man, mid-fifties, who’d been unconscious for forty-eight hours following a stroke. He’d spent a month in the hospital, slowly recovering. Then came the day to leave. He’d carefully dressed himself and said goodbye to the nurses. As he’d walked haltingly out into the main hall, he’d turned, stopped, and said: “I think I’m going to die now.” He’d dropped on the spot.
The silence of the room was broken by the faint sound of barrel-organ music, borne on the wind and distorted by it. Sitting at the table smoking, I could see the lower half of the man’s body on the bed, or at least the shape of it underthe blankets, looming in the half-light. I remembered helping him out of the Stevens Institute. It felt choreographed now, the way it had all happened, the way the cab had turned up at the exact instant I’d needed it. I’d said to the man: “I’ll help you.”
I smoked one cigarette after another until I finished the packet. I stared at the matchbook and suddenly a fantasy I’d once entertained after Abby had left came back—of her being murdered, and me hunting down the murderer. The perfect fantasy, allowing my ultimate revenge on her, and then saving her as well.
I finally forced myself to go back and check on him. I did a reflex test, got him to murmur again. I persuaded myself that he’d come out of it well enough, without further intervention. Could I trust my own judgment, though? Wasn’t it a little too convenient to think that nothing needed to be done? The sound of the ringing phone tore through the morning, pulling me out of my self-absorption. I waited for it to stop, but it rang on and on until I could bear it no more and I picked up the receiver.
“Dr. Manne?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Mrs. Esterhazy here. Excuse me for calling you at home. But I went to pick up my husband from the hospital this morning. They told me you’d taken him away, last night.”
“How did you get my number?”
“They gave it to me, at the hospital. They told me to call you.”
“I see. Yes, he’s under my care at the moment.”
“Where is he, Doctor? When can I see him? When can he come home?”
“Where are you? Are you still at the hospital?”
“No. I’m at home.”
“Downtown? Where we met before?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask you a question? When did you last see your husband?”
“I visited him yesterday afternoon. At the hospital. That’s when they told me he could leave today.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I … Of course I’m sure.”
“Will you be at home for the next hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be over right away. We have to talk.”
I put down the receiver, but then immediately picked it up again, and dialed my office number.
“Miss Stearn. I’m afraid I’m still unwell. I won’t be coming in today. Could you please cancel my appointments for the day?”
I could hear the surprise and uncertainty in her voice as she replied. It was true that in the two or three years she’d worked for me, I hadn’t so much as taken an afternoon off, not until last Friday. But her astonishment somehow goaded me on, and without having quite thought it through, I heard myself continuing, “In fact, my doctor told me that what I need is complete rest. I think it would be for the best if you canceled my appointments for the next two weeks. As it is, I don’t think I have much scheduled after the current week.”
“Yes, but … of course, but … what will I do, Doctor? I mean, while you’re not here?”
“This week, I’m sure there are administrative duties to keep you occupied. Next week … didn’t you say something about a wedding in California? Your sister or something?”
“You told me you couldn’t give me the time off.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Take a week’s paid leave.”
I showered and dressed in minutes, in a daze. So that was it. I’d told my secretary I was off for two weeks, but the factwas that I’d finished with my
The silence of the room was broken by the faint sound of barrel-organ music, borne on the wind and distorted by it. Sitting at the table smoking, I could see the lower half of the man’s body on the bed, or at least the shape of it underthe blankets, looming in the half-light. I remembered helping him out of the Stevens Institute. It felt choreographed now, the way it had all happened, the way the cab had turned up at the exact instant I’d needed it. I’d said to the man: “I’ll help you.”
I smoked one cigarette after another until I finished the packet. I stared at the matchbook and suddenly a fantasy I’d once entertained after Abby had left came back—of her being murdered, and me hunting down the murderer. The perfect fantasy, allowing my ultimate revenge on her, and then saving her as well.
I finally forced myself to go back and check on him. I did a reflex test, got him to murmur again. I persuaded myself that he’d come out of it well enough, without further intervention. Could I trust my own judgment, though? Wasn’t it a little too convenient to think that nothing needed to be done? The sound of the ringing phone tore through the morning, pulling me out of my self-absorption. I waited for it to stop, but it rang on and on until I could bear it no more and I picked up the receiver.
“Dr. Manne?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Mrs. Esterhazy here. Excuse me for calling you at home. But I went to pick up my husband from the hospital this morning. They told me you’d taken him away, last night.”
“How did you get my number?”
“They gave it to me, at the hospital. They told me to call you.”
“I see. Yes, he’s under my care at the moment.”
“Where is he, Doctor? When can I see him? When can he come home?”
“Where are you? Are you still at the hospital?”
“No. I’m at home.”
“Downtown? Where we met before?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask you a question? When did you last see your husband?”
“I visited him yesterday afternoon. At the hospital. That’s when they told me he could leave today.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I … Of course I’m sure.”
“Will you be at home for the next hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be over right away. We have to talk.”
I put down the receiver, but then immediately picked it up again, and dialed my office number.
“Miss Stearn. I’m afraid I’m still unwell. I won’t be coming in today. Could you please cancel my appointments for the day?”
I could hear the surprise and uncertainty in her voice as she replied. It was true that in the two or three years she’d worked for me, I hadn’t so much as taken an afternoon off, not until last Friday. But her astonishment somehow goaded me on, and without having quite thought it through, I heard myself continuing, “In fact, my doctor told me that what I need is complete rest. I think it would be for the best if you canceled my appointments for the next two weeks. As it is, I don’t think I have much scheduled after the current week.”
“Yes, but … of course, but … what will I do, Doctor? I mean, while you’re not here?”
“This week, I’m sure there are administrative duties to keep you occupied. Next week … didn’t you say something about a wedding in California? Your sister or something?”
“You told me you couldn’t give me the time off.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Take a week’s paid leave.”
I showered and dressed in minutes, in a daze. So that was it. I’d told my secretary I was off for two weeks, but the factwas that I’d finished with my
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