Wednesday the Rabbi got wet

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The letter from the temple came in the morning mail. Except for a momentary tightening of the lips, Marcus Aptaker gave no indication of his disappointment, but he was abstracted all morning and had to force a smile when he faced a customer, he waited on trade, he checked in a shipment of merchandise, he answered the phone, he rang up sales and made proper change or recorded the amount on the customer's charge card, but it was all automatic, his mind elsewhere, wrestling with the problem.

There was no point in appealing to Safferstein for renewal of his lease as the letter suggested, since Safferstein had been trying to purchase the store for his brother-in-law. Now he would not have to buy; he had only to wait the few months for the lease to expire and then take it over. Safferstein had originally hinted that he was prepared to pay a good price, but obviously his purchase of the block changed that, aptaker felt certain that if Safferstein were willing to go through with his offer to purchase— and it was doubtful that he would now— it would be on the basis of buying the stock as depressed merchandise and the fixtures for only what they would bring in the secondhand market. Goodwill was out of the question.

He toyed with the possibility of renting another store. It would mean a sizable investment in new fixtures, but if his son were with him, it would be a logical move. But that expectation, he now realized, had been little more than a daydream and even less likely now since his son's short visit home. It became clear to him that he was alone now, and sixty-two, too old to start a new business.

It flashed across his mind momentarily that he might speak to Kaplan and ask him to reconsider or perhaps let him make a plea directly to the board of directors of the temple. But why should they give him special consideration when he was not even a member of the congregation?

He faced the immediate problem of deciding what he was going to tell his wife. In his mind, he rehearsed the tone and attitude he might adopt, he must not let her know how much he was hurt. "I suppose it's just as Well, I've worked hard all my life and it's time I took a rest, maybe we could take a trip, and then with my Social Security and yours and with what I've saved up, we should be able to manage, maybe I could get a part-time job just to keep busy. I'll admit I wouldn't have sold out, but now that it's happened, I'm kind of glad." But would she believe him?

McLane arrived a little after noon, and after giving him a few instructions, Aptaker went into the prescription room to eat the lunch which Rose prepared for him every day.

He ate quickly, as he invariably did in the store, taking large bites of his sandwich and helping it down with gulps of coffee, as had happened a couple of times before, when he finished eating, he felt a lump in his chest, he drank a glass of water slowly, and that gave him some measure of relief, he wanted to belch but couldn't. Finally, he yielded to the urgency of the dull ache and mixed a little bicarbonate of soda in a glass, that indeed induced a belch, but the relief was momentary, and almost immediately he felt the pressure in his chest again.

McLane looked at him with some concern. "Got a heartburn? Here, take one of these,” he said, picking up a tin from the patent-medicine counter. "They're good. I've tried them."

Marcus chewed on the tablet and then took another, and again there was momentary relief; but the pressure came back again. It occurred to him that the pain and pressure might be from his heart rather than from indigestion. When McLane wasn't looking, he opened a small bottle of nitroglycerin tablets and put one of the tiny pills under his tongue, almost immediately there was a sharp tightness in his head. It did not last long, and by the time it was over, the pain in his chest was gone.

For about an hour he felt quite normal, and then the pressure came back again, he grimaced with the pain and surreptitiously put another tablet under his tongue. Once more he experienced relief, but he was aware that he was perspiring and he thought his face must be pale.

Normally, Marcus would have left around two, but he was sure his wife would note that he appeared ill and become alarmed. Out of her solicitude she would bedevil him with interminable questions— Did anything happen at the store? Did you have a fight with McLane? Was there trouble with a customer? Then, if he were to tell her about the letter, and sooner or later he'd have to, her woman's logic would assume a connection with his present distress, he would be unable then to convince her that giving up the store did not matter to him. So he decided to remain in the store until dinner time, taking it easy, he would go to bed early, and he was sure that after a good night's rest he would be all right in the morning. Of course, it was impossible for him to remain seated in the prescription room while there were customers out front, and in spite of his resolution he waited on trade almost as much as he normally would.

Once. McLane asked him. "You all right? You look sort of pale."

"Sure, I'm all right," he asserted. "Maybe it's this new fluorescent tube. You look kind of pale yourself."

Shortly after five, Dr. Cohen came in, and Aptaker went over to wait on him, the doctor looked at him narrowly, and as Marcus grimaced from a spasm of pain, Dan Cohen said. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"Oh, just a little stomach upset, I guess. I feel like burping and I can't seem to get it out."

"You're perspiring," Cohen said.

"Yeah, maybe a little. It's warm in here, and I’ve been running around."

"How long have you had this upset?"

"Oh, just a little while."

"He's had it since lunch, Doctor," McLane volunteered.

"Any pain in the arm?" Cohen asked.

"No."

"Where do you feel it, Mark?"

"Right here," and he touched his chest.

"Any trouble breathing? Is it a squeezing type of pain?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Let me have your wrist."

"Aw now. Doctor. I know what you're thinking. It's nothing, I tell you." But he held up a limp wrist.

The doctor felt the pulse and then said, "Look, take off your jacket and shirt while I get my stethoscope from the car."

"I'm not going to take my shirt off in the store."

"Why not? There's nobody here now, we can go in the prescription room or the toilet. No, never mind. What you need is an EKG. Who's your doctor?"

"I don't have one." Aptaker said. "I'm never sick."

"All right then. I'll drive you back to my office and I can do it there. Or better still. I could drive you to the hospital."

"I'm not going to any hospital. Rose is expecting me home in about an hour."

"Don't be a damn fool." Dr. Cohen said. "You might have to go home on a stretcher. Let me take you to the hospital."

"Go ahead, Marcus," McLane urged. "I'll phone Rose for you."

Aptaker hesitated, looking from one to the other, and read the urgency in the doctor's face. "All right," he said, "but I'll talk to her. Just get the number for me."

When she answered, he said, "Rose? I had a little stomach upset and Dr. Cohen happened to come by, he wants to give me a checkup."

Later, during the evening visiting hours. Rose Aptaker sat by her husband's bedside, he was in a hospital johnny, and his bed was raised so that he could face her without discomfort.

He explained how they would manage. "You can open in the morning, Rose, and McLane said he'd cooperate in any way necessary, he'll come in around ten and—"

"No." She shook her head in firm disagreement. "I'm calling Arnold to come home, he'll take your place until you get back on your feet."

"But he's got a job."

"So he'll quit or take a leave of absence." "But if he won't come?" Marcus asked. "He'll come."

Aptaker smiled wanly. "You know, Rose, this business—" he touched his breast— "it's nothing serious, you understand. It's a mild heart attack, and I feel fine, but it's still a heart attack, and that means it will take some time, according to Cohen, it may be three months before I can

go back to work."

"Whatever time it takes, arnold will stay, I can promise you. I know the boy. But maybe it would be a good idea if we called in a specialist, a heart man to—"

"No, no. If Cohen thought I needed one, he'd suggest it. I got faith in Cohen. I like the way he works. I feel he's concerned about me."