Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer

12. The Radiator

THE WARM WEATHER TURNED COLD, A LIGHT snow fell, and when Martin stepped into the lobby of the Vanderlyn in the early mornings or the lobby of the Bellingham in the late evenings his cheeks tightened and tingled in the dry warmth. Mrs. Vernon said it would be the death of her, simply the death; and Martin agreed that it had been an unusually treacherous winter.

One cold evening when Martin entered the lobby of the Bellingham he was surprised to see Mrs. Vernon step from the parlor and hurry toward him. Her expression was anxious; she began with an apology. Martin, suddenly alarmed, glanced into the parlor and saw four empty armchairs about the little table. His alarm seemed to alarm Mrs. Vernon, who urged him not to worry. “But what is it?” he said. “What’s happened?” The story emerged slowly: Caroline’s radiator had banged away all night, Caroline hadn’t slept a wink and was on the verge of nervous prostration, the young man who had come to fix it in the morning hadn’t done a bit of good. They were at their wits’ end. “But it’s a simple matter,” Martin said. “There’s water in the radiator and it has to be let out. Did he check the valve?” She couldn’t remember whether the young man had checked the valve or not, and begged Martin to rescue them.

In the Vernons’ lamplit parlor on the fifth floor, Caroline lay back with half-closed eyes on a blue-green sofa, patterned with long, curving ivory leaves and twisting silver vines. Her face against the blue-green damask looked very pale, as if she were a little girl lost in a blue-green forest. Two little lines of strain showed between her dark eyebrows. Emmeline, tired and humorous, led Martin into Caroline’s room, where the offending radiator stood under a windowsill, between the mahogany bed and a mirrored wardrobe. Martin squatted beside the radiator and Emmeline bent over, hands on knees, to watch. He checked the valve, which was open.

“The banging comes from steam hitting water in here,” Martin said, tapping the radiator with a knuckle. “There shouldn’t be any water in the radiator. It’s supposed to flow out through this pipe down here.” He pointed to the pipe under the inlet valve. “All we have to do is tilt the radiator toward the inlet valve. You don’t happen to have a block of wood or a brick?”

“I might have one in my purse,” Emmeline said, and Martin looked at her with surprise before it struck him that she had said something amusing.

Five minutes later Martin returned to the Vernons’ apartment holding in his hand a dark book. In Caroline’s bedroom he knelt down, lifted the unattached end of the radiator, and slipped the book under. “That should do the trick,” he said, slapping dust from his hands. Still squatting, he looked up at Emmeline. “Does anyone ever fiddle with this valve?”

“Caroline turns the heat off when it gets too hot.”

“Well,” Martin said, “there you have it. You should never turn this knob unless the radiator is cool. If you turn it off when the radiator’s hot, the steam gets trapped in the pipes and can’t drain out when it condenses into water. Better just to leave it alone.” On a mahogany dresser with an oval bevel-edged mirror lay Caroline’s flowered hat.

“I think I see. And your book?”

Martin burst out laughing. “An Introduction to the Art of Typewriting. I taught myself last year. This is as good a place for it as any.”

“Well,” said Emmeline, leading him back into the parlor, “the mystery has been solved. You’re quite the hero, sir.”

“I should say so,” said Mrs. Vernon. “How can we ever thank you?”

“Please,” Martin said, holding up a hand and shaking his head. “It’s nothing at all.” He glanced at Caroline, who murmured “Thank you” and, turning her cheek toward the blue-green sofa-back, sank into the curving leaves and twisting vines.