blue leather running shoes, one hand clutching her denim wraparound skirt, came toward him, out of breath. It was Ann Nilson, Ben’s wife. When last he’d seen her, she’d been a brunette.
“Hello, Ann,” he said, glad to see she hadn’t succumbed to Dallas chic.
“Ben asked me to meet you and I got caught in the most awful traffic jam. I was afraid you’d get away without my finding you. He’d never forgive me.” She hugged his arm. “Henry, how nice to see you. Have you got everything? Your baggage, everything?”
He held up his small bag. “This is it,” he said.
She led him out into the glaring sunlight to where her car was parked. “Don’t worry, once we get inside it’s air-conditioned. Everything’s air-conditioned out here.” The car smelled new, its dashboard a Byzantine complexity.
“Now you just sit tight.” Ann was off, driving like someone out to win the Grand Prix. He averted his eyes from the oncoming traffic. He wondered if he could outwit death twice in one day. Ann had never been much of a talker, but now she was chattering away like a nervous squirrel, pretending this was a social visit, to see old friends in their new setting, to examine their house, their swimming pool. To exclaim at how their children had grown.
He was tired, talked out. Ann was doing her best. He started to tell her about the woman on the plane. About halfway through his tale, his voice gave out. The car’s air-conditioning was too cold.
They were surrounded by glass skyscrapers in various stages of construction. “This place must be an architect’s heaven,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Isn’t it extraordinary.” Ann drove more sedately now, in deference, perhaps, to his pale face and agitated hands.
“A friend of mine, a native of Dallas,” Ann went on, “told me she couldn’t imagine what they were thinking of, putting up all these glass buildings. She said, ‘What will we do when a tornado comes through?’”
They stopped at a red light. Ann’s skirt parted, revealing a long white thigh bisected by a mauve vein as frail as a spider’s web.
“Would you mind turning down the air-conditioning?” he said. “It’s awfully cold.”
“Of course.” In silence they rode the rest of the way, turning at last into a flower-bordered drive that led to a gleaming bronze door set into an expanse of dark brown glass.
“The bluebird of happiness must lie on the other side,” he said.
Ann smiled and checked her watch. “We’re right on time,” she said. “Ben will be waiting for you.” He opened the car door, leaned back in to kiss her cheek. It tasted salty. Then, holding his bag in front of himself like a shield, he got out, slammed the door, and went into the hospital.
17
Ben was there, waiting for him.
“It’s been a long time, Henry,” he said. None of the usual amenities friends observe when they haven’t seen one another for some time applied here. “Did you have a comfortable flight?” Ben led him through the waiting room, which was empty. A nurse seated behind the desk rose, smiling welcome.
“This is Henry Hollander, Nancy. An old friend from Connecticut,” Ben said by way of introduction. “Henry, this is my right-hand man, Nancy Adams.” They shook hands. “If it’s possible, Nancy, we’d like a few minutes alone. See if you can arrange that, would you?”
“I appreciate your fitting me in, Ben,” he said as they went into Ben’s office. “I know you have a very busy schedule.”
“Never too busy for you, Henry.” Ben waited, his eyes listening for what Henry would tell him.
“As I said over the phone, I wanted another opinion.” He found that if he crushed the fingers of his left hand by squeezing them hard with his right, it helped him to maintain his composure. “The doctor, Dr. Hall, the one who took over your practice, said it would be a good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself, but I’m getting somewhat addled in my declining years.” He tried for a smile and didn’t make it.
“He said I shouldn’t waste any time. Time is of the essence, I believe. So, of course, I thought of you. I shouldn’t have wasted any time with him in the first place, should have come straight out here to see you. But, you see, it all came as a shock. I was only feeling tired, you see. Not quite myself, but nothing really serious, nothing really wrong, I thought. I thought it might be my gallbladder. My brother, Ed, had just had his taken out and I thought … well, anyway, I had a complete physical last year. Remember? Everything was okay then. Clean bill of health, for what that’s worth. Now it seems I have some sort of mass in my stomach. The X-rays showed it. And he seems to feel my liver is damaged. That hepatitis thing, I suppose, although that was a long time ago. Ten years, maybe more.” He stopped, exhausted.
“I�
�m glad you came, Henry. We’ll do the best we can for you. Put you through the standard tests, blood sample, everything. Then we’ll do a biopsy.”
“How long will that take?” He leaned forward. “The biopsy, I mean.”
“We’ll rush it through. A couple of hours, maybe.” A buzzer sounded. Ben answered. “Yes. All right. I’ll be right down.”
Ben got up. “I have to leave you now, Henry. Mrs. Adams will look after you. If you need anything, ask her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Ben. Just one thing. I want you to promise me you’ll give me the straight goods. I don’t want any half truths. What I mean is, I trust you, Ben. I’ll believe whatever you tell me. Just don’t hold anything back.”
“Have I ever?” Ben said.
Alone, he prowled Ben’s office, checking the pictures of the children and Ann, lined up in a tidy row on the desk. They were a good-looking bunch. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it. The truth.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Hollander?” Mrs. Adams’s seemingly disembodied head peered around the doorjamb. He started to say no, thanks, then reconsidered. “If you wouldn’t mind, a couple of aspirin would be a help. And do you have anything to settle the stomach? I had lunch on the plane.” They exchanged a smile of mutual understanding about airline food. She brought him two aspirin tablets in a paper cup and some pink, syrupy liquid for his stomach. She handed him a spoon and said, “One tablespoon should do it.” He went into the small lavatory off Ben’s office and took the medicine, washed it down with some water. When he came out, she was waiting, her eyes a brittle blue in her lightly suntanned face. Mrs. Adams was what his father called “a fine figger of a woman.” Built of firm flesh, roundly contoured, her face, under its pouf of white hair, was young-looking. Pushing fifty, he thought. Older than I am. He had never thought of age as much as in the last few weeks. It irritated him that he’d fallen into the habit. Mrs. Adams was the best-looking nurse he’d seen recently.
“How nice you and Dr. Nilson are old friends,” she said, smoothing her crisp uniform over her rather formidable front. “He works so hard, it’s nice for him to see folks from home. We feel very lucky to have him here with us. He does a fine job.” She tilted her head, obviously expecting some rejoinder from him.
“He’s the best there is,” he said. “I’d say that even if we weren’t friends.” He stole a look at his watch. How much longer would Ben be?
“My family is originally from Ohio,” Mrs. Adams said, as if he’d asked where she was from. “In Dallas, almost everyone is from someplace else,” she explained. He nodded, looking out the window. He already felt better, glad he’d made the trip. It was a tonic just to be here, in Ben’s office. Mrs. Adams excused herself and he began to pace, stirring up the orange carpet. Obviously new, it covered his shoes lightly with orange fuzz. He bent to wipe them clean with his handkerchief. Then he went to the window. The skyline of the city stood out as sharply as if it had been cut out of black construction paper and pasted against the brilliant sky.
I’ve had a good life, he thought, bending over again to get a spot of orange he’d missed. Vertigo, the result, no doubt, of last night’s excess, overcame him, and he straightened, still dizzy. I’m middle-aged. There you go again. Age, age. But you are. There’s no escaping that. My father is old. My father will go on forever. He’s indestructible. There are lots of things I haven’t done, places I haven’t been. I’ve never been in a war. Or a battle of any kind, except with myself. I’ve never seen the Piazzo San Marco. Or China. Or the rain forests of Brazil.
He was cold. It must be that damned air-conditioning. In February. He sat down and cradled an issue of Science Today against his stomach, thinking he would read it in a minute. It comforted him to know he had something to do to fill the time.
At last Ben returned, saying he’d made arrangements for some X-rays. They would also do a biopsy, and if he’d follow Mrs. Adams, she’d show him where to go.
“We’ll do our best, Henry.” Ben laid a large warm hand on him. “I’m assuming Ceil knows you’re here.”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t told her anything.”
Ben’s face suddenly developed the wrinkles it hadn’t had before. “Oh, Henry, that’s not right,” he said sadly, sounding, somehow, exactly like his father. It was what his father might have said. “Ceil’s a strong woman,” Ben said. “Very strong. She can help you through this. It’s not fair to leave her in the dark. Why didn’t you think you could tell her?”
He managed a shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to worry her. Ceil’s against ailments, infirmities.” It was the wrong thing to say to a doctor. He realized that the minute he’d said it. “She never gives in to aches and pains and doesn’t think others should. I thought it would be easier, all the way around, better if she didn’t know. At least until there was something concrete I could tell her. Why worry her until I’m certain of what it is?”
“She’s your wife, Henry. I think it would have been easier for you, if not for her, if she knew what you’ve been going through.”
“I’ll tell her the minute I get home,” he said. “Bad news or good, I’ll tell her.”
The technician this time was a Mexican with gold showing in one front tooth. The man, whose English wasn’t very good, said little and understood everything. His hands were small and wide, very quick and deft in spite of their stubbiness. There was no occasion for conversation, though once or twice he patted Henry on the shoulder, as if to reassure him. When he’d finished taking the X-rays, Henry thanked the man, who said, “You bet, boss. Have a good day.” Then he went out and Henry was alone again, feeling that there is no aloneness quite like that of being in a hospital examining room, waiting for the word.
He studied the palms of his hands. His lifeline stood out clearly. He wondered what the next step on the agenda would be.
“Dr. Nilson will see you now,” a beautiful black nurse said briskly. What had happened to Mrs. Adams, he wondered. “Follow me, please,” the nurse said, and he did as he was told. Her hips were very trim and she moved like a dancer, he thought, following her down the hall. She would have been a knockout if there’d been any warmth in her eyes.
He got on the elevator with the nurse and saw the old man in the wheelchair a split second too late. The man, tiny, seeming to be made of bleached papier-mâché, made indistinct squawking noises at Henry, telling him something. The male nurse pushing the chair said, “Smile and nod your head. He knows what he’s saying, even if no one else does. He likes it when people respond.” So Henry did as he was told.
God, don’t let that happen to me, he thought, don’t let my family ever see me like that. That’s the way they’d remember me. Making noises like a parrot.
Before she got off at five, the nurse told him to ride the elevator to six and Dr. Nilson would be waiting. “I’ll push the button for you,” she said.
Slightly addled by this time, he rode the elevator all the way up, then down to the lobby, where he got off, bought a roll and Life Savers in the coffee shop, then strolled around as if he were in a resort hotel waiting for his wife to come down so they could go off together to see the sights. Then he boarded another elevator and rode it up to Ben’s floor.
18
“Hey, John Boy.” Leslie slouched in the doorway. “You alone?” She only called him John Boy when she was feeling frisky. She knew he hated it.
“No, there are eight or ten guys here with me, turkey.” He pushed aside the mounds of books and magazines to make room for her.
“I alvays haf time for one so beautiful as you, Mother Walton,” he said. Les sprawled, flinging one of her long legs over him, pinning him in place. “You are my captive,” she said. Les had big feet, made bigger by old-fashioned high-top basketball sneakers, a holdover from her high school days. She always wore them when she was home. They were very ugly, but they had class, she’d once told him. “Are you aware, Johnny, that there are things in life that combine ugliness and clas
siness? One of life’s imponderables.” He loved it when she said stuff like that. Half the time he didn’t believe her, but the other half he did.
“Emma said I should kiss you good-bye for her.” Les leaned over and planted a juicy kiss on his cheek.
“Quit it.” He scrubbed at the wet spot with his hand. Last night he’d gone to his room, put on his camouflage suit, and waited, reading the same page in Madame Bovary over and over without remembering a single word. He’d only read Madame Bovary after reading Woody’s short story about her and the guy in the leisure suit. Woody had it all over M. Flaubert, as far as he was concerned. Emma hadn’t showed. Emma, his Emma, not Flaubert’s and Woody’s Emma. It had struck him as a coincidence of the most enormous magnitude that Madame Bovary’s first name was also Emma. It had endeared the fictional Emma to him, although she wasn’t an endearing character.
When his Emma hadn’t come back to visit him again, he’d had a serious discussion with himself and decided he was going to quit horsing around with girls for a while, settle down, and lead a celibate life. Anyway, anyone else after Emma would be a letdown. That he was sure of. Idly, he wondered what stories of rape and lust on the eastern seaboard Grace Lerner’s niece had carried back with her to Seattle. She probably made him out to her chums as a regular Jack the Ripper. What did he care. Next time he had a sexual experience, he figured he’d aim for someone without any experience at all. And looking for same. He might even put an ad to that effect in the Village Voice. “Young, experienced male, looking for young, inexperienced female, willing to learn.” That ought to bring down a barrage of replies on his head. He’d probably have to rent a post office box to handle them all.
“That Emma is something else,” he said nonchalantly, feeling the blood run out to the tips of his ears, an embarrassing habit his blood had that he couldn’t seem to control.
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