by Sol Stein
It fell to the ground unevenly, tilted, and toppled over. He had lost his means of getting off the roof. Nothing seemed to matter anymore except the possibility of sleep.
He huddled against the parapet, holding his knees. His body hurt so.
What the hell. He didn’t have to fight sleep anymore. Stretching his hands under his cheek, he was almost instantly lost to the world.
14
The night was coming to an end when Margaret stretched her arms out for Henry.
He wasn’t there.
She woke abruptly, remembered she was alone behind a locked door.
If they found Henry, would they bring him here? They might not even tell you if he were alive or dead.
If he had escaped onto the road, would he be able to find willing help? Could the wound in his head be worse than she thought it was? Had they flung his body into the woods?
When Margaret was thirteen she had imagined herself to be vulnerable to every ailment of mankind. But by the time she was fifteen, she believed that all of the serious ailments—including death, which she thought of as the ultimate ailment—were things other people got. By the time she had finished a year of medical school, she had a sensible view of her vulnerability; she could catch or get or be visited with any or many of life’s physical and mental catastrophes, but care, antisepsis, attention to diet, keeping one’s distance from friends with active colds could all contribute to health.
In contrast to Margaret’s rationality, the young men of her acquaintance thought of themselves as special vessels of the Almighty, impervious to harm, whether driving a car or off to war. They were fools. Two of them died in car crashes. Most of the others went off to the army, jocks in brain and body, unmindful of how vulnerable their fine physiques were to Asiatic fungus, malaria, disabling dysentery, concussion, and shrapnel, their heads reverberating with the song of youth, It can’t happen to me.
Henry was not like them. He was not a jock, nor was he a whiner. He had been an optimist in all things except one.
They were in a rowboat in Central Park on a sunny Saturday in June when he announced to her, “I want to tell you something about my being Jewish.”
It all seemed so irrelevant to her. He didn’t indulge in any religious practices. He didn’t act different. He certainly didn’t look Jewish.
“Before we get involved any further,” he said, shipping the oars as if to avoid even the distraction of rowing because of the importance of the point, “you should know that to Jews anything can happen. Anything bad.”
She had tried to laugh it off, the idea of a perpetual sword of Damocles, but he was insistent. “Margaret, I love you.”
Of course she loved him, too. What was he getting at?
“Your involvement with me could lead you into the circle of danger.”
“Cheer up,” Margaret had said. “Hitler’s dead.”
“He was just a stage,” Henry said.
“It’s a lousy century,” Margaret said.
“The Middle Ages were pretty bad. For Jews, I mean, as well as others. Luther traded on it. Then the Russian pogroms. The Polish pogroms. You can find the emotions anywhere.”
“Here?” she had said.
“Anywhere.”
Had either of them, after that day on the lake, ever given it a second thought? She hadn’t.
There was no point in trying to get to sleep again. It was morning. Yet the temptation was to lie there because getting up meant knowing what you would do. She wanted to think.
Were some of Henry’s notions Jewish notions? When she was about to drive the car, he’d remind her, not always but on occasion, to turn off the ignition while she was getting gas. When Stanley was first sent away to summer camp, Henry prepared for him a written list of warnings:
1. Don’t go swimming without another boy swimming close to where you are.
2. Don’t go in the water unless a lifeguard is present.
3. Roughhouse with pillows okay, but no sticks, rocks, or anything else that can really hurt people.
4. In public toilets put paper on the seat before you sit down.
5. Cut meat into small pieces. People have choked to death on food.
6. Be polite to strangers, but never get into a stranger’s car under any circumstances.
7. Don’t wander off. Always let your counselor know where you are.
Anybody could pass those warnings on to a child, but actually drawing up a written list—was that Jewish? Had he ever warned Stanley out of her earshot about the hazards of being Jewish as he had her?
Stanley. They said they would phone him from Santa Barbara. Would he be alarmed if they didn’t call? Would Ruth be worried? She’d have no reason to. Not yet.
What of all the people who’ve been here for months? Didn’t anyone come looking for them? If they hadn’t announced their intentions to go to Cliffhaven, where would one look? There are bureaus of missing persons everywhere, aren’t there? Now that’s something Stanley would do, he’d pursue the matter. We were supposed to meet in L.A. Henry was to call him. Oh my God, she thought, if he comes looking for us and gets here, they’ll simply have one more prisoner. Is that what happens? Those who track their kin to Cliffhaven are also among the guests?
The distinct sound of a key in the lock startled her. Quickly, Margaret got out of bed and slipped into her robe just as the door swung open. It was that very tall young woman, dressed in the same uniform as Clete, who had been taken away by the two men in the dining room. Clete had gone after them. And that was when they seized the opportunity to escape. What did Clete say her name was, Charlotte?
She was carrying a tray. “Good morning,” she said as if nothing had happened.
“Is your name Charlotte?”
She nodded.
“You’re Clete’s friend.”
Charlotte set the breakfast tray down. “Sometimes,” she said.
“You took his car to San Diego.”
“I didn’t get very far.”
“They came after you, like they came after us.”
“You better eat this stuff before it gets cold, Dr. Brown.”
“You’re a prisoner just like we are.”
“That’s not true.” Charlotte was trying to control her anger. “It’s just that they have rules. They’re letting me make up for being AWOL.”
“How?”
“I don’t have to answer you.”
“How?”
“By being in charge of you, dear,” Charlotte said. “Now eat.”
Margaret looked at the tray. On it was a very large glass of orange juice, a small beaker of coffee, toast, marmalade, a glass of milk, and a covered dish in the center. A feast before dying? Charlotte lifted the cover to reveal scrambled eggs and bacon.
Margaret had not thought of food; now, reacting like Pavlov’s dog, she was suddenly, instantly hungry.
Why was she not eating in the dining room?
Out loud she said, “Why am I not eating in the dining room?”
“You won’t be doing that until your husband is found,” Charlotte said.
Thank heaven. They’re still looking for him. Maybe Henry got away!
“You better eat before this stuff gets cold,” Charlotte said.
“I’d like to wash up first.” Margaret wanted to change. She didn’t like eating in her nightgown.
“You’ll wash later,” Charlotte said. “I brought the food hot. You eat it hot.”
Eating with Charlotte looking on made her feel more like a prisoner than anything else that had happened so far. After a few mouthfuls she no longer felt hunger. Her body was warning her; if she ate more she’d get sick.
“You’d better finish,” Charlotte said. “We don’t know when you’ll eat next.”
There must be stuff in the food to tranquilize me, Margaret thought.
“I’ll throw up if I eat more,” Margaret said. “I really can’t. I need some air. Can you take me outside? Can we take a walk?”
“Yo
u’re not walking away again. The only thing I’m allowed to do is leave you in the rec room. Locked.”
“What’s in the rec room?”
“Basketball. Volleyball.”
“Who do I play with?” Margaret asked. The idea of socializing with Charlotte was repugnant to her.
“You play with yourself,” Charlotte said, laughing. “I mean by yourself. I got work to do. I’m taking you to the rec room. Get dressed.”
Anything but this room, Margaret thought. “All right,” she said, “I’ll go to the rec room.”
“Say please.”
Margaret looked at the tall young woman. Think of it as a game, she told herself
“Please,” Margaret said.
“Okay.”
*
On the short walk to the rec room, Charlotte and Margaret encountered Carol.
“That the escapee’s wife?” Carol asked.
Charlotte nodded.
“I’m taking her to the rec room.”
“I just put my infraction in there.”
“Terrific,” Charlotte said. “They can play with each other.”
Girls’ jokes, thought Margaret, are like boys’ jokes. She wondered who the other resident was.
The rec room, it turned out, was much too small to be a real gymnasium. It had a polished wooden floor and only one basketball hoop. The volleyball net was wrapped around its standards in the corner. The rest of the room was bare, except for the other resident, who stopped bouncing the basketball when they opened the one door.
“This is Dr. Brown,” Charlotte said.
“Phyllis Minter,” the other woman said, nodding only at Margaret.
“Don’t try anything funny,” Charlotte said. “There’s only the one door.”
“I can see that,” Margaret said.
“It’s bolted from the outside.”
“What do I do in case of fire?” Margaret said. What’s the point of baiting her?
“Don’t play with matches,” Charlotte said. “I’m to be back for you as soon as Mr. Clifford arrives.”
“Is it supposed to be a privilege to meet the sickie who invented this place?”
“You’re looking for real trouble,” Charlotte said.
“I already have that,” Margaret said. “Shouldn’t I be looking for something else?”
“Mr. Clifford will deal with you.”
“I have nothing to say to him or to any of you.”
“Dr. Brown, Mr. Clifford is bringing a new interrogator with him, and there’ll be several of the men from here.”
“I won’t talk to any of them.”
“My instructions are that when I get you over there, you’re to wear handcuffs behind your back and nothing else.”
“What do you mean nothing else?”
“The person being interrogated is always in the nude,” Charlotte said, backing out, then shutting the rec-room door. Phyllis Minter and Margaret heard the promised bolt slide home.
“What are they doing that to you for?” Phyllis asked.
“My husband’s escaped.”
“I heard about that. Listen, can they hear what we’re saying? Is the place bugged?”
Margaret surveyed the periphery of the ceiling where it met each wall. No camera. “I don’t know,” she said.
“I don’t care if those bastards hear me. I want to do what your husband did, get the hell out of here.” She looked at Margaret, who she guessed to be perhaps ten years older. “Are they going to rape you?”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh they’d dare.”
“Charlotte said they were going to question me.”
“Don’t be naïve, Doctor. You are a medical doctor?”
Margaret nodded.
“Want to play? Basketball, I mean.”
“I haven’t played in what, twenty-six years.”
“Let’s just throw it around.”
Phyllis dribbled the ball toward the other end of the room, then lightly threw it up. It circled the hoop and dropped through the net.
“Here, you try,” she said, throwing the ball to Margaret
Margaret caught the ball clumsily. “I don’t know if I can.”
She bounced the ball once, twice, then stopped. “What are they giving you special attention for?” Margaret asked.
“I talked to a truck driver from the outside,” Phyllis said. “I thought he might give me a lift down. He was scared shitless.”
How naive, Margaret thought, trying to hitch a ride out of a place like this.
Phyllis thought Margaret was reacting to her choice of words. “Sorry,” she said. “I use words like that all the time. I’m not a doctor. I’m a nothing.”
The young woman’s toughness denied her self-deprecation, Margaret thought. She reminded her of Bacall in those early Bogart films.
“I didn’t know nothings can afford to come to a place like Cliffhaven,” Margaret said.
“I have money,” Phyllis said. “Pass the ball.”
Margaret threw the ball to Phyllis, who caught it as if she were used to catching it.
“Are you married?” Margaret asked.
Phyllis laughed. “On and off.” She dribbled the basketball in place, stopped. “Look, I want to get the hell out of this cockamamie place. How did your husband escape?”
“We both got down to the highway by going through the woods.”
“What happened?”
“There were half a dozen trusties waiting for us.”
“So what, they’re mostly fogies.”
“They all had clubs,” Margaret said. “And there was a state trooper.”
“Didn’t you tell him they were keeping you prisoner up here?” Phyllis said, her voice rising.
“He called us kikes,” Margaret said.
“I’d cut the balls off a guy like that,” Phyllis said and threw the ball at the basket in anger. It hit the backboard, rolled around the basket, missed. The ball bounced, then less and less. Phyllis made no attempt to retrieve it.
“On the way back up,” Margaret said, “there was a fight. While the others brought me back up here, he must have overcome the trusty who was left to guard him.”
“Terrific,” Phyllis said, her eyes showing her excitement.
“They say he’s still on the grounds somewhere.”
“I’m sure he’ll get away,” Phyllis said. “He’ll blow the whistle on the place, right?”
Margaret did not want to quash the hope in the younger woman’s eyes.
“All we got to do,” Phyllis said, “is keep whole in the meantime, right? Listen, can I trust you?”
“Yes,” Margaret said.
“I have a knife. You take it. If they try anything in that interrogation, you can use it.”
“I couldn’t. Besides, if I were undressed, where would I hide it?”
“Use it on them when they try to undress you.”
“No, no,” Margaret said, “put it back in your boot. What good would it do against half a dozen men?”
“If they go after you, just jam it into their you-know-whats. You’ll see what good it’ll do.”
“I don’t think I could,” Margaret said.
“I could,” Phyllis said.
“Then you keep it.”
“If your husband finds you, take me with you. Please? I’m in room 27. Please.”
“I’ll remember,” Margaret said.
“Terrific,” Phyllis said. “Where you from?”
“Just north of New York.”
“Gee,” Phyllis said. “I’m from here, California I mean, but I was born in Brooklyn. Why don’t we throw the basketball around, it’ll take our mind off things.”
*
Dan Pitz found the ride up Highway 1 exhilarating. As a youngster he had hated the people he saw inside chauffeured limousines. Now he was riding in one himself, a prospective future manager for Mr. Clifford, a resourceful, accomplished, rich man.
When they were about halfway, Mr. Cli
fford said, “We are paying double pro rata for the day, but if you and I agree that you will work for me, I will pay you precisely the annual salary you received at your last position.”
“Plus an expense account?” Dan asked.
“You won’t need an expense account at Cliffhaven. Everything is provided.” He looked over at Pitz. “The reason I pay the same is to make sure that it is not just the money that attracts you to our work.”
“I understand.”
“You have one serious liability,” Mr. Clifford said.
He’s tracked down some of the people I’ve had affairs with.
“You are not,” Mr. Clifford continued, “what I would call a natural reader. You may have read a lot in school, that is immaterial. You do not now have the habit of ingesting information from books. Your reading list was full of trivia. Pity.”
“I’ve been busy,” Dan said.
“Have you been too busy to fornicate?”
What was he getting at?
“People have time for what they want to do,” Mr. Clifford said. “I suppose you haven’t read Kosinski, Bellow, Kazin, Trunk.”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“It is very important in our work to understand how Jews think. Today’s Jews. I don’t want robots working at Cliffhaven. You must understand your work in its social and historical context. I will give you a list with a time schedule for each book. I will ask you two or three questions about each as you finish.”
Dan, who had hated school, thought maybe this job isn’t for me.
“Perhaps this position is not for you,” Mr. Clifford said.
He reads minds. He knows too much about me for me not to take the job. If he offers it.
“Well, my boy,” Mr. Clifford said, patting Pitz once on the forearm, “nothing to worry about. Just some catch-up work to do. You’ll be surprised how easy it is, once you get used to it.”
*
They arrived at the entrance to Cliffhaven just after eleven o’clock. There were two uniformed staff members at the gate, and as soon as they saw the limousine in the distance, one of them lowered the chain. The other was Clete, who signaled to the driver.