by Sally Mandel
Chapter 18
The flight from Heathrow had included a movie, a “fantasy,” they called it, about a prizefighter who gave birth to twins. Walter had spent most of the trip listening to Muzak through his earphones to escape the laughter of people who obviously hadn’t a grain of taste. Not that he didn’t appreciate entertainment. He could never fathom anybody’s subjecting himself to those highbrow Scandinavian “films” that looked like they were photographed in a swamp in the middle of the night. Or those Italian jobs with dwarves jumping into the sack with obese women sprouting two-hundred-pound breasts. Why pay for a freak show when you can get one for free by walking west on Forty-second Street?
Good to get back to New York. He was looking forward to it, despite the pleasures of being away. He always enjoyed his first glimpse of the skyline—gave him a funny knot in the larynx. All the gleaming power, a shimmer rising from the skyscrapers like energy from millions of people hustling below. They saw you cut your life short a couple of years living in the midst of it, but Christ, each day here was worth at least ten in a town like Boston or Atlanta—or London.
In London he had met with the minister of state for energy, a real gentleman, although, to be honest, they all sounded like gentlemen with those accents. The minister had arranged for Walter to be driven up north to the dismal gray city where Transamco sat quaking in anticipation of a dockworkers’ strike.
The management greeted him with the fanfare due a representative of the company’s heaviest investors, but despite the hospitality Walter had been displeased. One trip through the plant convinced him that the American operation was already infected with the slipshod habits of the British industrial community. Just two years ago Walter had personally overseen the formation of the outfit, ensuring its efficiency and profitability. And now look at the place—two-hour lunch breaks, card games in the lavatory. Was all of England managed by incompetents?
Rhetorical question. Of course it was. The country was washed up, the brilliance of its glorious past eroded by the shuffling feet of strike lines, the shifting asses of men playing poker or whist or whatever the English play. The U.S. government ought to send every budding American hippy socialist to the British Isles and let him try to negotiate the newly built dual carriageways—why, in Christ’s name, couldn’t they call them thruways?—that began crumbling from poor workmanship the month they were laid down. What about those overpriced tin cans they called cars? And, my God, the hamburgers! Must grind up their stray-dog population to produce those pale-orange gristly lumps.
Mind you, he wasn’t one of those nationalist jerks who debarked at Heathrow waving flags and yelling about how we Yanks won the war for the Limeys. He’d fought side by side with them—well, not exactly in the foxholes, but he’d read the reports at his desk in Washington—and there wasn’t a country on earth that could have defeated them, except for the crazy Krauts. Even without us, they might just have pulled it off. Stoic bastards they were then. Pathetic what a dose of communism can do in just a few years.
In the limousine on his way into Manhattan, he gazed out the window at the yellow-gray smog hanging over the city and worried about Sharlie’s oxygen supply. These were her worst days; he’d seen her turn pale blue as her body fought for air. Poor crippled Sharlie with her hot longings for that young fellow. Her mother must wonder what it’s all about. Margaret with the ice reaching down into her very bones. She never sweated, never belched, never had bad breath. Never laid a fart in her life.
He knew he should never have married her, but there was all that pressure from Mother, all the sensible advice about the Mackins and the benefits to his career. Which had paid off, undeniably. Margaret’s credentials, like her underwear, were impeccable. God damn the woman, with her long, cool limbs. She was fifty-five years old, for Christ’s sake. How the hell did she keep her shape? She never took more than two steps forward and three steps back, as far as he could tell. Certainly didn’t get that glowing skin from a healthy romp in the sack once or twice a week, that’s for damn sure. Infuriating, he thought, that the sight of her still aroused him after all these years.
That woman at the hotel in London—same thing again. Right in the middle of a really good screw, damned if she didn’t begin to look like Margaret. Not that it was a turn-off—on the contrary. He snorted, wondering if the act with that broad in London would be technically considered adultery if he could make it only by imagining that she was his wife.
He hunched himself upright in the back seat of the Mercedes as they drove across the Queensboro Bridge. Women. Christ, what a bewildering species.
As the limousine neared Madison Avenue, he began to wonder about Sharlie. How to make it easier for her, that was the thing. Maybe another trip to the Continent?
If he could only get her interested in something outside herself and her books and all that intellectual crap that does nothing to expend sexual energy. Sharlie would have been an athlete, with those long legs and her quick reflexes. As a little girl she’d dreamed of joining the circus, and for a short while she became a trampoline artist on her bed, an acrobat on the living room rug. She could take about thirty seconds of it, with Walter’s heart in his mouth as he watched, but in those brief moments her expression was transformed from the pale wisdom of a tired old person to the sparkling exuberance of a healthy child, reveling in the activity of wild young limbs. Then suddenly she’d lie still, pale again and frightened as the knocking began in her little bony chest. He couldn’t bear to stop her joy when she had it, hated seeing it disappear behind aged eyes. Once she’d cried when the pain began, but when she saw he was watching her, she had surreptitiously dried her face on the back of her hand and given him a ghastly smile. He’d patted her on the head, saying something like, “Never mind, Chuck,” when he really wanted to gather her up in his arms and weep with her. Or somehow strap her to him so that when he played his own rough physical games, she could share the exhilaration of it.
Put a defective heart into Margaret and nobody’d notice, he thought as the car pulled up. Not even Margaret.
Dinner was particularly quiet. None of the usual eager questioning from Sharlie about the places he’d seen. Come to think of it while he’d stood inside the front door, sweaty and exhausted, Sharlie had shown up to give him a perfunctory welcome-home kiss and then disappeared into her room. Usually the day he got back from a long trip she’d sit on his bed as he unpacked and pry into the corners of his suitcase to see what he’d brought her. And Margaret, too. Those first nights home were often the friendliest times between them. Her face would glow with an animation that deadened as the hours passed and life resumed its old patterns of wariness. But tonight Margaret sat at the other end of the table with a tense face, avoiding his eyes.
Sharlie’s seeing that young man. For a moment he was astonished, but, looking at her more closely as she played with her napkin, it occurred to him that after all, she was his daughter, wasn’t she? Therefore a spark of rebellion lurked in her character somewhere, misguided though it may be. Certainly she was seeing him. How myopic of him not to have realized it from the minute he stepped inside the door and looked into her face. He set down his fork and spoke into the strained silence.
“I forbid it, Sharlie.”
Both women’s eyes shot up. He watched his daughter swallow hard and force herself to face him steadily.
“I know,” she said, but her voice was quivering.
“If you give a damn about him,” said Walter, “you’ll leave the poor sucker alone.”
“We’re getting married.”
Margaret made a little choking noise at the other end of the table. Sharlie’s face was now as white as the delicate bone china dinner plates, and there was a tiny moment when he felt himself weaken—perhaps if his words struck too hard, that porcelain face would crack into millions of tiny pieces. But in the space of one deep breath objectivity returned.
“What kind of feeling could you have for him if you�
�re willing to cripple his life, too?”
Sharlie grabbed hold of the edge of the table and closed her eyes. Walter steeled himself to get it over with as mercifully as possible.
“What kind of love is it to deny a man his sex?”
Her eyes still closed, Sharlie said hoarsely, “We’ll work it out.”
“You going to hire a live-in mistress? Who gets to have his babies, the hired help?”
Sharlie stood up and held onto the back of her chair with stiff arms. Her skin had turned pale gray now, and she breathed unsteadily. But Walter couldn’t stop.
“He thinks he cares for you. Well, don’t delude yourself. Before you can say, ‘Here comes the bride,’ three times, he’s going to hate your guts.”
Margaret rose, reaching out her hand just as Sharlie gave a little sigh and crumpled onto the floor. Walter bolted to his feet, but by the time he reached Sharlie’s unconscious body, Margaret was kneeling beside her. As Walter leaned over to lift up his daughter, Margaret struck fiercely at his arm. Stunned, he recoiled, and she spat out at him, “If … you … touch … her…”
Walter stood for a moment, his massive head bent, his shoulders sagging, watching Margaret murmur softly, as she stroked Sharlie’s masklike face. Then he strode to the telephone to call for the ambulance.
Chapter 19
Mary MacDonald picked up the cold wrist for the third time in twenty minutes. Goddamn Diller, son of a bitch prima donna, she thought, as the taps beneath her fingers beat frantically—the panicked feet of millions of tiny lemmings scurrying to the cliffs by the sea.
Come on, MacDonald, come on, she chided herself, tucking the arm between the crisp sheets and smoothing her uniform. She stared down at the still, gray face.
“Sharlie, my sweet, you’re in big trouble this time, aren’t you? And where’s that goddamn Diller?”
It had been two hours since the ambulance brought her in, and still the girl hadn’t recovered consciousness. MacDonald hadn’t even recognized her, the color was so bad. Features change as death approaches, and the subtle transformation had already begun by the time they hooked her up in ICU.
Another miracle for modern science, MacDonald thought grimly. We doing you a favor, girl? She stroked the lank hair, placing it gently behind Sharlie’s ears.
“What’s her CVP?” said a calm voice next to her shoulder, and MacDonald wheeled around, embarrassed at being caught in such an attitude of unprofessional tenderness. Diller was running his eyes down Sharlie’s chart.
“Fifteen,” she replied, frowning at the young woman standing beside Diller. Different face, same body—immense breasts, slim hips, legs that began at the armpits. Diller caught the look.
“MacDonald, Miss Nobring,” he said with elaborate formality. “Mac’s the best diagnostician in Cardiology. If there’s any conflict between her and X ray, trust Mac over the pictures.”
Mary MacDonald ignored his frozen smile and nodded brusquely at Sharlie. “We’re losing her,” she said. You exhibitionistic, egocentric medical-matinee-idol asshole.
“Where’re the parents?”
“Getting coffee.”
“I want to see them the minute they show up.”
“They’re pretty eager to see you, too,” Mary said acidly. Where have you been while my Sharlie lies dying?
Diller gave her a cool smile, taking Miss Nobring under the shapely arm. “I’ll be in my office,” he said, and ushered Miss Nobring out.
Yes, and you’ll keep your door locked for half an hour, too, won’t you, doctor? Mary thought. Let’s just hope nobody needs you before you’re finished.
She looked down at her patient again, the slim body insubstantial, as if there were no one in the bed at all, just a crease in the sheet. Nothing to be done, Mary thought with an unfamiliar sense of panic. Usually she felt resigned when losing a cardiac patient. In fact, her recent lack of sorrow had begun to concern her, and she had spoken about it with the priest. After twenty-eight years of hospital work, had she become cold-hearted at last, another Carlton Diller? Herd ‘em off the ambulance, hook ‘em up to the machines, stick a dozen needles in their veins, and if they make it, shake their hands and ship ‘em out. If they don’t, well, that’s the breaks. I did what I could.
But when Charlotte Converse was born, Mary MacDonald was just beginning in Pediatrics. The young nurse had held the frail infant and prayed for her to survive. In those days she hadn’t been cold-hearted. Too much the other way, in fact, so that sometimes her compassion got in the way of her judgment, so that one time …
She shook her head to clear it of ugly memories. No use crying over spilled milk, not when there were living people in her charge.
Sharlie stirred and opened her eyes just a slit, wincing at the glaring light of ICU. Mary leaned over her.
“Eyelashes about half-mast. Not bad, but you can do better.”
Sharlie tried to make a face at her, and Mary was nearly overcome by the urge to grab the girl’s thin shoulders and hold her close to her own substantial breast. Instead, she said gruffly, “Cut the comedy, Converse. Save your strength for the second act.”
“I hope a comedy,” Sharlie whispered.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, girl, did we ever let you down?”
Sharlie shook her head and closed her eyes wearily. Mary picked up the thin wrist again, checking the monitor to confirm what her fingers told her. Then, as she started to place Sharlie’s hand back under the sheet, she felt resistance, the fingers clinging. Mary bent down close to Sharlie’s face.
“Let me go, Mary,” Sharlie whispered.
Mary stiffened and stared into the face that seemed old and twisted by suffering. “Bullshit,” she replied.
Sharlie moved her head weakly back and forth on the pillow. “No more.”
Mary couldn’t find words, so she smoothed Sharlie’s hair, letting her hands linger on the hollow curve of her cheek. She waited until sleep came, then stalked out of ICU with clenched jaw. The aides who saw her marching down the hall were quick to move out of the way.
Chapter 20
Anderson Carlton Diller stood in his office, glaring at the X rays of Charlotte Converse’s heart. They hadn’t done the angiogram yet, but all preliminary tests indicated disaster. Goddammit, why couldn’t she have some nice, neat little obstruction? He’d perform a triple bypass, impress the hell out of everybody, and get Walter Converse to finance his artificial-heart research unit. If he only had the facilities, he could perform every kind of operation right here instead of sending everybody off to Houston or California.
But this, he said to himself, snapping off the light-box in disgust. What a mess.
He sat down behind his desk and stretched his feet out on top of the cluttered surface. He contemplated the soft leather of his new Italian loafers sourly. Scuff mark already.
Converse would be in here any second, breathing condescension, outrage, and potential hundred-dollar bills. How much longer could Diller keep that kid of his alive? She’d outfoxed the statistics as it was. If he could just convince the guy he’d done a superhuman job on his little girl, then when she went, maybe he’d fork over. In her memory, of course. They’d call it the Charlotte Converse Memorial Heart Research Institute. Catchy.
The office door opened as the desk buzzer sounded. Diller reached for his intercom, but Walter was already halfway across the room. With some ceremony—just who the hell did Converse think he was anyway, there could have been a consultation going on in here—Diller elaborately replaced the receiver and rose. The mousy Converse wife trailed behind. Great body for a woman her age, and some class, but as far as personality was concerned, a mere puff of smoke from her husband’s cigar.
“Diller …” Walter stuck out a hand, and the surgeon took it. Diller wondered how the huge square fingers got so rough, like a farmer’s. His own were soft and smooth and pale. He lived in continual fear of damaging them and wore gloves as often as he thought he
could get away with it. He’d read somewhere about a famous pianist who wore gloves all the time, indoors and out. Diller sympathized—anything to keep the artistry from leaking out—still the guy went a little too far, wrapping himself up in scarves like a madman.
Diller gestured for them to sit, and though Margaret plunked herself down immediately, Walter continued to stand. Diller decided the man had difficulty compressing all his energy into a chair and thought he’d better stay on his feet himself if he were to maintain a vestige of authority. He arranged his face into an expression of guarded concern.
“It’s not good this time,” he said quietly.
Walter replied impatiently, “I know it’s not good. Obviously it’s not good. Question is, what do we do about it?”
Diller glanced briefly at Margaret, who sat stone-faced, not really focusing on anything. He wondered if perhaps she were in shock.
“We have to see the angiogram. Then we’ll have a better idea what’s going on.”
Walter strode to the lightbox, snapped it on, and said tersely, “That hers?” Diller nodded. Walter stared at the picture in silence. Then he said, “What’s an angiogram going to show that we don’t know already?”
Diller and Margaret were silent, and Walter sat down, almost slumped into the chair. Diller, taking advantage of towering over Walter Converse, put his hands on his hips and pushed back his white jacket to reveal a tailored pale-blue shirt monogrammed with the initials A.C.D. “It’ll show us the exact position of the blockage.”
