Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 3

Sandy sat next to the hospital bed and looked into Jock Bailley's clear blue eyes. The two of them were alone.

"Jock, can you understand me?" Sandy asked.

The eyes gazed into his, innocent, childlike, expressionless. Jock's face had relaxed from its usual hauteur into the soft, unwor-ried face of an infant.

"Jock, I just wanted you to know that I'm here, and that we all want you to get well," Sandy said.

A doctor entered the room and walked to the bedside. "I'm Stan Warner," he said, offering Sandy his hand. "You're Mr. Bailley's son-in-law, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Sandy Kinsolving. Doctor, is he conscious?"

"He is, but he's aphasic."

"What does that mean?"

"He's unable to move very much or communicate in any way."

"Does he understand what I say to him?"

"I'm afraid I can't give you a definitive answer on that. He may very well understand everything, or he may understand nothing; he may not even know who you are."

"Is he likely to recover to any extent?"

"Again, there's no definitive answer. He could improve dramatically over the next few weeks, or he could remain as he is until death."

"Is he out of danger?"

"He's stable for the moment, but at his age anything could happen."

"What is your experience of people his age recovering from something like this?"

"Let's step out into the hall, shall we?"

Sandy followed the doctor from the room.

Warner motioned Sandy to a bench and sat down beside him. "I'm told that Mr. Bailley was an extraordinarily vigorous man before his stroke."

"That's perfectly true," Sandy said. "I know sixty-year-olds who aren't as acute."

"That stands in his favor, of course, but you asked what my experience of this condition was in people of his age."

"That's what I want to know."

"Not good. Of course, few people his age are in as good a condition, so it's hard to apply my experience. I just haven't had a patient like Mr. Bailley before."

"I see."

"I wish I could give you more solid information, but the statistical likelihood is that he will decline over a period of weeks or months, then die peacefully. Of course, he could have another stroke at any moment, and another one would likely kill him immediately However, there's no accounting for the human will. From what I've heard of Mr. Bailley, he could still have the resources to make a significant recovery and live for years more. There's no way to tell how much brain damage he's suffered, so he might need considerable rehabilitative therapy in the event of a partial recovery"

Sandy looked up and saw his wife and son coming down the hallway. He stood up, kissed Joan on the cheek and hugged Angus. "You've both met Doctor Warner?"

"Yes," Joan said. "I came straight here from the airport," Sandy said. "I was I afraid-"

"Have you seen him?" Joan asked.

"Just for a moment. He's awake, but-"

"Aphasic," Angus said.

"Yes, Doctor Warner has been explaining his condition, It seems that it's difficult to predict what will happen."

"His heart's still strong," Angus said. "I'm betting on some kind of recovery."

"I hope that happens," Dr. Warner said. "Well, if you'll all excuse me, I have some patients to see. Page me if you need anything at all." He walked away down the hall.

"He seems like a good man," Sandy said.

"The best," Angus agreed. "Grandad's lucky to have him."

"There doesn't seem to be anything I can do here," Sandy said. "I think I'll go home. Joan, will you come with me? Albert's still downstairs."

"Yes, I think so," his wife replied. "Angus, you'll call us the moment there's any change?"

"Of course, Mother."

Sandy took his wife's arm and walked her to the elevators.

Albert, Jock Barney's longtime servant, stopped the car in front of the Fifth Avenue apartment and opened the trunk for the doorman to collect the bags.

Sandy greeted the doorman and the lobby man, then got into the lift. Joan was silent all the way to their floor. The elevator opened directly into their foyer, and Sandy used his key to let them into the large apartment. It had been bought with money from a trust that Jock had established for Joan when she was born. Although Sandy was well paid at Bailley amp; Son, he never would have managed anything on the scale at which they were now living. There were fourteen rooms in the apartment, and three maid's rooms. Today, the servants were nowhere to be seen.

Sandy followed Joan into the bedroom, undoing his tie and getting out of his jacket.

"You must be tired," she said solicitously.

"Yes, I think I'll sleep for a while."

"You should have taken the Concorde," she said. "You'd have been here earlier and you'd have been a lot fresher, too."

"Tell you the truth, it never crossed my mind. Anyway, Jock would have had another stroke if he'd thought I'd spent that much money on a flight to see him."

She smiled. "You're right about that, I guess."

He sat down on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes. "I still can't believe it's happened."

"Neither can I."

"How's Laddie taking it?"

"Like a Scot. He's worried, of course, but he's at the office today."

"I guess I'd better go down there tomorrow and talk to him about what to do."

"What to do?"

"About the business; how to divide up the responsibilities. With Jock out of the business, it's going to take some redrawing of the lines of authority. I mean, Jock was doing as much as ever, you know, running the place with an iron hand."

"Yes, I suppose he was. Well, Laddie can handle it, can't he?"

"He won't have to handle it all, you know. I can take up a lot of the slack."

"Mmmm, I suppose," Joan said absently. "You get some sleep. Shall I wake you for some dinner?"

"No, let me sleep straight through, if I can. I'll be fine tomorrow."

"As you wish." She left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

Sandy hung up his suit in his dressing room, stuffed the trees into his shoes, got into a nightshirt and went to bed.

His last conscious thought was of Jock's shining infant's eyes.

Sandy woke in a dark room and got up to go to the bathroom. He didn't notice until he returned that Joan had not been to bed. He picked up the bedside clock and looked at its luminous face. Just after 3:00 a.m. He switched on a lamp and saw a folded note on his bedside table.

I'm at the hospital. J.

Sandy started getting dressed.

As he got off the elevator Sandy saw the little group standing in the hall outside Jock's room. Joan, Laddie and his wife, Betty, and Angus, still in his white coat.

"What's happened?" he asked as he walked up to them.

Nobody seemed inclined to reply.

"Daddy had another stroke," Joan said, brushing away a tear.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't think it was necessary."

"Well, how is Jock?"

Angus spoke up. "Dad, the stroke cost Grandad even the most basic functions; we had to put him on a respirator."

"Oh, no," Sandy breathed.

"We disconnected the respirator ten minutes ago. Grandad died almost immediately."

"What?" Sandy said.

Joan spoke. "Daddy had a living will; it expressly said that he wanted no dramatic measures to keep him alive. We all talked about it and decided to honor his wishes. Doctor Warner agreed."

Sandy sank onto a bench and stared at the wall opposite him. "Poor Jock," he said.

Laddie spoke for the first time. "He had a long and productive life, and he was never ill, until the end. I think this is exactly how he would have wanted to go."

"Perhaps you're right," Sandy agreed.

"I think we should all go home and rest," Laddie said. "I've already phoned the funeral directors, and they'll collect the body in the morning. Let's meet tomorrow for lunch and discuss the arrangements."

"Fine," Sandy said.

"Come to lunch at our place," Joan said.

Laddie nodded his agreement and bade them goodnight.

Sandy stood and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "If your shift is finished, why don't you come home with us and stay for lunch tomorrow? You should be in on this."

The three of them took a cab back to the Fifth Avenue apartment. All the way, Sandy tried to think about the future, but he couldn't manage it; he was too sad.

The following morning, Sandy rose early, slipped into some jeans and went for a walk. A couple of blocks away he stopped at a pay phone and dialed a number.

"Hotel Pierre," the operator said.

"Mr. Peter Martindale," Sandy said.

"Hello?" Peter's voice.

'It's your traveling companion of yesterday."

"Oh, yes, how are you?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps we could meet? Very discreetly?"

"Of course," Peter replied. "I'm looking out the window at Central Park. If you enter the park from the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, you come to a long row of benches. I'll be sitting on one at four o'clock; you sit at the other end and read a newspaper; don't acknowledge me at all."

"Four o'clock, then," Sandy said. He hung up the phone and walked slowly back to his apartment house.