Prizes

by Erich Segal

  But she could try and persuade her father later.

  Maybe.

  Upon her return to San Diego, Muriel wasted no time arranging the wedding. Two weeks later Isabel, in a frilly pink dress that she and her mother had bought in Berkeley, stood to one side with Peter as a magistrate formally decreed that henceforth their mother would be Mrs. Edmundo Zimmer.

  Another pair of siblings stood on the groom’s side, a sister in her early thirties and a brother older still. Both Dorotea and Francisco had flown up from Argentina to honor their father as well as to serve as legal witnesses.

  After the brief ceremony, all six of them repaired to a private room at the faculty club for drinks and a small but elegant nuptial meal.

  Both Muriel and Edmundo were in buoyant spirits, and they seemed especially touched that Isabel had come. After the glasses were raised to them, Edmundo in turn proposed a toast to “the famously brilliant young lady who has traveled a long way to be here with us.”

  Isabel was self-conscious, especially since Edmundo’s children had flown much farther. But she was soon completely won over by the conductor’s charm and the genuine affection radiating from his eyes.

  There was a larger reception planned for that evening, at which various members of the orchestra would be playing solos, trios, and even a wind quintet.

  “I really wish you could stay for it,” Edmundo remarked sincerely. “I was so looking forward to hearing you play the violin.”

  “You won’t be missing much. I haven’t had a lot of time to practice lately.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” he protested gallantly. “Muriel tells me you make your instrument sing. I want you to promise me that you’ll bring it down at Christmas.”

  Isabel was so enchanted by Edmundo that she resolved to duke it out with Raymond if he tried to object to her visiting again at Christmas.

  Her plane landed at Oakland just after nine P.M. And as she walked toward her loving father’s outstretched arms, Isabel felt an inexplicable sadness.

  He was everything to her. Or almost everything.

  But there was no music in Raymond da Costa’s life.

  29

  ADAM

  Twenty minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, Adam pushed open the door of Room 608 at the Massachusetts Mental Health Hospital. A matronly Hispanic nurse was gently trying to lull a female patient into slumber.

  At first he was unsure of what to do. Although he knew that Anya desperately needed to sleep it off, he was anxious to reassure himself that she was all right.

  Yet even though he was silent, she sensed his presence and called out weakly, “Adam, is that you?”

  “Take it easy, Anya. Try not to upset yourself.”

  “That is funny joke,” she remarked, her words slurring. “After all the terrible things I have done.” She was able to turn her head slowly and face him. “You should not have come,” she murmured.

  “I had to,” he countered. “And you wanted me to.”

  She did not reply, either to protest or to acknowledge his claim.

  Uneasily, Adam said to the nurse, “It’s all right, I’m one of her physicians.”

  “Very well, Doctor.” The woman nodded and made a discreet exit.

  Adam immediately sat in her chair beside Anya’s bed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated hoarsely. “I have such talent for failure, I could not even do a good job of killing myself.”

  He shook his head in consternation. “Why the hell did you do such a stupid thing? I thought we were so happy together.”

  “That was precisely why, Adam. It was Christmas—I was all alone. I missed you so terribly, and I realized we could never be together.”

  “Why not?” he inquired softly.

  “You are married,” she responded slowly. And then added even more emphatically, “You have a child. In fact your entire life would have been happier if we had never met.”

  “No,” he objected. “You’re the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, Anya. All I want in this world is to be with you.”

  “It’s wrong,” she persisted.

  “Since when did love behave by a rule book? For God’s sake, stop being so hard on yourself.”

  “You cannot love me,” she whispered.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  She answered with a sad smile, “Because nothing that good has ever happened to me in my entire life.”

  He wanted to sweep her into his arms and reassure her, but she was tired, and ill. And this was a hospital. And he was a doctor.

  “Let’s turn on your TV,” he suggested. “We can just catch Midnight Mass from St. Patrick’s.”

  “If you would like,” she answered softly.

  He switched on the set and they began to watch. Every so often he would glance at Anya, and was gratified to see that his instinct was correct. She was in some way distracted by the tranquility of the service.

  Afterward he shut off the television and with soothing words tried to loosen her tenacious grip on wakefulness. Remarkably, she resisted. For it was clear that her desire to talk to him surmounted any physiological need to sleep.

  Morning was fast approaching. The nine o’clock flight to Toronto was one of the few operating on Christmas Day, and Adam knew he had to be on it.

  “Listen, my Russian friend,” he said, clasping Anya’s hand tightly. “I’ve really got to go now. I promise I’ll call every morning if you promise to start believing that I’m going to work things out.”

  “I will try.” She smiled. It was just a slight upturn of her lips, yet nonetheless an affirmation of life.

  “That’s my girl,” he said encouragingly, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Thank you, Adam.” Her smile widened. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Anya, darling,” he whispered, “the next time you need to see me, try the telephone—it’s less expensive.” Their eyes exchanged smiles.

  “Daddy!”

  Heather had been playing with the Rosenthal brothers in the snow in front of the cabin when she caught sight of her father approaching.

  He greeted her with a loving hug. “Gosh, I missed you. I must have screwed up your Christmas, huh?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, but pouted. “I got my presents anyway.”

  “Where’s Mom?” Adam inquired, trying to be nonchalant.

  “With Charlie and Joyce taking a ski lesson.”

  “Well,” he replied, “I’ll just change my clothes and surprise them at the bottom of the slopes.”

  As he started inside, Heather called after him, “Don’t hurry, Dad.”

  Adam turned and asked, “Why not?”

  “You really did screw up her Christmas.”

  As if this were not sufficiently bad news, she added the final punctuation to his welcome by hurling a snowball—which landed square in the middle of his back.

  God, he thought to himself, what the hell have I done?

  Toni zoomed down the slope as if aiming straight at him and, in a flurry of snow, braked to a halt scarcely ten feet away.

  For an instant neither spoke.

  Finally Adam managed, “I’m back.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she answered curtly.

  “Did you also notice that I wasn’t gone very long?”

  “I was aware that you were gone,” she said enigmatically, leaving him to draw his own conclusions.

  “Well, the crisis is over,” he announced uneasily.

  She looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is it?”

  “Toni, for God’s sake, I was making what I thought was a humanitarian gesture.”

  “All night? I called home every half hour. So unless you booked into the Hilton, I can only conclude you were holding her hand.”

  “Come on,” he said, raising his voice in exasperation. “Are you crazy enough to imply what I think you’re implying?”

  She stopped and faced him and her words came out in tiny puf
fs of air.

  “Adam, you don’t have to physically sleep with another woman to qualify as being unfaithful.”

  Adam’s heart began to beat faster.

  She pointed a ski pole at him and pronounced, “Let’s just say you’re on probation.”

  In the following days they kept up appearances for the sake of Heather and the Rosenthals. But the tension was palpable enough to be felt by all.

  However hard he tried, he could not expel Anya from his mind—even for a moment.

  On the morning of their departure he woke early, hurried to the main lodge and settled their hotel bill. For if Toni paid it, she would surely see the heavy charges for long-distance phone calls to a single number in Boston.

  At noon they clambered aboard Charlie’s station wagon, the Rosenthals radiating health and good spirits, the Coopersmiths each in his own way knowing that somehow their lives would never be the same.

  30

  SANDY

  The social high point of the year for the drones—as they were fond of calling themselves—who worked in Gregory Morgenstern’s lab was the chief’s Fourth of July barbecue. It was a doubly patriotic occasion, since the professor and his family lived in the town immortalized by Emerson, where the courageous American farmers “fired the shot heard ’round the world.”

  First they watched a re-creation of the famous Battle of Lexington, in which the younger villagers preferred to play the defeated British because of the flashy red costumes. Then all would repair to the prof’s domain where, for one exceptional day, the scientists would disregard their own warnings against the cholesterol content of marbled steaks cooked over a carcinogenic charcoal fire.

  Though their female roommates preferred to commemorate the original revolution by flaunting their own independence and working in the lab, Stella generously lent Vic and Sandy her four-door “shitbox.”

  In the huge Morgenstern garden the shots fired were strictly from the lips to the throat. After the evening fireworks, Gregory let down his rapidly receding hair and led his guests in songs from the modern American folk repertoire.

  His pièce de résistance was Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.” In his inebriated state, the professor claimed that Dylan was a closet quantum physicist and the “answer, my friend,” was subatomic particles.

  Exacting a promise from Sandy to drive them home, Vic then proceeded on a concentrated quest to juice and seduce, giving his friend a final bit of advice: “The best place to find pliant ladies is in the satellites surrounding Judy Morgenstern.”

  “The Old Man’s daughter?”

  “Bingo,” he replied. “Anyway, she’s a senior at Bennington—and you know about those types.”

  Poor, introverted Sandy really did not know what his worldly companion was talking about. But he had an inkling.

  And he found himself drawn to a circle of young people seated in the shade of an oak tree, listening to a very pretty freckle-faced guitarist with a reddish-brown ponytail. She was wearing denim cutoffs and a Beethoven T-shirt.

  Gosh, Sandy thought to himself. I never imagined that a daughter of Greg Morgenstern’s could be so good-looking. It almost casts doubt on genetics. I mean, if Rochelle was a goddess, this creature certainly qualified as a nymph. Too bad I don’t have the guts to talk to her.

  At that point the singer coughed histrionically and uttered, “Will somebody please have some pity and get this poor girl a beer?”

  The normally reticent Sandy heard a cue and pounced on it.

  “I’ll get it,” he called out.

  “Thanks. Be sure to take it from the bottom, where they’re really cold.”

  He jogged over to the refreshment area, plunged his hand into the metal garbage can that was today serving as an oversized ice bucket, withdrew a bottle of Miller Lite, and hurried back to the parched performer.

  “Thanks,” she murmured smiling. “You saved my life. Where’s yours?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” he confessed with embarrassment.

  Quickly offering him a sip, she suggested, “Why don’t you finish mine and get us both another.”

  Yes, Vic’s prediction had been accurate. There were several attractive girls encircling the troubadour—at least half of them unattended. But Sandy was mesmerized by the singer, not the song.

  After his third trip to the watering hole, he had swallowed enough liquid courage to sit down next to her and introduce himself.

  He even emulated his father’s style. “Hi there. Raven’s the name, Chem’s the game.”

  “Well, Raven,” she responded gaily, “do you have any requests?”

  “To begin with,” Sandy remarked, “it would be nice to know your name.”

  “I’m the Princess Judy,” she replied. “At least of these five acres. Greg’s my Dad—and even though I’m not into science, I’m still his best pal.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Sandy remarked, calling upon his prodigious memory for ancient films. “As Bogart said to Claude Rains, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ ”

  “Oh,” she said her face brightening, “are you a Casablanca freak too?”

  “I’m afraid I’m worse than that. I’m a movie loony. My dad’s in the business.”

  “Just what does he do?”

  “He’s a producer.”

  “What’s he produced?”

  “Me, for one thing.” Sandy grinned. “The rest is stuff on celluloid. Actually, if I didn’t want to make such a good impression on you, I’d confess that his greatest hit so far is Godzilla Meets Hercules.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding—that’s my favorite bad film.” And then, quickly reining herself in, she added, “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “On the contrary,” Sandy replied. “As my dad says, ‘Put-downs are as good as Valentines, as long as you buy a ticket.’ ”

  “I bet that helps you meet a lot of girls,” she offered.

  “What?”

  “I guess lots of girls play up to you to get an introduction to your father.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you did,” he responded.

  “Not a chance.” Judy strummed an angry chord. “The only thing I want to be less than a scientist is a movie star.”

  Sandy was thrilled. Yet suddenly feeling his confidence waning, he proposed they walk over together and get another beer.

  “Suits me.” She smiled, climbing to her feet. “I’m not driving.”

  “Me either,” Sandy lied, thinking: If this girl likes me, I can fly home without a car.

  The Morgensterns’ barbecues were renowned for their liveliness and longevity. It had been late afternoon when Sandy met Judy, but all time had dissolved after that.

  They chatted endlessly about movies, until it became clear that guests were finally starting to leave.

  It was almost midnight as Sandy made his way toward Professor and Mrs. Morgenstern to bid them good night.

  Judy took his hand and whispered, “Will I hear from you or is this just a one-night stand?”

  “Who’s standing?” he rejoined. “As Elizabeth Taylor said to Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun, ‘Every time you leave me for a minute, it’s like good-bye.’ ”

  “Wow, you’ve got an unbelievable memory, Sandy. By the way, who’s driving you home?”

  “I am—that is, if I can find my car. In fact, I’m supposed to be taking Vic Newman.”

  “Not in that state, you’re not,” Greg Morgenstern reprimanded as they approached him.

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Prof,” Sandy conceded, his words slightly slurred. “Guess Vic’ll have to drive.”

  “Have you seen him?” Morgenstern asked. “He’s under a tree—out cold.”

  “I could drive them both, Dad,” Judy volunteered. “I switched to coffee about two hours ago.”

  “But darling, you’re not a good driver at the best of times,” her mother interposed.

  “Look at it this way,” Judy explained, “I’m the onl
y one sober enough to do the job.”

  “You’ll be careful?” Mrs. Morgenstern insisted.

  “Stay loose, Mom. In Boston people drive the same—drunk or sober. I’m used to it.”

  By the time they reached the house in Central Square, Vic was ambulatory, and tactful enough to get out of the car and disappear inside.

  As she turned to Sandy in the passenger seat, Judy whispered, “You’re really cute, did you know that?”

  “No,” he replied. “I’m usually regarded as wallflower material.”

  “Well, then you’re an attractive wall,” she responded playfully. “Anyway, stop being shy and tell me if we’re going to see each other again.”

  “Hey, lady, this is only the first reel,” Sandy answered. “We’ll kiss gently and look forward to the ultimate clinch.”

  And that was precisely what they did.

  The next morning, Stella was outraged by what she deemed Sandy’s “sexist co-opting” of her vehicle.

  “Stay loose, Stella. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Since when have you ever taken care of anything?” she said angrily.

  Sandy did not wish to pursue this secondary matter, and proceeded to dial the Morgenstern household.

  Like a nervous schoolboy—which, in a way, he was—he rehearsed his conversation, even going as far as jotting a few choice phrases on an index card.

  Unfortunately, it was the prof’s wife who picked up the phone: Why had he not prepared for this eventuality! Quickly regaining his balance, he thanked her for her bounteous hospitality, and then, as casually as possible, asked, “Uh, is Judy around?”

  “Yes. She’s sleeping.”

  “Oh, in that case—”

  “No,” Mrs. Morgenstern cut short his demurral. “She said to wake her if you called.”

  Ohmigod. Then it wasn’t wishful thinking, Sandy realized. Maybe she really does like me.

  A moment later Judy was on the phone, her voice still slightly husky with sleep.

  “Hi,” she murmured.

  “Hi,” Sandy echoed. “I’m, uh, just calling to be sure you got back all right.”

  “Well, as you see, I did,” she answered.