Unfortunately there was no answer. He let it ring a dozen or so times and then went back to his cooling beef. Waiting for coffee and a brandy, he dashed back and rang up again, but there was no answer this time either, and by then his friends were signaling for the check, so he returned to the office and, waiting for another hour, called again.
With no better results.
He might have put the whole unrewarding episode out of his mind if it hadn’t been for Daphne, whose seductive voice came over the wire at just before quitting time. “I have these mad friends who live on Grand Street,” she cooed. “In an absolute, really fascinating slum. The fabled East Village, Dickie. A ménage à deux. He insists platonic, but I don’t believe. Do you, darling? I mean, after all. I gave him one of those buttons, those plastic crazy buttons … you know. Save water, shower with a friend … He didn’t even discolor. Yet he can say what he wants about platonic. I just know they’re doing all sorts of incredible things down there.”
“Who?” Dick asked, the telephone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, as he locked drawers. “Who’s this you’re talking about?”
“Petey Crawford. You know. His father’s Chairman of the Board of — ”
She went on relating the delicious details of her East Village friends, whose families were undoubtedly under the naive impression that they were leading normal lives, and Dick thought, I’ll give her the negative. He remembered her clinging arms, and he was quite tired from a day’s honest toil. I don’t want to get involved, he told himself, and invented an impromptu date.
“I can’t,” he said, when Daphne instructed him to meet her at her family’s apartment at seven. “I can’t,” he repeated for good measure. “I have to drive out and pick up a friend at Kennedy Airport.”
“Who?” she demanded, like a top sergeant. “What friend?”
“Dave,” he improvised. “Good old Dave, my roommate in senior year. He’s flying in from … um, I guess he said Paris.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “Dave can join us. The more the merrier.”
He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly irritated beyond reason at her domineering attitude (Middlebury girls were getting worse than the Radcliffe set) and her possessiveness toward him. Now that Cam was gone he belonged, in absentia, to Cam’s best friend; that was Daphne’s bizarre reasoning. Suddenly all of these girls he had grown up with, or had met through the girls he had been raised with, annoyed him mightily. “This is two guys who want to talk uninterrupted,” he said sharply, and turned a deaf ear to her voluble treble protestations. “Call you in a day or two,” he said brusquely, and hung up. A last staccato squeak reached him as he plunked the receiver down, and he got up and went to the window. A strange restlessness pervaded him. Or so he told himself inwardly. A strange restlessness pervades me …
Fifty-four Wall Street, if your office happened to face front, gave a beautiful vista of one of the loveliest parts of old Manhattan. The streets were as narrow as any medieval European city and there was, in fact, a thoroughly old-world character about the environs. You couldn’t actually see the river, but on damp days you could smell it. The sky was like a Turner sky, with colors that ran through the pastel spectrum. Vesper bells sounded from Trinity Church, as they had been sounding for perhaps a hundred years.
I am the rose of Sharon, Dick thought. What brought that into my mind? The rose of Sharon, no less.
I’d better go home, he told himself. It must be time to go home.
He looked up at the sky, now purpling, and the rest of it came into his mind: Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples … for I am sick of love …
He turned around and stared at the telephone. I won’t call that damned number again, he adjured himself, and promptly went over and sat down behind his desk, dialing.
The voice came to him on the third ring, and he almost considered hanging up at once. What was the meaning of this idiocy? He changed his mind and answered the greeting. “Is this Mrs. Paley?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is …” He cleared his throat. “This is Richard Claiborne. I … perhaps you’ll recall. I drove you and your nurse home from the hospital about a week ago.”
There was a fractional pause. Then, “Yes, of course I remember. Why, certainly. How do you do?”
“How do you do?” he said right back, and cleared his throat again. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“Quite well, thank you. And you?”
“Tip-top. Thank you very much.”
“Not at all. In what way can I help you?”
“Help? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, maybe you can. That is … well, I wondered … could I speak to your nurse? That is, if it’s not inconvenient.”
“You mean Dinah Mason?” There was another brief pause. “Oh, you want to get in touch with Dinah, is that it?”
“Yes thank you. I’d like very much to.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Paley said regretfully. “But Dinah isn’t with me any longer. She’s on another case.”
“Oh. You mean she isn’t there?”
“No, she left a few days ago.”
“I see.”
Damn. Damn. Stay me with flagons, Dick thought bitterly. Comfort me with apples.
Baloney.
“Thanks anyway,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It can’t be helped. I appreciate — ”
“Dinah’s on another case,” the woman said again. “I don’t know her patient’s name, but I do happen to know she reported to the Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“Oh, really?” Hope flared.
“Let me see. I may remember the room number. It was — ”
“Yes?”
“Let’s see now.” A third pause. Then. “Yes, I remember distinctly. Room eight-thirteen.”
“Eight-thirteen?” He was busy scribbling. “Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“That’s correct.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Not at all. I hope you find her.”
“So do I,” he said, and meant it. He wanted, more than anything he could think of at the moment, to find Dinah. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Just repaying a kindness,” she said.
“It was a pleasure talking to you again.”
“Thank you. It was a pleasure talking to you.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much.”
“Not at all,” she said, and the connection was broken.
He got out the phone book again. Lenox Hill Hospital. He dialed. “Lenox Hill Hospital,” a sepulchral voice answered.
“Yes, please,” Dick said. “I’m trying to get in touch with a Miss Mason. Dinah Mason. She’s a nurse, and she has a patient in room eight-thirteen.”
“What wing of the hospital?”
“Wing? Why — ”
“The Pavilion?”
“I — ”
“Is it the Pavilion, or the Lachman Clinic?”
“I only know eight-thirteen,” he said, sensing difficulties ahead. “Room eight-thirteen, Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“I’m sorry, but — ”
He interrupted. “Can you try the … the Pavilion, then? And if not that, then … whatever else there is.”
“Will you give me the name again, please?”
“Mason, Dinah Mason. But … only Dinah Mason isn’t the name of the patient. She’s the nurse on the case. She’s taking care of someone in room eight-thirteen.”
“I must have the patient’s name, sir.”
“I don’t know the patient’s name,” he barked. “The patient’s name doesn’t concern me in the least.” He was being his father now. “I want room eight-thirteen and I want it at once. Will you kindly connect me with room eight-thirteen?”
“In the Pavilion?”
“Try the Pavilion,” he said, dangerously close to a temper tantrum. “Just try the Pavilion. If that isn’t it, we’ll take it from there.”
“I will try, s
ir,” the impersonal voice said, and there was a buzzing silence. He waited, conscious of a light sweat breaking out over him in spite of the excellent air conditioning. These dreary petty officials. Was Dad on the Board of Directors at Lenox Hill, he wondered, and while waiting, pictured an apocalyptic sequence of events. The unseen girl at the other end of the line unemployed, regretting her insolence, her lack of cooperation. Insupportable, he muttered to himself. No sense of warmth, no charity or human decency at all!
“I have room eight-thirteen on the line, sir.”
“Oh.” He was instantly grateful. “Thank you for your help. You’ve been most — ”
“Hello?” another voice said. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello,” Dick said quickly, “Hello, is this room eight-thirteen?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
He could hear loud music in the background. “Claiborne,” he said. “Richard Claiborne. I understand you have a nurse on your case by the name of — ”
“Please, for heaven’s sake, turn that thing down,” the voice said, cutting into Dick’s exposition, and the loud music in the background faded. “That’s better. Hello?”
“Yes, hello. This is — ”
“What was that about a nurse?”
“Dinah Mason,” Dick said succinctly. “May I speak to Dinah Mason, please?”
“Mason?”
“The nurse. The nurse on the case, Dinah Mason.
“I’m sorry.” The voice was suddenly disinterested. “You must have the wrong room.”
“Isn’t this room eight-thirteen?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Then where’s Dinah?”
“I have no idea.”
“But — ”
“I’ve just been installed in this room,” the voice said. “It’s very possible that the previous tenant, or whatever it is you call someone who is unfortunate enough to have to occupy a hospital room, had a nurse by the interesting name of Dinah. I, however, don’t. I have no special. My husband is a C.P.A. and makes a very decent living. But we can’t afford a special. Therefore, I depend on the floor nurses to see to my welfare. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You don’t have any nurse named Dinah Mason?”
“No. Just floor nurses.”
“Sorry, wrong number,” Dick said, and quickly added, “I hope you get well quickly. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother.”
After he hung up, he called the hospital again. “It wasn’t the Pavilion,” he said. “Can we try whatever other part of the hospital there is?”
“Sir?”
“I just called before,” he said impatiently. “I want room eight-thirteen. You tried the Pavilion, and it wasn’t that. What else is there?”
“This is Lenox Hill Hospital,” the voice said. “What is it you wish, sir?”
“Oh, never mind,” he said, and slammed down the receiver.
He spent the next five minutes cursing. Inefficiency, stupidity and bureaucracy, damn it. All one wanted was a perfectly simple thing.
“Mason,” he said aloud. What the devil was the matter with him? Surely a registered nurse would be listed in the phone book? He leafed through it feverishly. Why am I doing this? he said to himself, bewildered. Who was this Dinah Mason that he should stay after hours, with dinner waiting and Dad pacing the floor querulously while he sat here and made idiotic telephone calls.
His finger pounced on a name. Mason … Dinah, R.N.
Aha!
He dialed again, carefully. He breathed deeply. There were several rings. Then the rings stopped. “Hello,” a voice said.
“May I speak to Dinah?” Dick asked simply.
“Dinah?”
“Dinah,” he repeated. What a strange, lovely name. “Dinah,” he said again.
“She’s not at home,” the voice said pleasantly. “May I take a message?”
“Uh — ”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Dick Claiborne. Will she be in soon?”
“I’m afraid not. She’s on a case.”
“I see. Would it be possible for me to call her there? I mean, wherever she is?”
“I’m Dinah’s sister. If you like, I can call her and leave a message for you.”
“I’d rather call her myself,” he said firmly.
After a short pause Dinah’s sister, apparently having mulled it over, gave him the name and address of Dinah’s patient. He scribbled madly. “Got it,” he said finally. “And I’m ever so grateful.”
“Good.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.” This last was said to an empty line. Dinah’s sister had hung up.
IV
THE WALLACE FAMILY was comprised of Mrs. Wallace (currently invalided), Mr. Wallace, Joanie Wallace — aged eight — and Wendy Wallace, four. They were comfortably off, it seemed, for they had a housekeeper-cook, Elvira, a Swedish woman who whisked through the apartment leaving cleanliness in her wake and who cooked superb meals before retiring to her room as soon as she washed up the dinner dishes. Elvira, who was a television buff, said good night at nine o’clock with a shy, salutary smile and closed herself in her maid’s quarters, disappearing from man’s ken until early the following morning.
This time I really am tied down, Dinah thought; she had been three days in the Wallace household at Nine-twenty Park Avenue and was spending a good deal of her time supervising the children. Today Joanie was finger-painting and her hands were a mess. She had to be forcibly restrained from tracking green and yellow goo all over the house. “I’ll bring you your snack,” Dinah said, pushing her back in her playroom. “You stay right here, and that’s an order.”
Mrs. Wallace claimed her attention next. She was a handsome woman with big bones and a complexion like a milkmaid. Dinah liked her. She had had surgery on her knee and was in a cast from hip to ankle. She was next door to being a dead weight, incapacitated as she was by the heavy burden of the cast, which was like a great, doughy extension of herself. “It’s like a loathsome parasite growing on me,” Mrs. Wallace said dolefully.
“Are you very uncomfortable, poor thing?”
“Don’t give me sympathy! I’ll start blubbering. Be nasty. Tell me I’m a drag and a bore.”
“You’re not. There, comfy now?”
Mrs. Wallace settled herself in the bed. “I feel like throwing myself out the window, cast and all,” she said grimly. “I hate being dependent. I won’t ever let myself get old and alone and a burden. If it ever comes to that I’ll eat lye, like Emma Bovary.”
“All this will be a memory in another few weeks,” Dinah said soothingly. “When it’s over you’ll be a new woman.”
“With an estranged family,” Mrs. Wallace said darkly. “Tom’s probably having an affair with his secretary. I wouldn’t blame him. Useless thing that I am. It’s a good thing we aren’t the double bed type of couple, or I’d probably club him to death in his sleep with this monstrous appendage.”
“Mr. Wallace gives me the impression of being a happily married man.”
“It’s these beastly unforeseen things that drive men to other women.”
“Stop worrying.”
“And the children. What’s Wendy up to?”
“I’m sure she’s behaving.”
“You don’t know Wendy. Dinah, will you investigate? For all I know she may have decided to run away from home, with a rucksack and her Barbie doll. I haven’t heard a sound out of her for a whole hour. Do check on her, Di. Goodness knows what mischief she’s up to.”
Wendy, when checked on, proved to be having a cozy telephone conversation. “Joanie thinks she’s so great,” she was confiding, with her pink mouth practically plastered to the receiver. “Just because she’s four years older. She thinks she’s so great.”
A drone at the other end of the wire reached Dinah’s ears. It sounded rather staccato. One of her little frie
nds, she thought, reassured. Very good. Wendy was up to no mischief. She stayed for a while, leaning against the doorjamb, because it was fun to watch the little girl aping the grownups. “And besides,” Wendy said censoriously, “she gets perfectly awful marks in arithmetic. She gets C’s. That’s the lowest mark you can get, short of failing.”
The drone on the other end of the wire continued, more staccato than ever. “I’m Wendy, I told you that,” the child said. “Wendy Wallace. I can write my name; did you know that?”
Bully for you, Dinah thought, enjoying the picture of the little girl curled up on the windowseat, with the long cord, having an adult conversation. She was terribly appealing, all almond eyes and straight black hair. “My birthday’s soon,” Wendy said. “Will you bring me a present?”
“Wendy, Wendy,” Dinah murmured reprovingly, and the child looked up. The voice on the other end of the lines puttered over the wires. Why, that doesn’t sound like a child, Dinah thought, and said sharply, “Wendy, to whom are you talking?”
“My friend,” Wendy said, sotto voce, and turned back to the receiver again. “What?”
She listened, frowning. “Mommy’s sick,” she finally said. “She had an operation on her knee.”
“Who is that?” Dinah demanded, and firmly took the receiver out of Wendy’s reluctant hand. “Hello, who is this,” she asked.
“This is Richard Claiborne,” a masculine voice said. “I’m trying to get in touch with Dinah Mason, and I understand she’s on a job there. I’ve been trying to reach her for some time. Please, can you help me? Is there a Dinah Mason at this address?”
Richard Claiborne. A sunny afternoon, a young man following her with an overnight case. “I’ll drive you wherever you’re going … my car’s parked right up there.”
I’ve always wanted something like this to happen to me, Dinah thought. Someone coming unexpectedly into my life … remembering me. Not forgetting. Calling me up …
“Hello?” the voice said sharply, and she came back to earth.
“Hi,” she said. “This is Dinah.”
“Well, hello.”
“Hello.”
“At long last.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 130