He gave the driver the address, and sat back with a feeling of great exhilaration. It was as though they had a date, as though she were expecting him, as though she knew. He smiled to himself all the way over, and gave the driver a large tip. He didn't ask the man to wait. He didn't want anyone waiting for him. He would stay there alone, for as long as he wanted. He had even toyed with the idea of continuing to pay rent on the place, so that he could come there whenever he liked. It was only an hour's flight from New York, and that way he would always have their apartment. Their apartment. He looked up at the building with a familiar glow of warmth, and almost in spite of himself, he heard himself say the words he'd been thinking. Hi, Nancy Fancypants, I'm home. He had said the words a thousand times before, as he walked in the door and found her sitting at her easel, with paint splattered all over hands and arms and occasionally her face. If she was terribly involved in the work, she sometimes didn't hear him come in.
He walked slowly up the stairs, tired but buoyed by the feeling of homecoming. He just wanted to go upstairs and sit down, near her, with her ' with her things' . All the same familiar smells pervaded the building, and there was the sound of running water, of a child, a cat meowing in a hallway below, and outside a horn honking. He could hear an Italian song on the radio, and for a strange moment he wondered if the radio was on in her studio. He had his key in his hand when he reached the landing, and he stopped for a long, long moment For the first time all day, he felt tears burn his eyes. He still knew the truth. She wouldn't be there. She was gone forever. She was dead.
He still tried the word out loud from time to time, just to make himself say it, to make himself know. He didn't want to be one of those crazy people who never faced the truth, who played games of pretend. She would have been scornful of that. But now and then he let the knowledge go, only to have it return with a slap. As it did now. He turned the key in the lock and waited, as though maybe someone would come to the door after all. But there was no one there. He opened the door slowly, and then he gasped.
Oh, my God! Where is ' where ' It was gone. All of it Every table, every chair, the plants, the paintings, her easel, her paints. Her clothes, ' Jesus Christ, Nancy! And then he heard himself crying as hot angry tears stung his face and he pulled open doors. Nothing. Even the refrigerator was gone. He stood there dumbly for a moment and then flew down the stairs two at a time until he reached the manager's apartment in the basement. He pounded on the door until the little old man opened it just the width of the protective chain and stared out with a look of fear in his eyes. But he recognized Michael and opened the door as he started to smile, until Michael grabbed him by the collar and began to shake him.
Where is her stuff, Kowalski? Where the hell is it? What did you do with it? Did you take it? Who took it? Where are her things?
What things? Who ' oh, my God ' no, no, I didn't take anything. They came two weeks ago. They told me He was trembling with terror, and Michael with rage.
Who the hell is they'?
I don't know. Someone called me and said that the apartment would be vacant. That Miss McAllister was ' had ' He saw the tears still wet on Michael's face and was afraid to go on. You know. Well, they told me, and they said the apartment would be empty by the end of the week. Two nurses came and took a few things, and then the Goodwill truck came the next morning.
Nurses? What nurses? Michael's mind was a blank. And Goodwill? Who had called them?
I don't know who they were. They looked like nurses though they were wearing white. They didn't take much. Just that little bag, and her paintings. Goodwill got the rest. I didn't take nothing. Honest. I wouldn't do that. Not to a nice girl like' But Michael wasn't listening to him. He was already wandering up the stairs to the street, dazed, as the old man watched him, shaking his head. Poor guy. He had probably just heard. Hey ' hey. Michael turned around, and the old man lowered his voice. I'm sorry. Michael only nodded and went out to the street. How did the nurses know? How could they have done it? They'd probably taken the little jewelry she had, a few trinkets, and the paintings. Maybe someone had said something to them at the hospital. Vultures, picking over what was left. God, if he'd seen them, he'd ' His hands clenched at his sides, and then his arm shot out to hail a cab. At least ' maybe ' it was worth a try. He slid into the cab, ignoring the ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. Where's the nearest Goodwill?
Goodwill what? The driver was chewing a soggy cigar and was not particularly interested in Goodwill of any kind.
Goodwill store. You know, used clothes, old furniture.
Oh yeah. Okay. The kid didn't look like one of their customers, but a fare was a fare. It was a five-minute drive from Nancy's apartment, and the fresh air on his face helped revive Michael from the shock of the emptiness he had found. It was like looking for your pulse and finding that your heart had stopped beating. Okay, this is it.
Michael thanked him, absentmindedly paid twice the fare, and got out. He wasn't even sure he wanted to go inside. He had wanted to see her things in her apartment, where they belonged. Not in some stinking, musty old store, with price tags on them. And what would he do? Buy it all? And then what? He walked into the store feeling lonely and tired and confused. No one offered to help him, and he began to wander aimlessly up one aisle and down another, finding nothing he knew, seeing nothing familiar, and suddenly aching, not for the things that had seemed so important to him that morning, but for the girl who had owned them. She was gone, and nothing he found or didn't find would ever make any difference. The tears began to stream down his face as he walked slowly back out to the street.
This time he didn't hail a cab. He just walked. Blindly and alone, in a direction his feet seemed to know, but his head didn't. His head didn't know anything anymore. It felt like mush. His whole body felt like mush, but his heart was a stone. Suddenly, in that stinking old store, his life had come to an end He understood now what it all meant, and as he stood at a red light, waiting for it to change, not giving a damn if it did, he passed out.
He woke up a few moments later, with a crowd around him as he lay on a small patch of grass where someone had carried him. There was a policeman standing over him, looking sharply into his eyes.
You okay, son? He was certain the kid was neither drunk nor stoned, but he looked a terrible gray color. More likely he was sick. Or maybe just hungry or something. Looked like he had money though, couldn't have been a case of starvation.
Yeah. I'm okay. I got out of the hospital this morning, and I guess I overdid it. He smiled ruefully, but the faces around him did cartwheels when he tried to get up. The cop saw what was happening and urged the crowd to disperse. Then he looked back at Michael.
I'll get a patrol car to give you a lift home.
No, really, I'm okay.
Never mind that. Would you rather go back to the hospital?
Hell, no!
All right, then we'll take you home. He spoke into a small walkie-talkie and then squatted down near Michael. They'll be here in a minute. Been sick for a long time?
Michael shook his head silently, and then looked down at his hands. Two weeks. There was still a narrow scar near his temple, but too small for the policeman to notice.
Well, you take it easy. The patrol car slid up alongside them, and the policeman gave Michael a hand up. He was all right now. Pale, but steadier than he had been at first.
Michael looked over his shoulder and tried to smile at the cop. Thanks. But the attempted smile only made the cop wonder what was wrong. There was a kind of despair in the kid's eyes.
He gave the men in the patrol car an address a block from the hotel, and thanked them when he got out. And then he walked the last block. The suite was still empty when he got there, and for a moment he thought about taking off his clothes and going back to bed, but there was no point in playing that game anymore. He had done what he'd wanted to do. It had gotten him nowhere, but at least he'd gone through with it. What he'd been looking fo
r was Nancy. He should have known that he wouldn't find her there, or anywhere else. He would only find her in the one place she still lived, in his heart.
The door to the suite opened as he stood looking out the window, and for a moment he didn't turn around. He didn't really want to see them, or hear about the meeting, or have to pretend that he was all right. He wasn't all right. And maybe he never would be again.
What are you doing up, Michael? His mother made it sound as though be were going to be seven in a few days, instead of twenty-five. He turned around slowly and said nothing at first, and then tiredly he smiled at George.
It's time for me to get up, Mother. I can't stay in bed forever. In fact, I'm going to New York tonight.
You're what?
Going to New York.
But why? You wanted to stay here. She looked totally confused.
You had your meeting. And I had mine. We have no reason to hang around here anymore. And I want to be in the office tomorrow. Right, George?
George looked at him nervously, frightened by the pain and grief he saw in the boy's eyes. Maybe it would do him good to get busy. He didn't look terribly strong yet, but lying about bad to be difficult for him. It gave him too much time to think. You might be right, Michael. And you can always work half days at first.
I think you're both crazy. He just got out of the hospital this morning.
And you, of course, are famous for taking such good care of yourself. Right, Mother? He cocked his head at her, and she sank down slowly on the couch.
All right, all rigft, she said with a slow smile.
How was the meeting? Michael sat down across from her and tried to look as though he cared. He was going to have to do a lot of that, because that afternoon he had made a decision. From now on he was going to live for one thing and one thing only. His work. There was nothing else left.
Chapter 8
Ready?
I guess so. She couldn't feel anything above her shoulders; it was as though her head had been cut off. And the bright lights of the operating room made Nancy want to squint, but she couldn't even do that. All she could see clearly was Peter's face as he bent over her, his neatly trimmed beard covered by a blue surgical mask, and his eyes dancing. He had spent almost three weeks studying the X-rays, measuring, sketching, drawing, planning, preparing, and talking to her. The only photograph of Nancy he had was the one taken the day of the accident, at the fair. But her face had been partially obscured by the silly board-walk facade she and Michael had stuck their heads through to have their picture taken. It gave him an idea though, a starting point, but he was going much farther than that. She was going to be a different girl when he was through, a person anyone would dream of being. He smiled down at her again as he saw her eyelids grow heavy.
You're going to have to stay awake now, and keep talking to me. You can get drowsy but you can't go to sleep. Otherwise she might choke on her own blood, but she didn't need to know that. Instead he kept her amused with stories and jokes, asked her questions, made her think of things, dig up answers, remember the names of all the nuns she knew when she was a child. And you're sure you don't still want to be Sister Agnes Marie?
Uh uh. I promised. They teased back and forth during the whole three hours that the procedure took, and his hands never stopped moving. For Nancy it was like watching a ballet.
And just think, in another couple of weeks we'll get you your own apartment, maybe something with a view, and then ' Hey, sleepyhead, what do you think of the view? Do you want to see the bay from the bedroom?
Sure. Why not?
Just 'sure'? You know, I think you're getting spoiled by the view from your room here at the hospital, Nancy.
That's not true. I love it.
Okay, then we'll go out together and find you something even better. Deal?
Deal. Even with the sleepy voice, she sounded pleased. Can't I go to sleep yet?
You know what, Princess, you just about can. Just a few more minutes and we'll whisk you back to your room and you can sleep all you want.
Good.
Have I been boring you then! She giggled at his mock hurt. There, love ' all ' set. He looked up at his assistant with a nod, stood back for a moment, and a nurse gave Nancy a quick shot in the thigh. Then Peter stepped back to her side and smiled down at the eyes he already knew so well. He didn't even see the rest. Not yet. But he saw the eyes. And knew them intimately. Just as she knew his. Did you know that today is a special day?
Yes.
You did? How did you know?
Because it was Michael's birthday, but she didn't want to tell him that He was going to be twenty-five years old today. She wondered what he was doing.
I just knew, that's all.
Well, it's special to me because this is the beginning. Our first surgery together, our first step on a wonderful road toward a new you. How about that? He smiled at her then, and she quietly closed her eyes and fell asleep. The shot had taken effect.
Happy birthday, boss.
Don't call me that, you jerk. Christ, you look lousy, Ben.
Thanks a lot. Ben looked over at his friend as he hobbled into the office with crutches and the assistance of a secretary. She eased him into a chair and withdrew from Michael's overstuffed and much paneled office. This is some place they fixed up for you. Is mine gonna look like this?
If not, you can have this one. I hate it.
That's nice. So what's new? The talk between them was still strained. They had seen each other twice since Ben arrived from Boston, but the effort of staying off the subject of Nancy was almost too much for them. It was all either of them could think of. The doctor says I can start work next week.
Michael laughed and shook his head. You're stark staring crazy, Ben.
And you're not?
A cloud passed over Mike's eyes. I didn't break anything. Nothing you could see anyway. I told you, you've got a month. Two if you need it. Why don't you go to Europe with your sister?
And do what? Sit in a wheelchair and dream about bikinis? I want to come to work. How about two weeks?
We'll see. There was a long silence and then suddenly Mike looked at his friend with an expression of bitterness Ben had never seen before. And then what?
What do you mean, Mike, and then what?'
Just that. We work our asses off for the next fifty years, screw as many people as we can, make as much money as we can, and so what? So Goddamn what?
You're in a wonderful mood. What happened? Slam your finger in your desk this morning?
Oh for Chrissake, be serious for a change, will you? I mean it. Don't you ever think of that? What the hell does it all mean? Ben knew what he meant, and there was no avoiding the questions now.
I don't know, Mike. The accident made me think of that, too. It made me ask myself what's important in my life, what I believe in.
And what did you come up with?
I'm not sure. I think I'm just grateful to be here. Maybe it taught me how important life is, how good it is while you have it. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. I still don't understand why it happened the way it did. I wish ' I wish ' . His voice broke on the words. I wish it had been me.
Mike closed his eyes on the tears in his own eyes and then came slowly around the desk to his friend. They stood there for a moment, the two of them, tears running slowly down their faces, holding tight to each other, and feeling the friendship of ten years comfort them as little else could. Thanks, Ben.
Hey, listen. Ben wiped the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. You want to go out and get smashed? Hell, it's your birthday, why not? For a minute Mike laughed, and then like a small boy drawn into a conspiracy, he nodded.
Hell, it's almost five o'clock. I don't have any more meetings I'm supposed to be at. We'll go to the Oak Room and tie one on. He assisted Ben from the room, and then into a cab, and half an hour later they were well on their way to a major blow-out. Mike didn't get back to his mother's apartment unt
il after midnight, and when he did he required a considerable amount of help from the doorman to get upstairs. The next morning when the maid came in, she found him asleep on the floor of his room. But at least he had gotten through the birthday.
He could hardly see when he got to the breakfast table the next morning. His mother was already there, in a black dress, reading The New York Times.
He wanted to throw up when he smelled the sweet rolls and coffee.
You must have had an interesting time last night. Her tone was glacial.
I was out with Ben.
So your secretary told me. I hope you won't make a habit of this.
Oh, Jesus. Why not? What? Getting smashed?
No. Leaving early. And actually, the other, too. You must have looked charming when you came home.
I can't remember. He was trying desperately not to gag on his coffee.
There's something else you didn't remember. She put the paper down on the table and glared at him. We had a dinner date last night, at Twenty-one. I waited for you for two hours. With nine other people. Your birthday remember?
Christ. That would have been all he needed. You never told me about nine people. You just asked me to dinner. I thought it would have been just the two of us. It was a moot point now, of course.
the Promise (1978) Page 6
