Other Plans (17 page)

Next thing he knew, Emma had Keith by the hand and was pulling him to his feet, teaching him how to touch dance. He could've sworn Keith already knew how. “That's right, put your hand around my waist, like so,” Emma directed. Smiling faintly, Keith did as he was told. Leslie grabbed his hand and said, “Johnny, let's show them how the big kids do it.” She grasped him in her strong arms and they were off, Leslie leading. Leslie always led. She wouldn't dance with him unless he let her lead. That was all right with him. He just wondered if she insisted on leading the other people she danced with. It was okay if you happened to be her brother, but if you were just a date, you might not take kindly to being propelled masterfully around the dance floor by the girl you were dancing with. People might stare.

“Hey, you're good!” Emma said, leaning back to look into Keith's face. “You can't tell me you never touch danced before. You're putting me on.”

He watched Keith pull Emma close and silently gnashed his teeth. What's going on here? he wondered.

“I had some lessons when I was in Palm Beach,” Keith said. “My father's a regular Fred Astaire and thinks I should be one, too.”

He slipped out of Leslie's firm embrace. “Let's change partners.” He touched Keith on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”

“No,” Keith said, dancing away from him. Taking Emma with him.

“Hey, Johnny.” Hands on hips, Leslie watched. “You can't leave me in the lurch like that. It ain't gentlemanly.”

He felt his face grow hot, felt the blood travel down to the tips of his ears.

“Be cool, Johnny,” Les whispered. “Hang loose.”

“I'm going to see if I can help Ma,” he muttered, and went out to the kitchen. Who did Keith think he was, hogging Emma? Emma was
his
guest, staying at
his
house.

“It's all ready, John,” his mother said when he offered help. “If you'll just carry in the shepherd's pie for me, please. We'll go ahead without Dad,” she said. “He's going to be late. Just sit anywhere you like. John, will you see who wants milk.” Milk. Boy, it was a good thing his father wasn't around. He wouldn't sit still for milk, especially when it was practically a party.

Emma went ape over his mother's shepherd pie. “It's the best I've ever had, Mrs. Hollander. Absolutely terrific. I've had it lots of times in England and it's practically their national dish, but never as good as yours.”

No good cook could resist such blandishments. His mother warmed perceptibly. He'd known that first night that Emma wasn't his mother's cup of tea—she had a way of letting such things be known right away—but give Emma another couple of days and his mother would be eating out of her hand. Figuratively speaking.

“When I was seven or eight,” Keith said suddenly, “my father took me to the Tower of London. I can still remember the size of those jewels and the size of those hats the Tower guards wear. Those hats scared me. I thought at first they were alive.”

“Oh, I love the Tower!” Emma said. “I love London, all of it. We stayed at the Connaught and I thought someone had stolen my shoes because my mother put them out in the hall at night, and someone came and took them away to polish them and I got all excited because I thought they'd been stolen and they were brand new.” She laughed at her own foolishness and they all joined in.

“That's where we stayed,” Keith said. “The Connaught. My father keeps a running tab there. It's a pretty classy joint.”

“Classy is the word,” Emma agreed. He saw her regarding Keith with new interest, thought briefly of telling his story about making his own bed at the hotel in Montreal, and decided against it.

A rare shot of intuition told him it wouldn't fit.

By the time the cheesecake was cut, Emma and Keith were buddies. He tried to get a word in edgewise, then gave up. Leslie caught his eye and winked. He had never seen Keith so animated, so obviously having a good time. Good thing they'd invited him for dinner. Too bad he'd hit it off so well with Emma. Don't be shitty, he cautioned himself. Can Keith help it if all the girls were wild about him?

After dessert, Keith checked his watch and said he better go. “I told her I'd call her tonight, see how things were,” he said. “Thanks, Mrs. Hollander, for a delicious dinner. Nice to meet you, Emma. Leslie, good to see you again.” There were no flies on Keith when it came to saying adios.

“I'm going to walk Keith to the corner, Ma,” he said, going out with Keith and closing the door behind them. “Be right back.”

They went a way in silence. “That was really nice,” Keith said. “Thanks for asking me. It was great.”

“Well, what'd you think? Isn't she something?”

Keith laughed. “I better keep her away from my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yeah. He'd really go for her. She's his type.”

He swallowed once or twice. “She's only twenty,” he said.

Keith looked at him in the dark. “That's right. But she
is
his type. I told you my father was an old goat. Listen, I better go. See you tomorrow. Thanks for dinner,” and Keith jogged off into the night.

Keith's father? She wouldn't give him the time of day. What kind of a thing was that to say about a girl? He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and headed back, stood for several minutes staring up at the lighted windows in Emma's room.

I better keep her away from my father.

15

“Of course, Mr. Hollander,” and the doctor's eyelid twitched rhythmically, “you must feel free to consult another doctor. Get another opinion. Or several, if you like. We believe that second and third opinions, in a case like yours, are a good idea.”

The air in the room was suffocating. “In a case of this sort,” the doctor's voice seemed to deepen, gain momentum, “it's best to explore all possibilities, all options. There should be no doubt whatever in your mind as to what the proper procedure should be. As to the proper steps to be taken, that is. I want your complete confidence. It's important to have that between patient and doctor.”

There was a ringing in his ears. He swallowed hard and shook his head to clear it.

“The X-rays show a mass in the abdomen, Mr. Hollander, as I said. It's hard to know what we'll find until we go inside and have a look around.”

He wanted to shout, “You're talking about my insides, goddam it! You're not talking about spelunking. What are you, a real estate agent!” He heard Ed say, “They said they'd know more after they take a look inside.” It
was
like a real estate agent. Go ahead. Feel free to look around, see what's what. This is your gallbladder, this your pancreas. Nice location. If there's something you don't like, why, we'll just eliminate it, cut to fit. We aim to please.

“As far as the liver goes,” the doctor's voice was inexorable, “the tests show some damage. We'll do a biopsy. That's the usual procedure. But perhaps you have another doctor you'd like to consult. Before we proceed.” The doctor fixed him with a stern glance, waiting for some feedback.

“If the liver is cancerous,” he said. “If my liver is cancerous,” he corrected himself, showing the doctor he was facing reality, “if it's cancerous, then that's it. Nothing can be done. Is that correct?”

The doctor's gaze shifted to a point just over his shoulder. “Usually this is the case, yes, Mr. Hollander.”

“I mean, if the liver is cancerous,” he knew he was saying it again but he couldn't seem to stop, “there is no hope. Is that about it?” Perspiration slid from his armpits down his sides, where his belt made it captive.

The doctor lowered his head, thinking this over. “That is true,” he said, without inflection. “But we don't know for sure, we're not absolutely positive that this is so. The biopsy will tell us more.”

“I understand they do lots of things these days with diet,” he said.

“Diet?”

“I read a magazine piece not long ago telling of wonderful cures for cancer brought about by diet, a change in diet. By eating certain foods in quantity and eliminating others. Some man who had been told he had only a short time to live cured himself by changing his diet drastically. Did it on his own, too. No medical advice was involved.” He liked saying that. “And now,” he sat up very straight and put his hands on the edge of the doctor's desk, “now that man is hale and hearty. Did it on his own, too, the whole way.”

“Well,” the doctor smiled. “There are lots of quacks around. If you are going to consult another physician, Mr. Hollander, I would suggest a need for haste. Time is important. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better.”

“Another?” the bartender asked, swabbing down the bar unnecessarily.

“No,” he said. “No thanks. I shouldn't. I've had enough.” He laughed. “I sound like my wife.” He got down from the stool, patted his pockets to see if he had everything. The bartender smiled tentatively, waiting for him to leave before scooping up his tip.

“I'm a dying man,” he said. “You may not think it to look at me, but I'm a very dying man. Don't feel bad.” He lifted a hand in admonition. “Don't say a word. It's all right. I don't blame you. I don't blame anyone. It's no one's fault. Good night.”

He went out into a stinging downpour. His body felt weightless, his head enormous, almost touching the stars. His feet seemed huge, black platters skimming the ground. How could there be stars when it was raining? Stranger things have happened. Alcohol had made him strong and brave; at least he felt, momentarily, very strong, very brave. But he knew he was a coward, too.

“No!” His voice rang out, a high, hoarse croak. “No! No! I am not!” He lifted his fist and shook it at the sky. In a dark house on the corner, lights went on, and someone came to a window. A terrible sound was wrenched from deep in his throat, a sound like an animal in a trap.

He was still there a few minutes later when the police caught up with him. The headlights of the squad car picked him out, and the driver said to his partner, “Jeez, he's in bad shape.”

“I reserve the right to remain silent,” Henry said as he climbed in, giving them his name and address. They drove him home and escorted him to his front door, the cop checking the house number to make sure it was the right place. Lights were on downstairs, the cop noted, and the drunk's key fitted the lock. The door swung open.

“See!” Henry crowed. “I told you this was my house.”

Over his shoulder the cop saw a woman standing in the shadows. Poor guy, the cop thought. He's in for it.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“Good evening, Ceil.” Henry turned and said to the cop, “If you leave your card, I'll send the money around in the morning.” The cop touched his fingers to his cap and left quickly.

Henry climbed the stairs slowly, stumbling over each one. Ceil walked behind him, thinking she might have to catch him if he fell, wondering if she could manage that. Please God, don't let him fall. This was bad enough. Leslie and John and Emma were still in front of the TV set; she could hear canned laughter as she closed the bedroom door.

Henry took off his shoes, lifting each one in order to inspect it carefully before he let it drop. Then came his tie, his shirt. She helped him out of his suit, shocked at his color, his sunken eyes. He crawled into bed, closed his eyes, and began to snore. She sat on a chair, heart pounding, listening to his rattly snores, smelling his whiskey breath. If it hadn't been for the strong odor of Scotch, she might've thought he'd had some sort of a stroke. Rage constricted her throat. Where had he been? With whom? And why had he come home in this condition? She would have gone into the guest room, but Emma was there. After a long time she got into bed and slept fitfully, her arms rigid at her sides, careful not to touch him.

In the morning, when she woke, she could hear him in the shower. She lay there, waiting. He emerged, fully dressed, and went directly to the closet to get his overnight bag. Turning, he saw she was awake. He came toward her with a gesture of conciliation.

She was carved of stone.

“I have to go to Dallas today,” he said, going to his bureau, rooting through the drawers.

“Today!” Anger propelled her from the bed. “Where were you last night to get so drunk? How could you do that to me?”

“I didn't do it to you,” he said. “I did it to myself. I'm sorry, Ceil.”

“Sorry!” Her voice became uncharacteristically shrill. “Sorry isn't enough. I'm embarrassed for you, Henry. And ashamed. In front of Leslie and her friend. And John. You set a fine example to your children. And humiliated me in the bargain. You could hardly walk.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Don't keep saying that,” she said, teeth clenched. “I want an explanation. A man doesn't get falling-down drunk and come home in a police car and say ‘I'm sorry' and that's it.”

“Then I have no excuse,” he said, his back to her. He stuffed in socks and a tie. He'd buy some handkerchiefs in town. There were no clean, ironed ones in the drawer. He wouldn't ask her if she knew where his handkerchiefs were, which he often did. They were usually in a pile in her ironing basket. It as a standing joke between them.

Had he taken off his clothes and paraded naked in front of them all, lined up so tidily in front of the TV? He remembered seeing them when he staggered in. He remembered the rain, the bar, although if his life had depended upon it, he couldn't have found his way back to it. He remembered the nice cop.

“What the hell are you going to Dallas for?” She almost never swore, considering it beneath her dignity.

“Burrell wants me to go out to speak to some hotel people about a rather advanced design they want, wants me to talk them out of it, if possible. Offer them several alternatives.” He was amazed at his own glibness.