by Louis Begley
The thirty minutes she had stipulated for the second round must have passed, because the waiter came back with the daiquiris, which he set down on their tray on the night table beside her. She told him that was perfect and started to say she wanted another round, but I interrupted and told him we’d call if we needed anything.
You can’t imagine what it was like to live with him, she continued, or what he tried to make me do. Stuff you’d do when your sex life is dead. I won’t go into it. Not with you. You’ve been away from home so much, and now you’re a stranger, a tall dark stranger.
I didn’t say anything. She laughed and said, I bet you don’t even know what I’m talking about.
I answered that I realized that there had been difficult moments.
Oh that, she said, that wasn’t what I meant, but that too. He insisted on believing the stuff about all the men I’d gone with. He’d keep hammering at it. I don’t see why. There was always plenty there for him, for him and his weird ideas.
We sat for a while in silence. When there was nothing left in her glass she sat up, reached for the other daiquiri, and said, Here, sit down here with me and have a sip. It won’t go to your head.
I told her I really didn’t want it. All right, she said, come over here anyway.
When I did, she put her arm around me and in the same motion bit me on the ear.
Tasty, she said. She downed her drink, plumped up her pillows, and lay back.
I remained on the bed for a moment and then moved back to my desk chair.
You were right, she said, to tell me to call May Standish. There’s an opening at Riggs for a receptionist-librarian. I told May I’d take it. Some of the doctors and patients seem very interesting.
I said I was very glad.
I thought I’d start two weeks after I return. That will give me time to clear out your father’s clothes. I don’t think you want any of them. You already have his raccoon, and everything else would just hang on you. I’ll have the Salvation Army take them away. Once I’ve settled in at Riggs, I’ll look around. None of the old crowd, don’t worry, but I can’t be alone all the time. You won’t mind, tall dark stranger, will you?
I shook my head and said I understood. I had been looking at her carefully while she talked. She had one of those astonishing metabolisms: no matter what she ate and drank, she never gained a pound. Yet there seemed to be a slight new pudginess in her face.
It’s really all right, I repeated, but you should watch the daiquiris and the martinis. They could spoil your looks.
Good advice, she answered. But I don’t intend to waste time.
XXII
IN EXCHANGE FOR a small amount of key money, the super eased my way into a rent-controlled apartment on East Thirty-sixth Street between Lexington and Park. Three months in the sublet down the block, where I had been living since my move from Cambridge, had convinced me that I loathed Murray Hill. However, my rent for a large two-bedroom apartment was about one-third that of the furnished studio, and, based on the Times classifieds, I didn’t think I could do as well anywhere in Manhattan unless I was willing to live in Harlem or on the Lower East Side. There was one incidental benefit to my location: Dr. Kalman, the New York colleague to whom Dr. Reiner had referred me, was only two blocks away, across the street from the Union League Club. It took me five minutes to get to my appointments. The publication of my book, scheduled for mid-November, was still a month away, but galleys had been sent to reviewers long since and, according to my editor, the first signs were favorable. He thought that I might be interviewed by the Times and the Herald Tribune. In the meantime, following his advice, I was trying to stay busy and keep my mind on other things. I began a new novel and bought furniture for my apartment. I was heading out the door one evening, on my way to the Indian restaurant around the corner, when the telephone rang. Before the man on the other end had finished asking for me, I recognized the voice. It was Henry’s father. I said, Hello, Mr. White, is something the matter?
It must have required a huge effort for him to call me. He didn’t allow himself to be interrupted and went through the business of introducing himself before he answered my question. Yes, there was something the matter: Mrs. White. Could I come over right away? He gave me the name and address of Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn and told me how to get there on the IRT. They were in the emergency room. On second thought, maybe I could take a taxi; it would be much quicker at this hour. He’d pay the fare. I hailed a taxi at the street corner. The driver didn’t know Brooklyn, but in the end, after stopping at gas stations twice to ask directions, he found the hospital, which stood in a dilapidated neighborhood off some wide boulevard. The nurse at the emergency room desk told me that Mrs. White had been moved to intensive care. I could look for her husband in the corridor outside the unit. That’s where I found him alone in a chair. The others there seemed to be in family groups.
He got up and put his arms around me. I realized that he was trembling and asked what had happened.
I don’t know where Henry is, he said. I thought I could talk to you. She’s killed herself.
I pulled up a chair next to his, and little by little, while we waited for news, he told me that some two weeks earlier, during one of Mrs. White’s conversations with Henry—he called her twice a week, collect—she learned that he had applied for ten days’ leave. Then you will come home for the holidays, she almost shouted. She told Mr. White later that she thought she’d faint at the thought she would have him at home for Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. Henry replied that it was impossible. He had already made plans involving other people—some friends—he was going to Ghent, Amsterdam, and Delft. You know how mothers are, Mr. White continued, you know my wife, she argued with him, and he hung up. Hung up on his own mother! She even tried to call him back, but it was no use; he was calling from a pay phone. I didn’t know what to do with her when I got home. She looked sick and kept saying that she would throw herself under the subway and asking me to call Henry.
That sort of threat when she was very upset was nothing new, but all the same he tried to reach his son perhaps four times in the next two days, to make him call his mother and tell her he was sorry. Show her a little affection. Each time the soldier who answered the telephone said that he wasn’t there, and could he take a message. Not being able to get through to Henry was nothing new as well, and in any case he was supposed to call home in two more days. When he didn’t, Mrs. White, without telling her husband, sent him a telegram saying: “Parents sick telephone immediately.” He called the next day, late at night this time, when Mr. White was at home, so he heard her say that his father hadn’t had a heart attack, but no, she couldn’t tell him how his father was, and so on. Then they really fought, and Henry hung up on his mother again. The next day it was she who called Fontainebleau and asked for Henry, saying it was a medical emergency. She was put through to a sergeant who said he was sorry but Specialist White had gone on leave. He checked with someone while she waited and finally came back to tell her that no one in the orderly room knew how her son could be reached.
Somehow they got through Rosh Hashanah, and on the second night of the holiday even had to dinner two couples they had known in Krakow before the war. But the next day, when he came home from the factory, he found a note on the carpet in the front hall.
Here, he said, drawing out a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, which he smoothed and handed to me.
I looked at the writing and reminded Mr. White that it was in Polish.
Excuse me, he said. My wife says goodbye and asks me to remind Henry that this day is the anniversary of the day she last saw her parents, as they were leaving for Zakopane. Excuse me, he said again, and began to sob.
I hugged him again, patting his back. He calmed himself enough to continue his story and said that he rushed into the bedroom and found her on the bed in her nightgown, her mouth wide open, her legs splayed wide. When he touched her, she was cold. He couldn’t feel a pulse. A doctor
who has an office two blocks away came over at once, although they weren’t his patients; he examined her and said he was very sorry; there was no heartbeat or any other vital sign. Then he pointed to Mrs. White’s arm, which was hanging down to the floor, got down on his knees, and peered under the bed just where her hand touched the carpet.
Here it is, he said, straightening up. It’s empty. Seconal. Do you know how many she had? When Mr. White said he didn’t, the doctor shook his head and told him that he couldn’t certify the cause of death since he had not had Mrs. White as a patient. Mr. White had better call the police. It took them more than twenty minutes to arrive, by which time the doctor had left. Two policemen and two medics. One of the cops looked around and said, Suicide. Did she leave a letter or anything like that? While Mr. White was explaining that he had found the letter in Polish, he saw that one of the medics was pounding his wife’s chest while the other one, having filled a syringe, was holding it up to clear the air out of it.
She isn’t dead, he said. I’m going to give her Adrenalin. Let’s get her out of here.
They told him they were going to Kings County Hospital, and he followed in his car. That was almost three hours ago. After they had pumped out her stomach in the emergency room, the doctor who was working on her said that she was in a deep coma but alive. That’s when they took her to intensive care.
I didn’t know what to say to comfort him, or what I should do next, so I asked whether he would like coffee and a sandwich or a doughnut from the hospital cafeteria. At first he insisted that he couldn’t touch a thing; when I pointed out that he really had a duty to keep his strength up, he agreed to coffee with cream and a lot of sugar.
I returned with the food. Mr. White drank the coffee in a gulp, wolfed down a cheese sandwich, and fell asleep. He didn’t lean his head on my shoulder or slump forward; he sat perfectly upright in the chair, eyes closed, and snored. An occasional especially raucous snort would wake him. He’d open his eyes, shiver uncontrollably, and go back to sleep, murmuring something in Polish. At last, at about half past ten, a nurse came out of intensive care, but it was only to announce that everybody in the corridor had to clear out by eleven. I got up and asked softly, so as not to wake Mr. White, how Mrs. White was doing. Are you the family? she inquired. That’s the husband, I told her. Then just wait, the doctor will be out to speak with you. I’ll say you’re here. I shook Mr. White awake and told him the doctor was coming.
Your wife, the doctor said, has done quite a job on herself. We’ve got her breathing and hydrated. The question is whether she’ll start coming out or slip back. I don’t know yet. You and your son should go home now. Anyway, you can’t stay here. We have your telephone number, and I’ll call you if anything happens during the night. Otherwise you can check in by phone in the morning or, if you like, you can come over.
It wasn’t easy to get Mr. White away from that corridor, but I finally did, explaining over and over that no one would bend the rules and let him see her in the intensive care unit, that there was nothing he could do for his wife except keep his head and stay well himself, and that it was very important to avoid antagonizing the hospital staff. That last argument hit home.
He had left his Chrysler in the hospital parking lot and asked whether I would mind driving. There was a place at Flatbush and Church where we could still get something hot to eat, he told me, if I cared to come. We ate some sort of meatloaf with gravy and mashed potatoes, followed by apple pie and coffee. I wouldn’t have minded a beer, but the place didn’t have a liquor license. He told me how Mrs. White had been through a lot and how her nerves had never recovered from worrying about him and her parents and, of course, from fear for Henry and herself. She’s a good wife, he kept assuring me. Henry should be kinder when he speaks to her, less impatient. He should learn not to be so harsh. You understand what I mean? he asked. I nodded, although I wasn’t completely sure with what I was agreeing: his assessment of Mrs. White’s nervous condition or Henry’s dark side? These didn’t seem to me to be subjects I could discuss with him anyway—certainly not right then. Ten in the morning was the hour of my regular appointment with Dr. Kalman. I asked Mr. White whether he would like me to come to the hospital the next day, in which case I could be there by twelve. I could also come earlier if something happened. He didn’t think so; it would be a waste of time that I should use to write. Were there friends he wanted me to notify? He snapped to attention when he heard that and said no; his wife wouldn’t want anyone to know about this; she wouldn’t forgive him if the word got out. But he would call me if he needed help again and, in any event, would call me regularly to tell me how his wife was doing. As soon as we finished the meal he said I should get some sleep and insisted on putting me into a taxi right outside the restaurant. This time it was I who hugged him. He pressed into my hand a twenty-dollar bill and wouldn’t allow me to give it back.
Mr. White did telephone regularly in the following days. He had tried to reach Henry and had spoken to the company master sergeant only to be told that the best he could do was to give him the message when he returned from leave. For the better part of the week there was no change in Mrs. White’s condition, or none that he could describe, and I began to wonder what he and Henry would do if she remained permanently comatose or emerged from the coma with some sort of mental or physical impairment. Dr. Kalman had told me that such an outcome was very possible if too much time had passed before the medics or the emergency room people were able to get her breathing.
Then she began to improve, quite rapidly, and Mr. White reported triumphantly that she would be as good as new. The final telephone call was to tell me that he had taken her home. They were both all right, he had gotten a nurse to help, and, of course, they had the cleaning lady, but he hoped that I would understand if he didn’t invite me to visit. They weren’t up to it. I told him I was relieved and happy for the whole family. The florist on Lexington Avenue having told me that he could deliver to Brooklyn via Interflor, I sent Mrs. White a dozen red roses. Some weeks later, I received a note of thanks for the roses and my kindness to her husband. She was too ashamed, she wrote, to say more.
Henry didn’t telephone or write to me after his return to duty. I made no effort to reach him either, in part, no doubt, because the appearance of my novel in bookstores—sometimes in bookstore windows I passed—abruptly opened the door to a new and oddly engrossing social life. I was invited to cocktail parties and dinners by hosts I didn’t know; older people with large reputations seemed to take it for granted that I could be found at their friends’ houses and conversed with me as though we were on equal footing. I stopped feeling embarrassed when I was introduced to strangers as a novelist or when people showed something like respect for my opinions.
I had been very anxious about the way my book would be received in the Berkshires, not by my mother, from whom I expected hostile silence or worse, but by people I cared about who would also be able to decipher what lay behind the story I had told. George surprised me. He must have read the novel in one sitting, almost surely a first in his life as a reader. Less than a week after it had been mailed to him, he called, saying he had already bought copies for his girlfriend Edie and the Appleton cousins and wanted to know whether I’d be willing to come and talk about the book and the life of a writer to members of his law school eating club. Then May Standish wrote that she and Cousin Jack wanted to give a cocktail party in honor of their novelist, as she put it, either the day after Christmas or the day before New Year’s Eve, whichever suited me better, although she thought that people would be less frantic and more attentive the day after Christmas. Having discovered that Dr. Kalman would be in Canada skiing from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day, I chose the earlier date. My mother had been strangely insistent that I come for the holiday, and I had told her I would, thinking that, in the worst case, if she attacked me over the book, I would make my appearance at the Standishes’ party, spend the night with them, and the next day take an earl
y train to New York.
At last the letter from my mother arrived. It was brief. After thanking me for the book and the inscription, she wrote: “You must have worked very hard. I hope you do well with it. Mrs. Jennings [that was the Lenox bookstore owner] has told me that a lot of people seem to want to read this kind of novel.” I felt relieved. She must have worked on those two sentences almost as hard as I had on my book, but at least there were no recriminations, nothing about what my father might have thought or said. I answered, confirming my arrival, and told her that I’d be driving. I vaguely recalled her telling me in San Juan that she intended to sell her car and drive my father’s. I didn’t want to depend on her as my chauffeur, and I certainly didn’t want to oblige her to stay at home if I went out alone. I reserved a Hertz rental. As it turned out, I needn’t have gone to the expense. Although she had indeed sold the Buick, she had at her disposal another car as well as a driver.
I knew that she had started at Riggs, but I hadn’t heard that she had quit. And I didn’t know until she told me, when I came down to the kitchen after dropping my bag in my old room, that she had found a boyfriend, in the person of Greg Richardson, a former Riggs patient. She meant former in the sense that he was no longer living in the Center; he was renting the apartment over the Jacksons’ barn and seeing one of the Riggs analysts as an outpatient. For the holidays, however, he was staying with my mother, which was the reason it mattered so much that I had come home. My presence made it more like a real Christmas.
It’s hard for him, she said. He has two daughters, eleven and nine, living with their mother in Darien. She’s an unspeakable woman. He misses those girls terribly. You’ve heard of the Richardsons. It’s old Connecticut money.
Has it trickled down to him? I asked.
Not yet, replied my mother. His father controls all the trusts. He keeps Greg and his younger brother on a very tight leash.
