Far From the Sea

Wednesday

He awakened with a start.

He did not know where he was for a moment. The room came slowly into focus. The air conditioner was humming, the drapes were drawn, only a thin vertical line of sunlight gleamed where the separate halves met. He looked at his watch. Eleven minutes past ten! He had forgotten to leave a wake-up call, had forgotten as well to set the little alarm on his watch.

He got out of bed and went to the drapes. He fumbled in the near-gloom until he found the drawstrings and then yanked the drapes open. Sunlight splashed into the room. He blinked against it. He went to the dresser, took a cigarette from the package there, picked up his lighter, and went into the bathroom. Sitting on the bowl, he lit the cigarette. He sat smoking and peeing. The diarrhea seemed to be gone. Better get cracking, he thought. He tore a piece of toilet tissue from the roll, wiped the end of his penis with it, and then stood up. He threw the cigarette into the bowl and then flushed the toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked about the same as he had yesterday. No more surprises, he thought. For the longest time, whenever he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he’d seen a thirty-seven-year-old man. He had liked being thirty-seven. Now he looked fifty. He would not be fifty till August, but he had stopped thinking of himself as forty-nine on New Year’s Eve.

Naked, he went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He dialed twenty-one for room service and ordered an orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a toasted English muffin. You should eat too, Mrs. Daniels had said. To keep your strength up. Mrs. Daniels, whose husband had just undergone open-heart surgery for the second time and was now refusing to eat. Keep your strength up. He fished in his wallet for the hospital’s number, dialed nine for an outside line, and then dialed the number directly.

“St. Mary’s Hospital,” a woman’s voice said.

“I’d like some information on a patient, please,” he said.

“The patient’s name?”

“Morris Weber.”

“One moment, please.”

He waited.

“Mr. Weber is in critical condition,” the voice said.

“Yes, I know that, but he was supposed to go into surgery this morning, and I wanted to know...”

“One moment, please.”

He waited.

“I have no indication of that, sir.”

“Of what?”

“Of any surgery this morning.”

“Well, is there any way you can check? I simply want to know how the operation...”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing on the computer except that he’s in Intensive Care.”

“Thank you,” David said.

He lit another cigarette, looked for the slip of paper on which he had written Kaplan’s number, and then dialed it. He got the answering service again, a pleasant-voiced woman who said she would give Dr. Kaplan his message and would ask him to call back as soon as possible.

“I want to know how the operation went,” David said.

“Yes, Mr. Weber, I’ll give him that information.”

“Thank you.”

He put the receiver back on the cradle. The phone rang while his hand was still on the receiver, startling him. He picked it up at once.

“Hello?”

“David, it’s me.”

“Hi, Molly.”

“I thought you’d have called by now. I was beginning to get worried.”

“I overslept.”

“How is he?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m waiting for the doctor to call back now.”

“Did you call the hospital?”

“Yes, but their computer doesn’t show anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“About how the operation went.”

“Did you ask if he was in the Recovery Room?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because... honey, the goddamn computer didn’t show anything!”

There was a silence on the line.

“All right,” Molly said, “call me when you know something.”

“I will.” He paused. “Molly, I’m sorry I...”

“I know you’re upset,” she said, and hung up abruptly.

He stared at the receiver. This is the way it started, he thought. On the telephone. This is the way it really started. Now she just hangs up. He slammed down the receiver. The entire phone shook, the bell vibrated. Well, I shouldn’t have yelled at her, he thought. Still, you don’t just hang up that way. In Rockaway that summer, she didn’t hang up. That summer...

He could not wait for morning.

He had spoken to her at midnight and then had lain awake half the night, thinking of her, wondering why she couldn’t have told him last night whether she’d be seeing him tonight; was she waiting for a call from the guy who’d dated her, was she hedging her bets, playing one off against the other? The sheets were sticky. Even naked, he was hot.

There were two beds in the basement room he was renting with the dental student who was never there. There was a paisley-printed curtain hanging over the small window; it tinted the sunlight red and stained the bed. The phone was beside the bed, between his bed and the one the dental student never slept in. There was a big dental chart on the wall opposite the bed; it showed the position and gave the name of every tooth in the human mouth. David knew the names of all the teeth by heart. It was only eight o’clock; was she still sleeping? He didn’t want to wake her up, but neither did he want to chance missing her. Suppose she was an early riser? Suppose she was already out on the beach, taking the sun; she said she’d be leaving on Sunday, and this was already Wednesday; suppose he missed her?

He reached for the phone.

No, he thought, pulling back his hand, give her another fifteen minutes.

He could hear the ticking of his watch.

In the backyard outside, someone was taking a shower. He heard the person singing in the shower. There was no hot water out there; how could anyone possibly sing so loud in a cold shower? He could not tell whether the person was a man or a woman, the voice was that rotten. Naked, he got out of bed, walked across the room to the thrift-shop dresser, and turned on the small electric fan there. He was still hot. He went back to the bed. It was ten minutes past eight.

He waited.

The person outside stopped singing. He heard the shower being turned off. “Good morning,” he heard a woman chirp. “Good morning,” someone chirped back. He looked at his watch again. In the room upstairs, he heard the floorboards creak. The fat lady who wore the shorts and halter tops. The widow lady. She’d once asked his invisible dental student roommate if he’d like to come in for a cup of coffee. She’d placed her hand on his arm and said, “My coffee is very good, I’m told.” The dental student declined the invitation; he had already met the redheaded dancer he was sleeping with. David was tempted to wander by the fat lady’s room one day, see if she’d invite him in for some of her very good coffee. It had been that kind of summer.

He looked at his watch again.

Two more minutes, he thought.

He started reciting aloud the names of the teeth on the dental chart. He had gone through all of them in the lower jaw when he looked at his watch again. Okay, he thought, here we go. He picked up the slip of paper on which he’d written the phone number for the Seaview Hotel. His hand was shaking when he dialed the number.

“Seaview,” a voice said.

“Miss Regen, please,” he said.

“Who?”

“Molly Regen.”

“Just a second.”

He waited. His heart was pounding.

“Hello?”

God, he’d woken her up!

“Molly?”

“Yes?”

“It’s me. David.”

“What time is it?” she said.

“Eight-fifteen,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. He heard her yawning. “Sorry,” she said. “I was asleep.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry I woke you up.”

“Well, that’s okay.”

“Have you given any thought to tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, I... uh... you remember I asked you if you might like to go out with me tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what do you think?”

“Well, it’s early yet,” she said.

“Are you waiting for another call, is that it?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just don’t like to make decisions so early in the morning. I’m lying here in bed, I just woke up, you woke me up, I don’t like to have to make a decision just yet.”

Goddamn snooty Princess, he thought.

“What are you wearing?” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“A T-shirt,” she said. “And panties.”

“What kind of panties?”

“Bikinis.”

“What color?”

“Blue.”

There was a silence on the line.

“Why don’t you take them off?” he said.

“Okay,” she said, “just a sec.”

He heard the telephone clattering on a hard surface. Jesus! he thought. Jesus, she’s actually taking off her panties! He waited. His heart raced, his heart was going to explode.

“Okay,” she said, “they’re off.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

There was another silence.

“So... uh... what’ve you got on now?” he asked. “Just the T-shirt?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of T-shirt is it?”

“Just a T-shirt. A white T-shirt.”

“Does it have any lettering on it?”

“Yes.”

“What does it say?”

“It says ‘WQXR.’ ”

“You listen to WQXR, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You like classical music, huh?”

“Is that why you asked me take off my panties? To discuss music?”

“Well, no, I...”

There was another silence.

“Are you blond?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I mean...”

“I know what you mean. I’m blond.”

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Just lying here.”

“On your back?”

“Yes.”

“Are your legs spread?”

“No.”

“Spread them.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Are they spread now?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you put your hand down there?”

“Down where?”

“You know. Down there.”

“Tell me where.”

“Between your legs,” he said.

“Where between my legs? Tell me.”

“On your...”

He hesitated, panicking.

“On my what?” she said.

“Your cunt,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

There was another silence, longer this time.

“Are you... did you... are you... is your hand there now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you wet?”

“Yes.” She paused. “What are you wearing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re naked?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Are you on your back?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have an erection?”

“Yes.”

“Is it just sticking up there?”

“Yes.”

“Just sticking up there big and hard?”

“Yes.”

“Grab hold of it,” she said.

He thought in those next ten delirious minutes, he thought, Jesus, this is impossible, she can’t be Jewish! Her image filled his mind, the first glimpse he’d had of her, Molly turning from the sea, materializing in sunlight, stepping out of sunlight, the sea wind lifting her skirt over incredibly long legs, her hand moving to flatten it, that beautiful face with its upturned Irish nose and rampant freckles (but she’s Jewish!), the wide mouth and sea-green eyes, the miracle of her! And imagined her now, as she was now, as they whispered urgently to each other now, visualized her at the Seaview Hotel on a bed in a room he had never seen, conjured her on her back with her legs spread and her hand buried in her crotch (She was using just one finger, she told him, she was getting very wet now), the long slender length of her on a tangled sheet, her blond hair loose on the pillow, her eyes closed (My eyes are closed, she whispered), freckles on her breasts (Do you have freckles on your breasts? he asked. Lots, she said), nipples poking the thin fabric of the white T-shirt (Are your nipples hard? he asked. Very, she said), hard nipples puckering the WQXR (Are they big? he asked. My nipples? she asked. Your tits, he said. They’re ample, she said), saw her writhing on that bed, crisp golden-blond moist cunt hair curling around her frantic fingers (I want to kiss your cunt, he said. Yes, I want you to, she said), his Yiddishe Shiksa, he could not believe what was happening, could not believe he had found her, could not believe the miracle of her (I’m very close, she said, and then without prompting said, Fuck me, David, oh fuck me, David, fuck me!).

So long ago, he thought.

What happened, Molly? What happened to the miracle?

When did we become obsolete?

He went into the bathroom to shower, worrying that he might not hear the phone if Kaplan called.

“I was waiting for you by the Emergency Room,” Bessie said.

“I came in the main entrance,” he said.

“Do you come by taxi?”

“Yes.”

“It’s shorter if they drop you by the Emergency Room.”

“Well,” David said.

“What does it cost, the taxi?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what it costs?”

“Two-fifty, something like that.”

“You should have them drop you by the Emergency Room. It’s shorter.”

David nodded. He did not want to be talking to Bessie about taxi fares; he did not want to be talking to her about anything, in fact. He wanted to know only whether or not his father had survived the operation. They were walking swiftly down the third-floor corridor; or, rather, he was walking swiftly, and Bessie was trying to keep up. He did not want the encumbrance of an old woman at his side. He wanted to get to the nurses’ desk in the Intensive Care Unit and find out how his father was. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eleven. As they passed the open door to the waiting room, he said, “Wait for me here, I’ll be right back.”

He walked directly to the door at the end of the hall and stepped into the unit. He did not think anyone would chastise him for breaking in here five minutes earlier than he was supposed to. Besides, he didn’t care. A strange nurse was standing behind the desk. She looked Oriental. Chinese or Japanese, he couldn’t tell which. Maybe Vietnamese. That was probably it.

“I’m David Weber,” he said. “How’s my father?”

“Fine,” the nurse said, and glanced up at the clock.

“When did he get back from surgery?” David asked.

“He didn’t go to surgery,” the nurse said.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you talked to Dr. Kaplan?”

“No.”

“You’d better talk to Dr. Kaplan.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“He should be here in a little while, he called ten minutes ago. You can talk to him.”

“Where’s my father now?”

“In his room.”

“The same room?”

“Number five,” the nurse said, and nodded.

He went into the room without asking permission. The clock on the wall opposite his father’s bed read four minutes to eleven. His father was staring at the wall. There seemed to be more tubes attached to him, was that possible? A tube running under the sheet, alongside the one that went to the stained bag. Another tube hanging on a stand, the end of it taped to his left arm, the tube on his right arm still feeding him his three thousand calories a day. His father kept staring at the wall.

“Hello, Pop,” he said.

“Yeah, hello,” his father said. “What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“They shaved me, they washed me, they told me I’m going down for an operation, and all of a sudden I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Pop.”

“So who does know?”

“I called Dr. Kaplan early this morning, but he never returned my call.”

“Of course not,” his father said, nodding. “President of the United States.”

“He should be here soon, I’ll find out then.”

“Got me all ready,” his father said, “and then nothing happened.”

“Well, there must be a reason,” David said.

“The reason is they don’t know what they’re doing. Where’s Bessie?”

“Outside.”

“Why isn’t she inside? What’s she doing outside?”

“Pop, I didn’t learn until a minute ago that you didn’t have the operation.”

“They don’t tell you anything around here,” his father said, nodding. “Go get her, would you, please?”

When Bessie came into the room, his father said, “Hello, kiddo.”

“Hello, Morris,” she said, and went to the bed and kissed him on the cheek.

“Did you bring the scissors?” he asked.

“Oh, Morris dear,” she said, “I forgot.”

“My nails are getting like Fu Manchu’s,” his father said. “Many man swallow,” he added, “but fu man chew.”

“He always makes jokes,” Bessie said fondly. “I miss your jokes, Morris, you’d better hurry up and get out of here.”

“Are you still playing cards?” his father asked.

“Every night, Morris. But it’s not the same without you.”

“Nobody to cheat them, huh?”

“You don’t cheat, Morris.”

“I cheat,” he said.

The Vietnamese nurse came in.

“How are you doing, Mr. Weber?” she asked.

“Why’d they call off the operation?” his father said.

“You’ll have to ask Dr. Kaplan.”

“I’m asking you. This is the Dragon Lady,” he said to David. “Bane of my existence. Can’t get a word out of her. Inscrutable.”

The nurse pulled back the sheet.

There was a tube sticking in his father’s penis. They had shaved his pubic hair and the hair on his legs. He looked very white all over. His penis looked tiny, like a boy’s, the tube sticking into its opening, yellow fluid seeping along the tube, bubbling along the tube. David was embarrassed for a moment by the intimacy of the situation, Bessie standing beside the bed as the nurse exposed his father so completely, he himself seeing his father’s genitals for the first time since he was a small boy undressing with him in the locker room at Jones Beach. His father’s penis had looked so huge and threatening then, and he had turned away, somewhat frightened. He turned away now, too, but only because he was suddenly overcome by a wave of grief so keen that it brought quick, hot tears to his eyes. The sight of his father lying there helpless and vulnerable, the nurse checking the tube as if it were attached not to his father’s very masculinity but to some machine instead, as impersonal as any of the machines around—

“Does that feel all right?” she asked.

“Oh, it feels just fine,” his father said. “I’ve always wanted to pee in a tube.” Then, forgetting he had used the same line yesterday, he said, “You’ll be the urination of me.”

“He’s a very funny man, your father,” the nurse said unsmilingly, and pulled up the sheet and walked out.

David went to the bed. He took his father’s hand in his own.

“I’ll find out about the operation,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

The tears were still standing in his eyes. His father looked up at him. His own eyes widened when he saw the tears. A look of surprise crossed his face. The look said: What’s this? Tears? He kept looking at David in surprise until finally David turned away and left the room, hoping he had not revealed too much, hoping he had not transmitted to his father the knowledge that he was dying. Bessie came out a moment later.

“He looks terrible,” she whispered.

“Excuse me,” Kaplan said, “but is this your mother?”

“No, she’s a friend,” David said.

Kaplan looked at him. Bessie nodded expectantly.

“She can hear anything you have to say,” David said. “What happened? Why didn’t you operate this morning?”

They were standing in the corridor outside the waiting room. A long table on wheels was in front of the window streaming sunlight. Kaplan was dressed more severely today. A dark blue suit, a white shirt, a blue tie. He looked like a mortician.

“Well, we planned to,” Kaplan said, “but we thought it best to postpone. We discovered fluid in his lungs, and we...”

“His lungs? I thought his lungs were okay.”

“Well, they are, basically. The fluid is something we can take care of, we’ve put him on medication to clear it up. His kidneys were beginning to malfunction as well...”

“Is that why there’s a tube in his penis?”

“No, that’s to facilitate emptying of the bladder.”

He looked at Bessie. Bessie looked back at him, her blue eyes unflinching. “It would have been foolish to risk an operation until the numbers were right,” Kaplan said.

“I’m not sure we should risk an operation at all,” David said.

“Is there a choice, Mr. Weber?”

David looked at him.

“I don’t think there’s a choice, Mr. Weber.”

“When will you do it?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I expect the problems will be resolved by tomorrow morning. We normally operate on infected patients in the afternoon. We try to operate on any noninfected patients in the morning.”

“But you were supposed to operate on him this morning, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And he was infected, wasn’t he? He’s still infected, in fact.”

“Yes, but we ran into the problems I just told you about.”

It was all beginning to sound like gobbledygook.

“So now you won’t be operating till tomorrow afternoon. When you normally operate on infected patients.”

“Once we resolve the problems,” Kaplan said, and nodded. “And when we’re sure his heart can...”

“His heart?” David said. “What’s wrong with his heart?”

“He’s eighty-two years old, there’s fluid in his lungs,” Kaplan said. “We want to make sure he has the optimum chance of getting through this surgery.”

“You’re certain you’ll be able to resolve these problems?”

“I would hope so.”

“So what time will he go into surgery? Tomorrow, I mean.”

“Shortly after noon, I would expect. If the numbers are correct.”

“The numbers?”

“The readings on the heart and kidneys. I’ve been in constant touch with the cardiologist, and I plan to update the anesthesiologist before we operate. I can assure you we won’t do anything foolhardy, Mr. Weber.”

David felt mildly chastised.

“We’re trying, believe me,” Kaplan said.

“Then why is he still sick?” Bessie asked suddenly.

“I wish I could tell you that,” Kaplan said wearily. He turned to meet her challenging gaze. “My own wife died three years ago. I’m a physician, a surgeon, I still don’t know what killed her. There are things we don’t know. I wish we did know them. But we don’t.” He sighed heavily and turned to David again. “I wish I could get him to walk out of here tomorrow, believe me. I wish I could wave a magic wand over him and cure him. I can’t. I’m doing my best.”

“I’m sorry about your wife,” David said.

Kaplan nodded.

“Will I be able to see him tomorrow morning, before the operation?”

“Yes, you can come at eleven, the usual time.”

“Will you be here then?”

“Possibly.”

“I’ll look for you.”

“Please do.”

“What shall I tell my father?”

“The truth,” Kaplan said.

They decided it would be a great gag to lie to his father.

Tell him only afterward that the Molly he would automatically assume was a Regan rather than a Regen (a Webb rather than a Weber, so to speak), a blond, green-eyed, freckle-faced representative of the enemy camp (right in his own living room!), wasn’t Irish at all but was instead as Jewish as the Torah. A man who could change an “earn” to an “urn” would be thoroughly delighted by a Regan-Regen mishegoss — unless he died of a heart attack the moment he was introduced to her, a danger that was greater as concerned David’s mother, who on many an occasion had declared her intention to stick her head in the oven if he ever brought home a shiksa. His father would roar with laughter once they revealed the truth to him.

He tipped at once.

“Why’d a nice Jewish girl like you change her name?” he asked.

So much for that.

David had been seeing her for little more than a month by then; this was the fall of 1957; he was just entering his second year at N.Y.U. Law. He was not yet in love with her. That would come later. On Valentine’s Day. He often wondered whether his father’s stamp of approval had been necessary before he could make the transition from merely wanting her day and night to actually loving her. “I’ll tell you something,” a fellow law student once said to him. “Men aren’t into love, they’re into sex. If the sex is good, they kid themselves into thinking that’s love. Women are just the opposite. First they fall in love, and then they translate that into sexuality. The prosecution rests.”

But Molly—

Oh, God, Molly.

She approached sex with all the innocence and all the expertise of an idiot savant. There was nothing she was unwilling to try, nothing she denied him. He asked her once if she thought about sex often, and she replied, “Yes, all the time.” He had never known anyone like her; her appetite was so overwhelming it frightened him sometimes. He once wondered, aloud, if he had stumbled across his first real-live nymphomaniac, and Molly said, “Nymphos don’t come, David.” They made love either in his apartment on Christopher Street, six blocks from the school, or else in her smaller apartment on First Avenue, near the hospital. Often, when they were apart — even if they’d seen each other only minutes earlier — he phoned her and they masturbated the way they had that first time (“The Regen-Weber Phone Phuck,” she called it). She confessed to having begun masturbating at the age of ten, said she used to do it with a book open on her lap while her teacher prattled on about geography. That was why she didn’t know where North Carolina was. She had masturbated her way clear across the United States of America, north and south, east and west. “I also masturbated my way through civics, history, geometry, and biology — especially biology. I love masturbating, what’s wrong with it?”

David could see nothing wrong with it and often encouraged her to do it in his presence. She did so eagerly and without any sense of shame or self-consciousness, slipping her panties off, spreading her legs for him (“I love you to watch me”), touching herself gently at first and then more vigorously and at last ferociously, writhing on the bed, her skirt above her waist, her legs finally closing tight around her wildly rotating hand and her violent orgasm. He once bought her a pair of red crotchless panties and asked her to put them on (“Where’d you get these? God, I feel so open!”), and she sat on a chair opposite him and, anticipating his request, placed her hand between her legs and brought herself to fitful climax within minutes, asking him seconds later to fuck her with the panties on, “Stick that big cock in me and grab my ass, David, with me all open in these panties.”

On another occasion, he bought a vibrator for her and told her he was interviewing applicants for saleswomen to sell the “marital aid” on a door-to-door basis, demonstrating its pleasures to any prospective customer, the sole restriction being that he could not possibly hire anyone who herself succumbed to the product’s temptations. “Oh, I get it,” she said at once, “I’m not allowed to come, right? I don’t get the job if I come.” She stood before him holding her skirt above her waist — she was wearing her nurse’s uniform that day, crisply starched and white, long white stockings, white garter belt and panties — and switched on the eight-inch-long device, and became at once a shy and inexperienced virgin with a dangerous toy, rubbing the pulsating cock-shaped machine over the nylon of the white panties, and then sliding it beneath the lace-trimmed leghole (“Wow, this is really something!”), releasing her skirt for a moment to step out of the panties, and standing spread-legged before him again, one hand clutched into the bunched skirt, the other manipulating the vibrator, pulling it away each time she felt close to orgasm (“I can’t stand it!”), and finally thrusting the entire pulsating shaft inside her, head thrown back, hips thrust forward, widespread legs quivering (“Oh, my God, it’s like a thunderstorm!”).

She called him once from the nurses’ station at New York Hospital. It was three o’clock in the morning; she was working the night shift. “I’m sitting here with a clipboard on my lap,” she whispered, “covering my hand. The head nurse is six feet away from me, across the room, half-asleep. Tell me what you’d like to do to me.” Masturbation was virtually the foundation stone of their relationship, a sexual act that achieved the status of tradition from that very first morning in Rockaway, when she’d immediately responded, “Okay, just a sec,” to his suggestion that she take off her panties. She once rode in a taxi from her apartment to his without any panties on. “I wanted to be wet when I got here,” she explained. She went to restaurants with him and sat demurely eating with absolutely nothing on under her skirt. She became wildly passionate whenever they made love fully clothed, she wearing everything but her panties — blouse, skirt, bra, garter belt, stockings, high-heeled shoes — he wearing trousers and shirt, “Your big cock sticking out of your pants there,” she said, “I love your cock!”

Whenever she slept in his apartment overnight (and she began doing this more and more frequently), she would fall asleep in his arms, cuddled against him, the firm flesh of her ass tight against him, rounded against him, and he would suddenly discover himself erect and would thrust into her from behind, amazed to find her wet. Whenever they made love, she moaned gutter words of lust and longing, a litany, stringing the words out without meaning, cock, fuck, give me, fuck, hard wet cunt cock, fuck me, cockcunt, fuck, give it, fuck, fuck me, fuck my cunt.

“I hate the word ‘cunt,’ ” she told him. “I only use it because I know it excites men,” and quickly amended this to “You, I know it excites you.” They embarked on a search for a substitute noun. She detested either “pussy” or “box,” equally abhorred “slit” (although “lubricious slit” had grace and style, she thought), considered “snatch” a good possibility and enthusiastically accepted “quim,” which he suggested as a last resort — “My quivering, quaking quim,” she said, and clapped her hands together in delight. He told her he wanted to fuck her cunt (“My quim,” she corrected), her asshole, her armpit, her earlobe, her nostril, the spaces between her toes, and she said, “Yes, I want you to.” He entered her fore and aft, sideways, right-side up and upside down. He fucked her with her knees under her chin or her legs wrapped around him. He fucked her on her knees from behind; he fucked her on the bed, on the floor, in the bathtub, or leaning over the sink. She straddled him facing him or with her back to him, his hands fiercely clutching her ass. He loved her ass. The first time he entered her from behind, truly from behind, she said, “Don’t hurt me, David,” and then thrust herself deep onto his shaft moments after penetration and wriggled there and moaned her litany, bringing him to orgasm within seconds.

One night, she told him a story that infuriated him. She had been at a ski lodge with some married friends — this was only the year before — they had rented a lodge up in Vermont someplace; she didn’t remember the name of the town, she was an idiot when it came to geography. The woman was six months pregnant; they were older than she was, the man must’ve been about twenty-nine or thirty. And they’d been drinking wine and lying before the fire, the pregnant wife on the couch and her husband lying alongside the couch, just beneath her, on the rug, you know, on the floor. And Molly was on the other side of the fireplace, also lying on the floor, on a bearskin rug they had there on the floor.

The wife fell asleep.

The fire was still going.

Molly almost fell asleep herself.

Then she heard a kind of moaning sound from across the room where the husband was lying, you know, and she opened her eyes and looked across at him, and he had his cock in his hand and he was masturbating. She watched him masturbating. And then she lifted her skirt and stuck her hand inside her panties, and she began masturbating, too. The two of them were six feet apart from each other, the fire crackling and spitting in the fireplace between them, and they kept looking at each other and masturbating. She watched him coming, she saw his cock spurting. They never said a word to each other; he never made a move to come over to her where she was lying on the bearskin rug across the room. And the next morning it was as if nothing had happened. Everybody went about his or her business as usual. But it was the best orgasm Molly had ever had in her life.

“Come here,” he said.

“Are you angry?” she said.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do? Spank me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I want you to,” she said.

She lay obediently across his knees. He yanked up her skirt and pulled her panties down onto her thighs. Her legs were trembling slightly. He was suddenly very hard. He raised his hand, hesitated a moment (she trembled again), and then brought it down sharply. She moaned. He slapped her again, harder this time. And again. She lifted her buttocks to him, anticipating each slap.

“My handprints are all over your ass,” he said.

“I want them there,” she said.

She thrilled him, she delighted him, she shocked him sometimes, but he had not yet told her he loved her. “I love your mouth,” he said, “I love your ass, I love your breasts, I love your cunt (“My quim, my quim”), your quim, I love every inch of you,” but he never said, “I love you.” Perhaps he didn’t love her; perhaps he loved only the sexual fantasy she represented. Or perhaps he was afraid of loving her. In any event, he never said the words, and she never asked him to. Nor did she reveal herself completely to him. Revealing herself, the complicated and very important self who was the true Molly Regen, would come only later, when she was more certain of him. For now, she was only what he wanted her to be — herself, to be sure, but not her complete self.

He asked her one night to dress for an orgy, to put on whatever she thought she might wear to an orgy if ever they were lucky enough to get invited to one. He had in mind black garter belt and panties, lacy black bra, perhaps a black chemise. He guessed he had in mind spread-eagling her on the bed, tying her hands and feet to the corner posts, vulnerable white thighs pale above the ribbed tops of her black nylons, tufts of blond hair curling around the edges of her panties — your average red-blooded American boy’s fantasy of male dominance. She disappeared into the bathroom at the end of the hall and was gone for an hour. He lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of traffic downstairs on First Avenue, visions of sugarplum fairies dancing in his head. When at last she came into the bedroom, she scared him half to death.

She had done herself up like a Charles Addams character. Her face was powdered a deadly white, her cheeks faintly rouged, lips glowing with lipstick dark as blood, eyelids shadowed with a green deeper than her eyes, their slant exaggerated by lines of mascara that swept upward from the outer edges, blond hair cascading on either side of her face. She was wearing a black cape he’d seen hanging in the closet off her living room, something she’d picked up in a thrift shop someplace and had never worn till that moment. A single ornate catch held it fastened at the throat.

As she walked into the room, the cape flared.

She was naked above the waist, her large nipples rouged with bright crimson, a knotted strand of pearls hanging between her freckled breasts. She was wearing black tights and black high-heeled pumps. She drew the cape closed around her and came to the bed and sat on the edge of it. She stared at him. She said, “I won’t take off the cape,” and he was suddenly erect.

She held the cape wrapped tightly around her while he kissed her blood-black lips and her closed eyes, kissed the hollow of her throat above the ornate catch, kissed her temples and her hair, her hands hidden somewhere deep in the folds of the garment, clutching the heavy wool to her. This was the beginning of September, the nights were still warm; a thin sheen of perspiration beaded her upper lip, but she would not remove the cape; she lay within it like a butterfly in a cocoon, unyielding, a chrysallis that finally opened black wings against the white sheet. Her breasts were covered with sweat. She had slashed open the crotch of the tights and rouged her nether lips, the black nylon framing in parentheses a dazzling female autumn, golden pubic hair and crimson vulva; he entered her trembling.

David’s law student friend once posed the riddle, “What’s the difference between Jewish girls and cancer?” David pondered it; he had always loved riddles, especially his father’s. At last he gave up. “What?” he said. His friend grinned. “Cancer sucks,” he said.

Wrong, David thought.

Molly’s mouth was a thirsting abyss that engendered and enlarged, enhanced and engaged, employed and enjoined, enfolded and engulfed, englutted and engorged, enraptured and enravished, enfeebled and enslaved — he got carried away just thinking about her mouth!

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” he asked her.

“Well, what business is that of yours?” she said.

Before Molly, he had never particularly enjoyed being the donor when it came to oral sex. But Molly — ah, Molly. He loved the look of her down there, the pale crisp pubic hair curling around her pink interior lips, fold upon secret fold, a mysterious female labyrinth. He loved the scent of her as well. “Once you get past the smell, you’ve got it licked,” his law school friend said in a rare foray into Morris Weber territory. Wrong again, David thought. Gently parting her lips with his fingers, unfolding her secrets to him, bringing his mouth to where she waited expectantly open to him, the glistening coral moistness of her, the summery bouquet of her, the sight of her, the fragrance of her, caused his senses to reel, and he became confused and grew dizzy in her proximity and thought he could hear in the distant reaches of his memory the echo of a scratchy phonograph record on a windup machine, could see a lonely strand of endless beach, a single drifting cloud, could feel moist sea wind on his face.

She tasted of silver and salt.

He probed her with his tongue, her back arched to him, her hands resting lightly on either side of his face, her fingers tightening as he explored her more relentlessly and discovered at last (“Yes, that’s it”) the miniature pink replica of his own spiring tower beating against the tortured sheet, the damp salt air, the silvery splintered sunshine. Dizzily he lapped at her, devouring her, consuming her, licking her quivering, quaking quim, tonguing her to dissolving oblivion, her litany echoing in his ears, bigcock, suckcock, wetcunt, eat me! Fuck Freud and his vagina dentata, David thought; Freud never went down on Molly Regen.

David’s father tipped to her sensuality as quickly as he had to her ethnicity. He became flirtatious, almost seductive. He had always played the fool for David’s mother, and he played the fool for Molly as well at their first meeting in that fall of 1957. One of his father’s specialties was the sophisticated pratfall. He would seemingly trip going up a flight of stairs, plunge headlong toward the steps, come up holding his hand to the famous Weber proboscis, and then smilingly pull the hand away to reveal his uninjured beak. Similarly, he would walk into walls or open doors, the hand coming up immediately to cover the supposedly violated nose, and then unmasking it (again the roguish smile) unbloodied and unbent. By David’s count, he walked into six doors before dinner that night. Molly giggled in delight each time. David was beginning to feel a little jealous.

His father punned unmercifully for her; she found this delightful, too, although David’s own puns over the past month had left her seemingly unmoved. “Would you please pass the bread, kiddo?” he said to David’s mother, and then winked at Molly and said, “I’ll bet bakers make a lot of dough.” Molly giggled. As he ladled out the soup, he asked, “Who was that ladle I saw you with last night?” and then immediately supplied, “That was no ladle, that was my knife.” Molly giggled. David looked at her. In recounting the history of all his failed businesses (he made them all sound like enormous successes he had abandoned on whims), he said, “I used to be in ladies’ underpants, too; pulled down a hundred a week,” and Molly giggled, and David thought of her own underpants and wondered if she was wearing any. (Besides, his father had never been in ladies’ underpants.)

His success with this mild sexual innuendo led to a bolder pun. Glancing covertly at Molly’s low-cut blouse, ostensibly commenting on the giggle that erupted girlishly each time he delivered another of his little bon mots (which David had only heard a thousand times already), he said, “I love your titters, Molly,” and then rolled his eyes heavenward as though he’d shocked even himself. Molly tittered. “A little more breast?” his father asked, extending the platter of chicken to her, compounding the felony. “You eat like a bird,” he said, and then immediately, “You chicks are all the same,” priding himself on what he thought was youthful jargon, even though the expression had gone out of style fifteen years ago. “You’ll waist away to a shadow,” he said, and spelled “waist” for her, lest she miss his cleverness, and then mysteriously added, “The Shadow knows,” to which Molly inexplicably giggled even before he touched the Weber legacy with the tip of his finger and amended his earlier remark to “The Shadow’s nose,” eliciting yet another giggle — was she losing her mind? “I once auditioned for a job as a r-r-r-radio an-an-announcer, his father said, imitating a stutterer, “b-but they t-t-turned me down. Anti-S-S-Semitism!” he said, and laughed triumphantly when Molly almost choked on her chicken.

He dubbed her “The Shiksa” that night.

It would become a private and personal endearment over the years.

He wanted The Shiksa to have his ring when he died.

That first meeting between them took place in September of 1957; it was not until February of 1958 — on St. Valentine’s Day, to be exact — that David knew he truly loved Molly. He wondered now if his father hadn’t fallen in love with her first.

The people in the waiting room were becoming family.

Lacking the proximity of his own family, deprived of anyone who might empathize and sympathize, he began thinking of these people as kindly relatives who understood and shared the pain and the suspense. He could have been a young boy again, surrounded by his Uncle Max, his Aunt Anna, his cousin Shirley, his cousin Rebecca.

“He’ll probably be wearing different clothes tomorrow,” Di Salvo said, and unconsciously stroked the mustache he was growing. “He’s finally going to bed. Tomorrow we’ll see him waking up in the morning, the tuxedo’ll be draped over the chair there.”

“Things take forever on the soaps,” Mrs. Daniels said. She was not wearing her wedgies today. She had on sandals instead. Her toenails were painted a bright red. She looked paler and thinner than she had yesterday. Her husband still refused to eat, she had told David, even when she and her daughter had tried feeding him.

“Usually on these soaps, the girl goes to bed with them,” Mrs. Horowitz said. Her face still looked flushed and excited. She was smoking a cigarette. “They get right into bed together. You can see their shoulders, they’re supposed to be naked.”

“Anything goes on television these days,” Mrs. Daniels’ fat daughter Louise said. Her own daughter was with her today, a thin, dark little girl, eight or nine years old, David guessed. Her ballet recital yesterday had been a great success, but when Mrs. Horowitz asked her more about it, she turned away shyly and buried her face in her mother’s bosom. “I’ll bet she has the biggest minnies in the entire world,” his cousin Shirley had said about their grandmother an eternity ago. He wondered where Shirley was now. The last he’d heard, she had divorced her second husband to run off with an insurance salesman.

“Hey, look, there he goes!” Di Salvo said. “He’s taking off his jacket!”

“He’ll be taking off his pants next,” Mrs. Daniels’ daughter said. “They can do anything they want on television nowadays.” She was wearing dangling red earrings today; they spilled from her short platinum hair like bloody teardrops, matching the lipstick slash across her mouth.

“Now he’s lowering his suspenders,” Di Salvo said.

“He’s keeping us in suspenders,” David said.

“That’s very good,” Mrs. Daniels said. “A smile every now and then, Mr. Weber. It can’t hurt.”

“Neither could a little chicken soup,” Mrs. Horowitz said, and suddenly winked at David, as if certain he would understand her reference to the old joke. He nodded to her, acknowledging her surmise.

“I’ll be happy to see the end of that tuxedo,” Di Salvo said.

“I’ll be happy to see the end of this room,” Mrs. Horowitz said.

“What room is this, Mommy?” the little girl asked Louise.

“It’s Intensive Care,” Louise said. “The waiting room.”

“Is it the hospital?”

“It’s the hospital.”

“Be quiet now, Charlene,” her grandmother said.

“She’s not supposed to visit unless she’s twelve, you know,” the pink lady said.

“She’s not visiting,” Mrs. Daniels said. “She’s only sitting here. She won’t go in, don’t worry.”

“I’m only telling you what the rules are,” the pink lady said. She was a new one; David had never seen her before. She sat behind the desk, tapping a pencil.

“I know the rules better than you,” Mrs. Daniels said. “I’ve been coming here half my life now, I think I know the rules.”

“It’s better I should tell you than one of the nurses.”

“Let the nurses tell me,” Mrs. Daniels said.

“There are sick people here, you know,” the pink lady said, and Mrs. Horowitz suddenly burst out laughing. Di Salvo looked at the pink lady in surprise, as though he could not believe what she had just said. He began laughing, too. Even Mrs. Daniels, who a moment before had seemed ready to strangle the pink lady, started laughing. The pink lady kept tapping her pencil. Everyone in the waiting room was laughing now.

“What’s funny?” the little girl asked.

“They think it’s funny, darling,” the pink lady said.

“Don’t call me ‘darling,’ ” the little girl said. “My name is Charlene.”

The clock on the wall read one minute to seven.

“So?” his father said. “Is it Still On, Or what?”

“It’s still on, Pop.”

“They’re sure this time?”

“Positive.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Shortly after noon.”

“Will you be here?”

“I’ll be here even before you go up.”

“Let’s hope I won’t be going down,” his father said. “For the ten-count.”

“Well, this isn’t a prizefight,” David said, and smiled.

“We used to get in fights with the goyim all the time, Max and me,” his father said. “Did you talk to your uncle? Does he even know I’m in the hospital?”

“I planned to call him tomorrow. After the operation.”

“Maybe you ought to call him tonight. Give him my final regards.”

“Come on, Pop, don’t talk that way.”

“Tell him I said to keep his shoulder ducked. He’ll know what I mean. Will you tell him that?”

“Yes, Pop.”

“Do you remember when Louis beat Schmeling? That Nazi? You were just a little kid.”

“I remember.”

“That was some fight.” His father paused. “They have hard heads, niggers.”

David said nothing.

His father closed his eyes.

“Be a bigger fight than Louis ever had in his life,” he said. “Tomorrow. When I go under the knife again.”

David looked at him.

“I’m scared to death,” his father said, and opened his eyes.

He took his father’s hand between his own.

“No, don’t be scared, Pop,” he said.

“I don’t want to die on the table.”

“You won’t. You’re not going to die at all. They’re going to find what’s wrong, and you’re going to be okay.”

“I hope so,” his father said.

“That’s the way it’ll be,” David said, and nodded. His father was staring at him. He forced himself to look directly into his father’s eyes. “You’ll see.”

“You wouldn’t kid a kidder, would you?” his father said.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, Pop.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

His father was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Did you find that tax form for me?”

“What tax form?”

“The one you have to send in. What’s it called?”

“What do you mean, Pop?”

“In April. When you pay your taxes.”

“The Ten-Forty, do you mean?”

“Yeah. Did you find it? The copy the accountant gave me?”

“Was I supposed to look for it?”

“Didn’t I tell you to go find it?”

“No, Pop.”

“I can’t remember if I paid it.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. The IRS won’t...”

“I usually pay them right on the dot, April fifteenth, but I can’t remember now. If I paid it, there’ll be a copy. The accountant gives me a copy, and I have the check Xeroxed at the bank. You go look for it, David.”

“Where, Pop?”

“My apartment. In the bedroom someplace. One of the drawers there. Bessie has the keys, ask her for the keys.”

“Okay, Pop.”

“I don’t want to die with them thinking I didn’t pay my taxes.”

“You’re not going to die, Pop.”

“Can you get me a glass of water? They never give you any water here. You’d think it was the Sahara Desert here, you’ve got to beg for a drop of water.”

He went out into the corridor and asked the Vietnamese nurse for a glass of water. She gave him a plastic cup with a flexible straw in it. He carried it back into the room.

“Is it cold?” his father asked.

“It feels nice and cold.”

“Not too cold, is it?”

“No, just right, I think.”

“Because if it’s too cold...” he started, and then shook his head.

“Do you want it now?”

“Yes, please.”

He held the bent straw to his father’s lips. For the first time, he noticed that the inside of his father’s mouth looked raw, almost excoriated. His father took the straw between his lips and began sucking on it before his lips were fully closed. There was the hissing sound of air.

“Just a second, Pop.”

He seated the straw more firmly between his father’s lips.

“Okay?” he said.

His father nodded, inhaled on the straw, and then exhaled. The water in the cup bubbled.

“Try not to breathe out,” David said.

His father nodded.

“How’s that?” David said. “Okay?”

His father nodded again, and then turned his head away from the straw.

“Enough?”

“Yes,” his father said.

“You’re sure you don’t want anymore?”

“It was too cold. They either give you pyok water or water so cold it could freeze your belly. Who’s out there, the Dragon Lady?”

“Yes,” David said.

“This is her idea of Chinese torture,” his father said. “I’m surprised she isn’t dripping it on my forehead.”

David smiled.

“He thinks I’m kidding, my son,” his father said.

“I’ll put this on the sink,” David said. “If you want more, just press your buzzer.”

“Sure. Press your buzzer, they’ll all go out dancing. Nobody comes in here. You could press the buzzer till your finger wore out, nobody comes. They’re too busy out there.”

His father was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “Does The Shiksa know they’re operating again tomorrow?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” David said.

“I’m curious about what she’ll say.”

“I’m sure she’ll think it’s for the best.”

“You think so, huh? You don’t know Molly.”

“I’m sure it is for the best, Pop.”

“Because if they don’t do it, I’ll die, anyway, right?”

“No, who told you that?”

“Who has to tell me? If a man gets to be eighty-two and he isn’t his own best doctor, then he ought to go see a doctor.”

The clock on the wall read a quarter past seven. The pink lady had undoubtedly been intimidated by all the laughter at her expense; she was allowing the visitors a grace period. David felt he ought to say something more before his time was up. Well, I’ve got tomorrow morning, he thought. I’ll tell him then. I’ll see him before the operation and tell him then.

He did not know what he wanted to tell his father.

“Cat got your tongue?” his father said.

“I hope you know I love you,” David said.

“Why wouldn’t I know that?” his father said.

Maybe because I’m not sure myself, David thought.

The British girl was sitting in the lobby when he came back from dinner that night. She was reading a paperback book, sitting in one of the brocaded chairs that faced the registration desk. Her hair was loose again. A small sprig of flowers was fastened to the right side of her head, tiny blue flowers against the blond hair. She glanced up as he passed her.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hello there.”

She closed the book. He hesitated a moment, and then took the chair opposite hers.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Fine.”

He reached into his pocket, found his cigarettes and offered her one.

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke,” she said.

He thumbed his lighter into flame and suddenly remembered one of his father’s puns. Smiling, he lit the cigarette and realized the girl was watching him.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was just thinking of something funny,” he said.

“Share it with me, won’t you?”

“I’m not sure you’d appreciate it.”

“Give it a try.”

“Well, when I was a boy, my father would allow me to snip off the end of his cigar for him — he had one of those little cigar cutters, you know — and then he’d put the cigar in his mouth and hand me his lighter, and while I lit the cigar for him, he’s say, ‘And now for the lighter side of the news.’

The girl smiled.

“I warned you,” he said.

They were silent for a moment.

“Are you here on vacation?” he asked.

“Heavens, no,” she said. “Oh, do forgive me. Are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Are you here on business then?” she asked.

“No.”

“Or would you rather not say? You’re not one of those horrid drug dealers, are you?”

“No, no,” he said, and smiled. “My father’s in the hospital here.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Well, he’ll be okay.”

“I’m sure.”

There was another silence.

“Are you here on business?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and pulled a face. “Unfortunately.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I’m a travel rep.”

“What does a travel rep do?”

“Just at the moment, I’m preparing the way for a thundering herd that should arrive next Friday. Arranging all the nightclub tours, and the expeditions to safari parks, and the boat rides, and the excursions, and so forth.” She shrugged. “Sunniworld’s five-hundred-pound, all-inclusive wonderful week of fun and adventure in Miami Beach, Florida.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said.

“It’s really rather tedious,” she said. “I shouldn’t even be here, actually, except that we were obliged to sack our on-the-spot rep. I’m filling in, so to speak. Just when I was about to leave on holiday myself.”

“That’s a pity,” David said.

“Really,” she said. “Miami Beach rather than Marbella.” She smiled. “Have you ever been to Spain?”

“Never.”

“It’s lovely. And cheap as dirt. Well, perhaps not so much so now, with the pound in such bad straits again. Of course, the pound doesn’t matter all that much to you, does it?”

“Not really.”

“My name is Hillary Watkins, by the way,” she said, and extended her hand. The fingernails were long and painted a very bright red. He took her hand.

“David Weber,” he said.

“Pleasure to meet you.” She paused. “What do you do?” she asked. “When you’re not in Miami, that is.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Ah? Where?”

“New York.”

“I adore that city,” she said.

“I prefer London.”

“Do you really? You’re not serious! Are you from New York originally?”

“Born and raised there. Lived there all my life.”

“Perhaps it’s paled for you then.”

“Perhaps.”

They both fell silent again. She looked at her watch.

“I think I’ll have a drink before I turn in,” David said. “Would you care to join me?”

“Thank you, no, I have to get an early start tomorrow.”

She picked up her paperback.

They both stood up.

“Any good?” he asked.

“The book? A bit raunchy,” she said, and smiled. “Well, good night,” she said, “it was nice talking to you.”

“Good night, Hillary.”

“David,” she said, and extended her hand.

They shook hands.

“Good night,” she said again.

He watched her as she walked to the elevators. Before the doors closed on her, she smiled again and waved at him.

He had three drinks in the disco bar, and then went back up to the lobby and rang for the elevator. He felt a bit woozy. Hell with it, he thought. The elevator arrived, and he got into it and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. The elevator always stopped on the twelfth floor. There was never anyone waiting there when the doors opened. They were doing renovations on the twelfth floor. The workmen probably had the elevator fixed somehow so it would stop there automatically. It stopped there now. The doors closed again. He pressed the button for fifteen again. The fifteenth-floor corridor was empty. He walked down to his room, unlocked the door, took off his shirt, and threw it onto the chair near the window. He would have to call Molly. He had put off calling her again today, but he knew she’d be waiting. And probably angry that he hadn’t called sooner. Sighing, he dialed eight for long distance and then direct-dialed the number in New York. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty. She picked up the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Molly, it’s me.”

“Is everything all right?” she said at once.

“Yes, fine.”

“How’d the operation...?”

“They didn’t do it today.”

“Why not?”

He explained the problems to her. He told her they would be operating shortly after noon tomorrow. She listened without saying a word. Molly Regen, R.N., he thought. When he finished, she said, “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” She paused. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I wish you... have you had dinner yet?”

“Yes. You sound like Mrs. Daniels,” he said.

“Who’s Mrs. Daniels?”

“A woman at the hospital. Her husband won’t eat.”

“I want you to call me as soon as you know tomorrow. Will you promise me that?”

“I promise.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there?”

“What would you do down here?” he said.

“I don’t think you should be going through this alone.”

“I’m managing,” he said. Where the hell were you the last time I needed you? he thought. The last two times, he thought. “I’ll be fine,” he said, “don’t worry.”

“Well, all right, then,” she said. She sounded relieved.

There was a long pause on the line.

“Do you think he’s going to die?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“Are you in favor of this operation?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’m not.” she said.

“Well...”

“Why don’t they just let him die in peace?” she said.

He sighed heavily. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

“Please,” she said, and hung up.

He lowered the receiver gently onto the cradle and stretched out on the bed. His father had known what her reaction would be. Maybe his father knew her best, after all. You don’t know Molly, his father had said.

Ah, but I do know her, he thought. Or believed that I knew her, or at least was starting to know her. As far back as the beginning... well, almost the beginning. Her apartment that day, the clutter of packed cartons and things waiting to be packed into yet more cartons. It was very cold, wasn’t it? I’m sure it was cold. I’m forgetting. It had to be cold in February, didn’t it? It was cold, I’m sure of that. We were both working in overcoats, yes. Molly was wearing a bright green muffler around her throat, a matching green watch cap on her head, green woolen gloves. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Our breaths plumed from our mouths as we worked. It was already 8:00 a.m., and the moving van was coming at nine. Molly was moving.

I’ll never forget, he thought.

They talked as they worked. Molly directed him to her dishes and cups and saucers. He wrapped each of the items in newspaper. She packed them into the cartons. She told him the move from First Avenue to York would bring her closer to the hospital. Besides, she’d be able to see the East River from the new apartment. She liked the sounds on the river, she said. All those boats, maybe even ships coming from faraway places over the sea. He told her he hadn’t forgotten it was St. Valentine’s Day. In fact, he’d been walking past Tiffany’s yesterday and had seen a fat gold heart in the window and had almost bought it for her. “For Valentine’s Day,” he said, and smiled.

“Almost?” she said.

“I didn’t have any money with me,” he said. “It cost two hundred dollars.”

“Almost?” she said again.

“I’ll pick up something later today,” he said.

“Why is it always almost?” she said, and suddenly she was weeping. She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, cartons and dishes and saucers and cups everywhere around her, stood in her long dark overcoat, wearing the green watch cap and muffler, and she covered her face with her hands and wept into her green woolen gloves. “All anybody does is take from me,” she said, weeping.

He was crouched near one of the cartons, a newspaper-wrapped saucer in his hand. He looked at her weeping in the center of the kitchen and wondered what she wanted from him. A lousy little heart from Tiffany’s? I’ll buy the heart this afternoon, he thought. I’ll run over there and buy it. He got to his feet. He put down the saucer. He tried to take her in his arms.

“No, don’t,” she said.

“Molly...”

“Please,” she said, “I don’t care, really, I don’t. I know you don’t love me, it doesn’t matter whether you buy me presents or not.”

“But I do love you,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever said the words to her.

“No, you don’t. Oh, please, David, you love fucking me is all, please.”

“Molly...”

“I’m a person,” she said. She wiped one gloved hand under her runny nose, and shook her head and looked at her watch. “I have to pack,” she said, “I have to get out of here.”

“I know you’re a person,” he said.

“No, you don’t! You think I’m a quivering, quaking quim is all. I don’t care, really, I don’t. But, Jesus, isn’t anyone ever going to see me for what I am? Isn’t anyone ever going to treat me like somebody?” she said, and burst into fresh tears.

“I know you’re somebody,” he said.

“Who am I then?” she said, sobbing.

“Someone I love.”

“That isn’t true.”

“I do love you, Molly.”

“Please,” she said, sobbing. “When I was in Blooming-dale’s the other day, looking for your Valentine present...”

“Molly, I’m sorry, really. I’ll go buy the heart this afternoon.”

“Who needs the heart?” she said. “If you almost bought it, then you didn’t buy it, so what difference does it make? That’s not why I’m telling you about Bloomingdale’s, you’re not even listening to me.”

“I’m listening, Molly.”

“There was this girl there?” she said, sobbing. “And she was trying on dresses? And her mother was looking them over? She’d come out and show the dresses to her mother? And she came out in one dress and showed it to her mother, and she said, ‘Mom, make believe I’m somebody. How do I look?’ And I burst into tears right there in the store because nobody in the world knows I’m somebody, either.”

She began crying more bitterly, her face in her gloved hands. He watched her helplessly. Whatever had gone before, whatever they had done together in bed, seemed suddenly unimportant, an act even monkeys in the zoo could perform with expertise. She had given him her body completely, and he had taken it unashamedly, greedily accepting her extravagant gift, taking from her with both hands, and giving nothing but his own lust in return. Now, here in this cluttered kitchen, she was giving him more than she had ever given him before. She was daring to expose herself. She was trusting him with her tears.

He turned wordlessly and left the apartment. He raced down the steps. He ran into the street. His bank was downtown in the Village. He had only eight dollars in his pocket, but he blew almost all of it on a taxi downtown. There was $512 in his account, all he’d been able to save from his monthly G.I. Bill checks. He withdrew all of it but five dollars. He took another taxi uptown. He found a flower shop a block from Molly’s new apartment. He put $500 in cash on the counter and told the startled florist what he wanted.

Molly told him later that the first dozen roses were waiting outside the door to the new apartment when she got there at nine-thirty. The movers had not yet arrived. She picked up the roses in their pressed cardboard vase and opened the little envelope hanging there and looked at the card. It read, “Molly, I love you.” No signature. She told him later that she’d hoped the roses were from him but that she was singularly unimpressed. A dozen red roses were not the same as a fat gold heart from Tiffany’s. She unlocked the door and went into the empty apartment. She put the vase of roses on the kitchen counter top because her furniture wasn’t there yet, and there was nothing else to put them on. The next dozen roses arrived at ten o’clock, a half-hour later. The same card. “Molly, I love you.” She smiled. The movers arrived just about when the third dozen roses were delivered at ten-thirty. She rummaged in a carton she had marked GLASS and found real vases for all three dozen roses. She did not expect any more roses. She would have called him at his apartment to thank him, but she didn’t yet have a phone. Besides, she wouldn’t have been able to reach him; he was downstairs outside her building, watching for the delivery boy, making certain the roses kept coming.

She was telling the movers where to put her furniture when the fourth dozen roses arrived at eleven o’clock. She had run out of glass vases, so she left them in the cardboard vase. She told him later that she’d frankly hoped this batch would be the last of them. But the roses kept coming. Every half-hour. The same card each time. “Molly, I love you.” By one o’clock, when the movers finally left, there were seven dozen roses in the apartment and a boy standing at the front door with yet another dozen. By three o’clock, there were twelve dozen roses. When David walked into the apartment at five o’clock, there were sixteen dozen roses on the kitchen counter and sitting on top of unopened cartons and on all the tabletops and windowsills and even on the floor.

“Hi,” he said.

She ran into his arms.

“You dope,” she said.

The roses kept arriving. The flow of roses didn’t stop till nine that night, when the florist closed and the money David had left with him ran out. By then, they were making love in Molly’s big bed in the bedroom with its windows facing east. They could hear the sound of tugboats on the river. There were roses all over the bedroom. She wore a rose in her hair and nothing else.

“I have an idea,” he whispered.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Since we already have the flowers, why don’t we have a wedding?”

“When?” she said at once.

He woke up at three in the morning.

He blinked into the room. He could not remember when he’d fallen asleep. He was still wearing everything but his shirt. The window rectangle was illuminated with a soft glow. He could hear the ocean nudging the shore. He went to the window. In the distance, in the west, he could see the lighted walls of the hospital. He wondered if his father was sleeping. I’m scared to death, his father had said. So am I, David thought. He took off his shoes and socks, his pants and undershorts. He went to the drapes and closed them. He went back to the bed. Stretched out on the bed in the glow of the bedside lamp, he thought, If he dies tomorrow...

Well, don’t think about that.

But if he dies tomorrow, and if the old Like Father, Like Son adage applies, then I myself might be able to count on another thirty years at best. Like father, like son, he thought. Ike and Mike, we look alike. Except in the case of Stephen and — well, he didn’t want to think about that, either. There was no sense thinking about that. Nothing made sense about that, the unfairness of that!

The buck stops here, he thought. No more sons, Pop. This is the end of the line. Morris Weber will be closing his last business. Where was the sense of it? First Stephen (ah, Jesus, please don’t think about it) and then his mother. Well, she was almost seventy. Still, that was young. Is seventy all we can hope for? Phone call at two in the morning. Your mother is dead. Will all you men whose mothers are still living take one step forward? Not so fast, Seaman Shavorski! All the little jokes about death and dying. I’m scared to death. There’s nothing funny about death, he thought, nothing funny about the way Stephen — well, look, get off that, will you, please?

The tube in my father’s penis.

I wish Molly was here to suck my cock.

I should have told her to come down. Is that a pun? I can almost come sucking your big hard cock, do you know that? Molly Regen, circa 1958, 1959. I believe it, he thought. Used to believe it, anyway. What’s left to believe? Lies?

All the lies and all the lying, he thought. Is that another pun? Five long years of lies and lying. Fireworks against the nighttime sky. The phone ringing. Always on the goddamn telephone. David, it’s for you. Who knows me in East Hampton? Molly screaming. And everything stopping. All time stopping from that day forward. That memorable Fourth of July. That Glorious Fourth, the two-hundredth anniversary of our liberated nation. Molly in white. White dress and white scarf, Nurse Regen. Cocktail chatter, party voices, surrounded by strangers on the edge of the sea while their fifteen-year-old son was crashing a car into a—

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

He turned off the light and tried to sleep.