occurred,” he said, his voice tormented. I wished, in vain of course, that I could, by closing my eyes, shut away the entire scene.
“She was tired,” Max said. “I insisted that she stay at home. She wouldn’t hear of it. She had to be on stage with me. Helping me. Supporting me.
For God’s sake, stop the self-torture!
I thought.
Max stopped and leaned against the frame of the picture window, breath erratic as he looked out toward the gazebo. “Getting dark,” he said. “A storm is coming.”
He turned from the window, his expression rigid as though to hold away the pain.
“It was too much for her,” he said, beginning to pace again, weaving now. (I stared at him in anguish.) “She misjudged. She didn’t move quite fast enough. A piece of heavy equipment fell.”
He stopped, throwing a hand across his eyes as though to blot away the memory of that hideous night.
“My wife,” he murmured brokenly. “Our child.” He threw back his head. “All in one dread moment!”
He clenched his teeth, pushing his left hand to his stomach.
“Max,”
said Harry.
Max paid no attention to him. Hand pressed hard against his stomach, features set in a grimace of pain, he began to pace again.
I can’t bear this
, I thought.
“She’s been dead for twelve years now,” he said. “Yet still I love her—only her. My darling and my angel. There’s never been another like her. There never could be;
never.”
With a breathless cry of pain, he fell toward one of the chairs, hands shooting down to brake himself on the chair back.
He struggled to a standing position as Harry ran over, a look of hapless dread on his face. Max reached out a trembling hand to pat him weakly on the arm.
“This is the best way out … old friend,” he mumbled, sounding very weak.
It’s not the best way out for me
, my mind screamed, half in terror, half in rage.
“It’s not only Adelaide who’s gone,” Max continued. He drew in a straining breath. “Everything is gone—you know that as well as I.”
I’m not gone!
I thought.
I may be useless, but I’m still around!
Max groaned and clenched his teeth again, hand pressed to his stomach. “God,” he murmured.
He forced a smile; there was no amusement in it. “Yes, everything is gone,” he said. “My hands, my eyes, my ears, my marriage, my career.” He paused. “And now my life,” he finished.
I’m
not gone. Sonny
, my thought, admittedly, one of wretchedness.
With a brief, hollow cry, Max dropped to his knees beside the chair, twisting in a paroxysm of pain, eyes staring, face a mask of agony.
Harry managed to help him into the chair, and Max slumped back, his breathing labored. “God,” he said again. He began to gag, unable to breath. His mouth opened, and his tongue lolled out for several moments.
Then, with a wheezing moan, his body convulsed, jerked a few times, and went limp, his eyes falling shut.
chapter 9
I felt my heartbeat thudding heavily, an old drum in the cavity of my chest, beaten with a slow and weary stroke. I wondered why it hadn’t split in two.
Harry gaped in silence at my son. Finally, he spoke.
“Jesus,” he said. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus H. Christ.”
Bending over, he pressed his right ear to Max’s chest, listening intently, trying to hold his shaking breath long enough to hear the beat of Max’s heart—or, more likely, the absence of it.
Which is what he heard; nothing.
He jerked erect and looked at Max in shock.
Then—incredibly—in
fury
.
Spewing out words which, to my dying day, will typify the man for me.
“You lousy son of a bitch,” he said. “Now I’ll
never
get to Boston by tonight.”
The shriek of horror he emitted was that of a woman as Max leaped up, eyes wide and glaring, and grabbed him by the arms.
Harry tore loose from Max’s grip and, losing balance, flopped down on the carpeting.
Sprawling there, breath barely functioning, he gaped up at my son.
“Surprise!”
said Max.
Silence then as Max
“She was tired,” Max said. “I insisted that she stay at home. She wouldn’t hear of it. She had to be on stage with me. Helping me. Supporting me.
For God’s sake, stop the self-torture!
I thought.
Max stopped and leaned against the frame of the picture window, breath erratic as he looked out toward the gazebo. “Getting dark,” he said. “A storm is coming.”
He turned from the window, his expression rigid as though to hold away the pain.
“It was too much for her,” he said, beginning to pace again, weaving now. (I stared at him in anguish.) “She misjudged. She didn’t move quite fast enough. A piece of heavy equipment fell.”
He stopped, throwing a hand across his eyes as though to blot away the memory of that hideous night.
“My wife,” he murmured brokenly. “Our child.” He threw back his head. “All in one dread moment!”
He clenched his teeth, pushing his left hand to his stomach.
“Max,”
said Harry.
Max paid no attention to him. Hand pressed hard against his stomach, features set in a grimace of pain, he began to pace again.
I can’t bear this
, I thought.
“She’s been dead for twelve years now,” he said. “Yet still I love her—only her. My darling and my angel. There’s never been another like her. There never could be;
never.”
With a breathless cry of pain, he fell toward one of the chairs, hands shooting down to brake himself on the chair back.
He struggled to a standing position as Harry ran over, a look of hapless dread on his face. Max reached out a trembling hand to pat him weakly on the arm.
“This is the best way out … old friend,” he mumbled, sounding very weak.
It’s not the best way out for me
, my mind screamed, half in terror, half in rage.
“It’s not only Adelaide who’s gone,” Max continued. He drew in a straining breath. “Everything is gone—you know that as well as I.”
I’m not gone!
I thought.
I may be useless, but I’m still around!
Max groaned and clenched his teeth again, hand pressed to his stomach. “God,” he murmured.
He forced a smile; there was no amusement in it. “Yes, everything is gone,” he said. “My hands, my eyes, my ears, my marriage, my career.” He paused. “And now my life,” he finished.
I’m
not gone. Sonny
, my thought, admittedly, one of wretchedness.
With a brief, hollow cry, Max dropped to his knees beside the chair, twisting in a paroxysm of pain, eyes staring, face a mask of agony.
Harry managed to help him into the chair, and Max slumped back, his breathing labored. “God,” he said again. He began to gag, unable to breath. His mouth opened, and his tongue lolled out for several moments.
Then, with a wheezing moan, his body convulsed, jerked a few times, and went limp, his eyes falling shut.
chapter 9
I felt my heartbeat thudding heavily, an old drum in the cavity of my chest, beaten with a slow and weary stroke. I wondered why it hadn’t split in two.
Harry gaped in silence at my son. Finally, he spoke.
“Jesus,” he said. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus H. Christ.”
Bending over, he pressed his right ear to Max’s chest, listening intently, trying to hold his shaking breath long enough to hear the beat of Max’s heart—or, more likely, the absence of it.
Which is what he heard; nothing.
He jerked erect and looked at Max in shock.
Then—incredibly—in
fury
.
Spewing out words which, to my dying day, will typify the man for me.
“You lousy son of a bitch,” he said. “Now I’ll
never
get to Boston by tonight.”
The shriek of horror he emitted was that of a woman as Max leaped up, eyes wide and glaring, and grabbed him by the arms.
Harry tore loose from Max’s grip and, losing balance, flopped down on the carpeting.
Sprawling there, breath barely functioning, he gaped up at my son.
“Surprise!”
said Max.
Silence then as Max
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