glitter of gold and jewels in the "Art Treasures of Ancient Turkey" exhibit, and all the reading hadn't been sternly informational. They'd liked sharing detective stories—Arthur Crook, Nero Wolfe, Miss Marple, characters he wouldn't read about again because they wouldn't speak the same without Rod's voice. He read well. If he hadn't been so nelly he'd have made a fine actor. But it hadn't been possible to school out of him all the femininity. Dave had tried. So had Rod. The affectations went, but what underlay them was ingrained. Real. Himself. Dave gave up trying after a while. Age took care of it to some extent. Death took care of it completely.
No. That was how he mustn't think. Tears came hot into his eyes. He got up and walked the room. Remember something else. For God's sake, forget about the dying. Remember the trip to Oak Canyon, the cabin in the woods, making love by the light of crackling pine logs, waking in the morning to see out the window the whole landscape snowmuffled, white, white. . . . The glinting crystal chandeliers and mirrors of the Music Center. Nureyev leaping in a shaft of golden light . . . The glow of pride when Rod was able to open that first small shop of his, the chaste blackand- gold sign above the white fanlit door: R. FLEMING, INTERIORS . . . The sun-bright Easter morning they'd wakened to find that Tatiana, their fat, striped, indignant old cat (Rod called her Tatty Anna) had presented them with six striped kittens at the foot of the bed . . . The turning, twinkling, tremendous Christmas tree in that Greek Theatre production of The Nutcracker one warm, midsummer night . . . Rod's shout of triumphant laughter at the news that he'd been chosen to decorate all the apartments of a new building towering among the fountains of Century City . . . The bulging eyes of the supermarket cashier when he saw the shopping cart full of champagne and oysters, caviar and pate they'd bought the day the first fantastic check arrived . . . Remember those things. . . .
But he kept remembering instead the eerily whispering corridors of the hospital late that last night, the smells of the hospital, kept seeing sharp and photographic his own feet in their scuffed brown loafers, pacing up and down, up and down, hour after hour, outside the door of the room where Rod's cut and gutted body lay mindless with drugs but still feeding, feeding the spreading, burgeoning red horror that would not die until it killed the thing it fed on. . . .
And he knew he'd never sleep tonight. He got the pint of Old Crow from his suitcase, poured steeply from it into the clear plastic bathroom glass, added a twist of tap water, then took from the dresser top Fox Olson's scripts, and got into bed. Not soon, but sooner than he would have thought, he began to laugh.
7
He even slept. Knocking woke him. He still sat propped against thin pillows and a hard headboard. His neck and shoulders ached. Th'e scripts had slid off his knees. Now, when he straightened his stiff legs under the thin, machine-made Indian-style blankets, the scripts slithered to the floor. The lamp glowed sickly in the daylight. Wincing, he switched it off. In the glass that wasn't glass the dregs of whiskey lurked like a neglected friendship. He made a sound, cleared his throat, tried again.
"Who is it?"
"Coffee, Mr. Brandstetter."
"Good." He wanted that. He flapped into the bathrobe. Under his feet the floor felt clammy. He opened the door. Beyond the heavy white arches the rain-drenched leafage of the patio garden sparkled in sunlight. He squinted. Between him and the dazzle, a young Japanese smiled and held out a black tray painted with Mexican flowers and birds. On the tray steamed a painted pottery jug. There was a cup to match, a spoon, packets of sugar and powdered cream. Dave didn't take the tray. He said, "Your name's Ito, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
Dave jerked his head. "Come in. I want to talk to you." The boy came in and put the tray down
No. That was how he mustn't think. Tears came hot into his eyes. He got up and walked the room. Remember something else. For God's sake, forget about the dying. Remember the trip to Oak Canyon, the cabin in the woods, making love by the light of crackling pine logs, waking in the morning to see out the window the whole landscape snowmuffled, white, white. . . . The glinting crystal chandeliers and mirrors of the Music Center. Nureyev leaping in a shaft of golden light . . . The glow of pride when Rod was able to open that first small shop of his, the chaste blackand- gold sign above the white fanlit door: R. FLEMING, INTERIORS . . . The sun-bright Easter morning they'd wakened to find that Tatiana, their fat, striped, indignant old cat (Rod called her Tatty Anna) had presented them with six striped kittens at the foot of the bed . . . The turning, twinkling, tremendous Christmas tree in that Greek Theatre production of The Nutcracker one warm, midsummer night . . . Rod's shout of triumphant laughter at the news that he'd been chosen to decorate all the apartments of a new building towering among the fountains of Century City . . . The bulging eyes of the supermarket cashier when he saw the shopping cart full of champagne and oysters, caviar and pate they'd bought the day the first fantastic check arrived . . . Remember those things. . . .
But he kept remembering instead the eerily whispering corridors of the hospital late that last night, the smells of the hospital, kept seeing sharp and photographic his own feet in their scuffed brown loafers, pacing up and down, up and down, hour after hour, outside the door of the room where Rod's cut and gutted body lay mindless with drugs but still feeding, feeding the spreading, burgeoning red horror that would not die until it killed the thing it fed on. . . .
And he knew he'd never sleep tonight. He got the pint of Old Crow from his suitcase, poured steeply from it into the clear plastic bathroom glass, added a twist of tap water, then took from the dresser top Fox Olson's scripts, and got into bed. Not soon, but sooner than he would have thought, he began to laugh.
7
He even slept. Knocking woke him. He still sat propped against thin pillows and a hard headboard. His neck and shoulders ached. Th'e scripts had slid off his knees. Now, when he straightened his stiff legs under the thin, machine-made Indian-style blankets, the scripts slithered to the floor. The lamp glowed sickly in the daylight. Wincing, he switched it off. In the glass that wasn't glass the dregs of whiskey lurked like a neglected friendship. He made a sound, cleared his throat, tried again.
"Who is it?"
"Coffee, Mr. Brandstetter."
"Good." He wanted that. He flapped into the bathrobe. Under his feet the floor felt clammy. He opened the door. Beyond the heavy white arches the rain-drenched leafage of the patio garden sparkled in sunlight. He squinted. Between him and the dazzle, a young Japanese smiled and held out a black tray painted with Mexican flowers and birds. On the tray steamed a painted pottery jug. There was a cup to match, a spoon, packets of sugar and powdered cream. Dave didn't take the tray. He said, "Your name's Ito, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
Dave jerked his head. "Come in. I want to talk to you." The boy came in and put the tray down
Similar Books
