Letting Go (26 page)

“Never.”

“They believe the body heals itself so long as it’s mechanically adjusted. There are lesions, and they correct them by manipulation. It’s not at all like chiropractors. It’s sort of Eastern, in a certain way—Oriental. They study everything, just like MDs. Obstetrics—everything. The American Osteopathic Association was organized—”

“In 1897.”

“It sticks in my mind …”

He thought she had fallen asleep, but a few minutes later she spoke again. “I looked up abortion.”

“Libby—”

“Abortions contributed to sixteen percent of maternal deaths in America in 1943. Or ’44.”

“Look, Lib—”

“That’s nothing, sweetie. When you sit down and figure it out it’s a misleading fact. How many maternal deaths
are
there? Say it’s as much as three percent. Well, sixteen percent of
that.
That makes it probably one in a hundred thousand. It’s safer,” she said, reaching back to touch him, “than crossing the street.”

“Are you laughing?” he asked, burying his head in her hair.

“I’m smiling, baby. I’m trying to—”

“Shhh—” Paul said. He moved quickly to the edge of the bed, tiptoed to the door and put his ear to it; after a minute he threw it open. All that fell into the bedroom was the dim light from the corridor.

So that each minute would not be an hour, he had brought a book with him to read. He carried it in his hand while he paced, just like the expectant fathers in the movies. He sat down and opened an osteopathic magazine. Again he came upon the picture of Dr. Selwyn Sales of Des Moines. His hobbies were reading and his family. His wife was a Canadian. He had taught at Kirksville, Missouri. Missouri! Paul began to search, with no success, for the editorial in which he had seen Dr. Tom Smith’s name. He flipped through magazine
after magazine until he was nearly frantic. Finally he forced himself to put down the magazines, and started pacing again. The elevator door opened in the hallway. It slammed shut. A figure moved in the pebbled glass of Dr. Smith’s outer doorway. Thank God—it moved on. He heard Mrs. Kuzmyak say something. He heard metallic clinking. Had Kuzmyak administered the pentothal? With those oversized brutish pumpkin hands, had she pushed too deep, too hard? He did not even know how many minutes the whole thing should take. Shouldn’t it be over
soon?
When she hemorrhaged, what would they do? If there is a body to dispose of—

The door opened and Kuzmyak appeared. “Over,” she said, yanking off her gloves. She hadn’t even worn a mask! She had breathed her fat greasy germs right into Libby! Over?
What’s over?

“What?”

Kuzmyak did not like his tone or volume. “Just let Doctor Tom cover her up,” she said abruptly.

“For Christ sake!” Paul rushed through the door just as the doctor’s hands were pulling Libby’s skirt down around her knees. She had worn the old skirt with the oversized girlish safety pin in front, to make it easier; twice before they had left the apartment she had put on fresh underwear. Her eyes were closed now, but she was breathing.

“It takes a few minutes,” Dr. Tom said. But he would not look at Paul. Was he worried? What was going on? “Mrs. Kuzmyak will make some coffee.”

Paul took his wife’s hand—her blouse was unbuttoned. What had her blouse to do with anything? Asleep, anesthetized, what exactly had happened to her? All those women dropping at Smith’s feet—

“Honey? Libby?”

“It takes a while,” said Dr. Tom, washing his hands.

“She’s all right?”

“Like new.”

“Look—is she all right?” He only wanted the doctor to turn and talk to him. “Did you get it all out? Is she bleeding—”

“Control yourself.”

“Just yes or no!”

“Just you don’t be too snippy!” Kuzmyak was standing in the doorway with a kettle. “Poor Doctor Tom,” she said, shaking her head.

“Libby?” Paul rubbed her hand. “C’mon, Lib.”

“That one like Nescafé?” asked Kuzmyak.

“Anything.” He was rubbing and rubbing her hand, to no avail. “Come on, honey, you’re fine, just fine—”

Kuzmyak was standing beside him. “Come on there, Libby.” With one hand she rolled Libby’s head around, the girl’s cheeks jelly between her thumb and forefinger. “Come on, Libbele—wake up, dahling, breakfast is ready.”

“Her name is Libby.”

“Just trying out my accent,” Kuzmyak said, and she went over and poured hot water in the doctor’s cup.

“Prop her up a little,” said Doctor Tom, sitting in his leather chair.

Kuzmyak came back and pulled the girl up by her armpits. “Okay, let’s snap out of it now, huh?”

Libby opened her eyes. She made some sounds. It took her three minutes before she said her husband’s name, another three before she began to cry. She drank her coffee through white lips and took an unsteady practice walk around the office.

Downstairs a taxi was waiting that drove them home. “Are you all right? Did it go all right? Nothing hurts, does it?”

The cab turned through the dark streets. “I’m still sleepy,” she answered. “Very sleepy.”

“I love you, Libby. I love you. I do love you.”

“I’m very tired. My arms are just sleepy.”

“I love you. I want you to know I love you. I do love you, Libby. I love you. I’ll do anything for you. Everything for you, Lib. I love you. Don’t ever forget, Libby, that I love you. Please, please, that I love you.”

At home he put her to bed, and then with all the lights out he sat beside her. “Was it all right? Did you feel anything? Did you go right to sleep?”

“Yes …”

“Don’t you want to talk? Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Just go to sleep.”

“Paul?” She spoke with hardly any strength.

“What is it, honey? Yes?”

“When I walked in,” she said, crying very softly now, “she took off my skirt and slip. I had to stand around in my stockings and blouse—”

He waited for more, but that was it; he heard her weeping, and then after a while he heard her asleep.

Thirty minutes must have passed before the scuffling began in the hall. In that time he had not moved.

First he heard a voice cry out, “Son of a bitch! No good rat!
Louse!”

“Caaaaalm yourself,” Levy was intoning in the meantime. “Caaaalm yourself down.”

“Let go, cock sucker! Let me be! I’m going where I’m going!”

There was an unearthly banging on the door, a sound larger than he could have imagined two, three, or four old men making. “Herz! I’m Korngold!” Then: “Hands
off
, you bastard!”

Paul knocked over a chair running to the door; behind him, Libby stirred and mumbled.

The door opened, and before Paul could slam it shut, Korngold fell like a sack in his arms—simply toppled in. Levy was left standing in the hallway in furry slippers and a red satin robe initialed in gold ALL. All
what!
Wheedlingly he said, “Korngold, straighten up, act a man. Step back over here.”

“Shush you cock sucker you! Herz,
help
me from him.” Korngold struggled up straight in Paul’s arms, then freed himself and turned on Levy. “Go! Wait! The authorities will drag you screaming away! Close the door on him!” he said to Paul.

“Uh-uh,” said Levy, and his cane came poking through the door. “You wait up a second—”

“Paul …?” All three men turned and looked at her. Libby had flipped on the reading lamp. Her cheeks were drawn; her eyes were clouds of black. “Paul—Paul, what?”

“Sick?” asked Levy. “Or recovering?”

“Quiet!” Paul whispered. “Both of you! Now, please, let’s all of us step outside—”

“This son of a bitch—” began Korngold in a trembling voice.

“Korngold.” Paul grabbed the man’s arm. “Korngold, please, be still—now come on—”

Almost crying, Korngold raised his arms and said, “He stole my underwear. Seven years,” he moaned, “and along comes this cock sucker—”

“Korngold!”
Paul shouted, and shook him.

“That’s the story …” the man said. Released by Paul, he fell, in tears, into a chair.

“Look, gentlemen,” said Paul. “My wife is sick. She has to sleep. This is an outright invasion—”

“You hear him?” said Levy to Korngold. “Come along.”

“Oh-oh,” Korngold wailed, “thief,
mamza
, rat!”

“He’s in hysterics, almost a fit,” Levy explained, for now Libby was propped up in bed, and her bewilderment seemed to demand a reason, a word.

Paul went to Korngold and laid a hand, a friendly hand, on his arm. Korngold instantly put out both of his hands, sandwiching Paul’s. “Help,” he whispered. “I’m fleeced still again.”

“Mr. Korngold …” Paul knelt beside him, aware that now Levy had moved all the way into the room and was circling behind them. “Mr. Korngold, tonight you have to pull yourself together. We’re going to go out into the hall now. My wife is very sick—”

“Recovering …” he heard, and saw the rubber tip of Levy’s cane near his foot. In the bed, Libby was reddening, not with health but with helplessness. She kept saying, “Paul,” while he went on convincing Korngold.

“You’ve got to go home now,” Paul said. “Get some sleep.”

“What a life,” exclaimed Korngold, bringing the three-hand sandwich up to rest his cheek upon. “I can’t go to the toilet, I ain’t stolen blind.”

“What?” Paul said.

But Levy’s cane was as good as in his ear. “We split—is that robbery?” asked Levy. “I moved them jockeys for him before they rot and mildew. A wet spring and he was finished. Is that a thing to throw a fit on? You understand?”

“Twenty dollars is a split?” cried Korngold. “On first-rate shorts? On a quality T-shirt? Die, you bastard, die you son of a bitch—”

“Control, Korngold. Control. You’re in the room of a convalescent. Right, Paul?”

Still squatting at Korngold’s knees, he looked up at Levy. The lawyer held his caneless hand to his chest, protecting his respiratory system with the plushy satin robe. “Paul,” Levy said again—and saying that little word, it was as though he owned the world. “Senile,” he whispered. “Don’t be foolish, Paul. They would sit in that room till he passes on. Twenty dollars is not nothing. For him almost a month’s rent.”

“How much did you get, Levy?”

“Add twenty and twenty, what else? A split.” He looked over
at Libby as though perhaps she was the member of the family with the mathematical head.

“Paul,” Libby said, “what
happened?”

“Please,” Paul said. “Please”—he controlled himself so, that tears were squeezed from his eyes—“let’s go out into the hall. Let’s go into Levy’s room.” But he could not drag Korngold from his chair.

He said please again, and then he said it one final time. In the moment that followed all sense fled, all plans; all the rules of his life deserted him, and he expelled a confused, immense groan.

Korngold looked at him in fright and awe. “
What
—” he cried.

Before it even happened Levy began backing away. But Paul had already grabbed him by the throat with two aching hands.

“Stop
pinching!
” screamed Levy.

“How much! How much was it! How much!” He was foaming, actually foaming at the mouth.

“I’m suffocating to death,” Levy cried. He wheeled his cane, striking out at the madman who was whirling him into a corner. “Let go, abortionist! Let go—I’m having you incarcerated—”

Korngold was at last out of his chair, on Paul’s heels. “Don’t hurt him—just ask—”

“Give him the money!”
Paul cried. “Give it up, you son of a bitch!”

“Aaaaaaacchhh …” went Levy, his eyes showing a sudden belief that the end was really at hand.

“Hey, Herz—” yelled Korngold. “Herz, you’ll strangle him dead!
Herz!”

“I give, I give—” Levy was screaming, his arms collapsing as though broken. “All right, I give!”

“He admits it!” Korngold triumphantly addressed the ceiling.

And then Paul felt Libby’s arms pulling him back. Under his fingers he still had Levy’s quaking chicken neck, still felt the disgusting bristly hairs.
“Paul”
came Libby’s voice. “Paul, oh honey, you’re going crazy—”

“Get in bed!” He turned and took her by the hair. “Get in bed! Are
you
crazy?
Get in bed!
”

Her expression was incredulous, as though having leapt from a window, she had her first acute premonition of the pavement below. She winced, she wilted, and then she took two steps backwards and gave herself up, sobbing, to the bed.

But Levy was now in the doorway, slicing the air with his cane. Everyone jumped back as he made a vicious X with his weapon.
“Disgusting! Killer!” he cried, slashing away. “Scraping life down sewers! I only make my way in the world, an old shit-on old man. I only want to live, but a murderer,
never!
This is your friend, Korngold,” announced Levy. “This is your friend and accomplice, takes a seventeen-year-old girl and cuts her
life
out! Risks her life! Commits abortions! Commits
horrors!
” He gagged, clutched his heart, and ran from the room.

Breathless, Paul approached Korngold and took his arm. “Now you get out too—”

“The money—”

“That’s your business.”