Place in the City (24 page)

“Maybe I should have gone,” Danny said.

“No, no. You wouldn't do any good, only hold up things. Large hospital, modern methods, you know.”

“Yeah—what do I owe you, doc?”

They settled it, and then the doctor left. Danny washed his hands; then he got out his coat and hat. Then he stood with them in his hands and wondered where he was going. He thought it was funny the way his mind wandered, the way he knew a thing one moment and then forgot it the next.

Absently, he fumbled for the card, found it and read the name of the hospital. He put the card back and began to get into his coat. Then, suddenly and easily, he began to cry. He fell into a chair, rubbing his fists into his eyes. Then it stopped. He took out a cigarette and put it unlighted into his mouth.

“Aw, hell,” he whispered.

Looking at the door of the bedroom, he wondered whether he would dare to go in there again. Then he crawled into his coat and almost ran from the house.

A
T EIGHT
o'clock Claus was ready, and the guard, sitting near the door, nodded approvingly. He liked a man to be like that, calm and quiet. That made it easier for him, and it wasn't easy to sit with a man whose head was shaven, whose trousers were slit, who was dead—knowing that he was dead.

Claus was curious about the weather. He asked the guard, thinking that he would like to go outside for just a while, just to look at the sky and feel fresh cold air.

“It ain't raining, I guess,” the guard said.

“Tomorrow, that will make a nice sunrise,” Claus thought. He occupied himself with the sunrise, picturing it from beginning to end. First the glow in the sky, and then the edge of the sun; then the full glory of the swollen rising sun….

“Yu kin write a letter,” the guard suggested. “Some does that tu fill the time. The priest'll be here any minute now.”

Claus smiled. Write a letter—but to whom? There were a number of things he would have said to Anna, but to whom else? Not to a fat priest who would come all eager for a confession. Had he ever spoken to anyone but Anna? He would look at the priest and grin into his fat face, show him.

He was tired, all worn out. It was strange to think of weariness without sleep to follow, and then awakening. He knew it wouldn't be like sleep. It would hurt at first, and after that—nothing after that. Why didn't he do as men did when they died? Was he calm because something inside of him had died already? If he had a piano—he could see himself sitting at the piano, playing until the time came, and then walking calmly with his hands clasped behind his back and his glasses perched evenly upon his long nose.

With a dignity that so few men possessed. He would keep his dignity right to the very end.

And again, he could consider that he was done with so many things. No more roaming, creeping from place to place, and no more memories. No more regrets for all the numberless things he had not done. No more—

And from the next cell then, hardly a whisper: “Hey—Dutch.” It was quiet in the death house. Everybody was listening to the two of them. In a manner of speaking, they were on exhibit. Claus heard it repeated: “Hey, Dutch.”

He went to the door, but he didn't answer. The guard watched him. He stood at the door, staring out, wondering about the man over there. A half hour before he died, the other man would go. As death made men brothers.

“Hey, Dutch, it's almost nine.”

“Yeah,” he answered. Was the fool watching time? Did he expect to hold it back? What difference did it make whether it was nine or ten? For an instant he hated the man, fiercely, the way he could hate; and then he shrugged his shoulders. Such a thing to be angry about! Men were brothers in death. Talk, hope—but no anger now about little things. They were above little things.

“Gives me an hour. Geesus Christ, Dutch, say sumpen to me!”

He smiled, contorting his mummy-like face. “What is there to say?”

“I'm afraid—”

Claus's smile became contemptuous, and he strode back to his cot. He sat down, and stared at the guard stonily, while he listened to the man in the next cell weep. From a colored man up the block:

“Dere's hope an' fait'!” He screamed it out, and the cell row took up the babble. Voices from every corner. Claus crouched, shielding his head with his hands. Then he heard the door open, and glanced up at the priest.

“Leave me alone,” Claus said.

The priest stood there, doubtful, and then he began to talk to Claus, quickly. Claus listened; he listened without hearing the words; he listened until the voice seemed to bore into his brain, and then he sprang to his feet and screamed: “Get out—get out, you fat slob!”

Someone began to laugh; in the next cell, the man wept bitterly.

“Get out,” Claus repeated, more calmly now.

But when the priest had gone, he crouched in a corner of his bed and covered his face with his hands. When he took them away, Anna was with him.

“Why did you do that?” she wanted to know.

He glanced sidewise at the guard, and saw that the guard was watching him, not Anna. Watching him. He threw a mock smile at the vision of Anna, but when it persisted, he pawed at it with his hands.

“Steady,” the guard said.

Clasping his hands together, he looked at her. She was dressed as she had been when he shot her. Under his intense concentration, she vanished, and again he put his head in his hands. Then it seemed to him that she had seated herself next to him, and was stroking his head.

“But you never loved me,” he whispered desperately. “I used to want to believe, but you never loved me, my Anna.”

He pressed his head to her stroking, nodded with it, became deliciously drowsy and warm. One part of him listened to the priest, giving the man absolution in the next cell; the other part of him knew only that the woman he loved was stroking his head; and the fact that he knew it was an illusion mattered not at all. He began to whisper.

“You know, my Anna, I die. I'm not afraid—but it will hurt. You be with me, my Anna—stay close with me—be with me—with me—with me.” Was he falling asleep?

Anna. When everything inside of him tightened, squeezed itself together, and sent a yearning pain all over his body, he knew it was his feeling for, Anna. He knew he was a cold man; he had been made that way. He was a hard, cold man, dried out, with love in him for only one thing; but that love was great. Even now, as he pictured it, he saw it growing, enveloping the entire cell, spreading over him.

He started, as if he were waking out of sleep. Anna was gone. Had Anna been there at all?

“What time is it?” he asked the guard.

“Nine-thirty.”

“Nine-thirty,” he repeated dully.

Now the man in the next cell was gone completely. Claus could hear him sobbing, beating his feet against the ground. Whispers up and down the block expressed sympathy or disgust; and then when the warden came, the whispers stopped.

All eyes followed the warden. Even Claus stumbled to the door of his cell and watched him. He went to the next cell, had the door opened, and went in. He was there for a few minutes, talking softly; and while he spoke the death house was so silent that Claus could hear the men in the various cells breathing. Then the warden went away, glancing neither to left nor to right.

The hush lasted a moment longer. Then someone cried: “What was it?”

“Who?”

“Hey, Dutch—you?”

The man in the next cell to Claus screamed; then he was crying again, hysterically; then he was pounding with his bare hands upon the door of his cell.

“Dutch, Dutch!”

Claus was weak, faint; he couldn't answer.

“Dutch—they gimme a stay. Dutch, I ain't goin' tonight. Geesus Christ, Dutch, they gimme a stay. I ain't goin' tonight.”

“Yeah.”

He sat down on his bed, afraid; but he hadn't been afraid like this before. Now he was alone; he would go alone. No abject fear in the next cell to give him courage. All by himself now—and into the dark.

“What time is it?” he asked the guard weakly.

T
HE CHILDREN
were ready to sleep, Sasha in a nightgown that caught under her toes whenever she moved, Peter in pajamas, washing himself now. Peter gurgled and splashed water over himself. Other things were forgotten now. When his mother held out the towel for him, he fairly fell into it.

Mary took them to the bedroom and watched them pray. It was like a benediction to see them on their knees, blessing her in the sight of God. She put out the light, and then stood by the door of the bedroom. So easy to stand there—she could have stood there through the night.

She went into the living-room, sat down, and sat for a long time, just smiling. What would come tomorrow did not matter a great deal—because tonight she was happy. As if tonight had been sanctioned above all other nights, a night of hate and sorrow, of love and forgiveness and thanksgiving. And she didn't hate.

She hated no one, not even Shutzey. Probably Shutzey would die, and that was her own doing; but she did not hate him any more. Nor was she regretful. It seemed to her now that she saw things in a broad sweep, the way she had never seen them before, a sweep of tomorrows that would come endlessly. A promise for Peter and Sasha, always for Peter and Sasha.

H
E
HAD
two more drinks before he reached the hospital; and when he got there he knew that she was dead already, so he sat in the waiting room with his hat in his hands, twisting the hat and staring at the inside band and the lining. He read his initials over again and again. Three initials; it seemed to him that he had never been occupied with anything but reading those initials. He must have sat there for a long time.

—For a long time. Danny didn't know how long it was when the nurse came over and asked him whether she couldn't help him. First he gazed at her blankly; then he put his hat away carefully by his side and lit a cigarette. He plunged into the story, and he was half through with it when she told him that she would take him to his wife.

He looked at her and shook his head.

“You wait a minute,” the nurse said. She went away then, and in a little while she was back. “She's doing nicely,” the nurse said. “You can see her if you want to.”

“All right,” Danny nodded.

Then he took his hat in his hand and followed the nurse. When they came into Alice's room, he felt shy and afraid; he sat down by the bed and fumbled with his hat.

“Only a few minutes,” the nurse said. She went out and left them alone.

Alice reached out and took one of his hands. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, “I'm such a baby.” Then they couldn't do much more than look at one another. He tried to think of what would be the right thing to say, but there wasn't anything.

“They'll only keep me here a day or so,” Alice told him. “I feel better already.”

“That's nice.”

“I'm really not sick,” she explained. “But it's best that I stay here for a little while, isn't it, Danny? I mean that I'm not a nuisance to you here.”

He tried to say something, but all he could do was fumble with his hat, and finally it fell to the floor and lay between his feet. He looked at it perplexedly, and then he raised his eyes to her. She was smiling uncertainly.

“You're no nuisance,” he said miserably.

“But I am. I didn't try to help you, Danny. You came to me, and I never thought to myself that maybe you wanted me to help you. But I'm no good—not for anything. Now even the baby's gone. Will you hate me very much, Danny, because the baby's gone?”

“No.”

“You're not saying that because you want me to feel better, are you? I mean—you're not telling me that now, and afterwards you won't feel that way at all? I feel like such a mess, Danny. And now I don't know what to think. Only when you go away, then what will I do? You see how it is, I'm selfish, Danny. Before you came, I was crying—I was thinking about you going to prison. Oh, I'm afraid—”

“You shouldn't cry,” he told her. “You shouldn't cry. You have to get better.”

“Then I think about the baby.”

“You don't think I care about the baby? Don't you think I care about you at all?”

“I love you so much, Danny.”

“I know.”

“You're not angry with me?”

“No, no—I'm not angry. I love you.”

“You won't go away from me, Danny?”

“I won't.” He was almost sobbing. “I swear I won't, baby. I won't go away. I'll never go away.”

“But Timy—”

“To hell with Timy! I'll fight Timy. I tell you I'll fight Timy.” He tried a smile, managed it, gripped her hand between his. Then he let go of it self-consciously.

“I'm a God damn good lawyer,” he said. “I can fight Timy. He's not God.”

“You won't go away?”

“No, no. I'll stay with you.” He wanted to kiss her, but something held him back; in a way, he feared to touch her. He recalled that he should have brought flowers, and he promised himself that he would bring them the next day. He would bring lots of flowers, and they would make the place bright and cheery. But about Timy—

“What's the matter?” she asked him.

“Nothing. Does it hurt? I don't want anything to hurt you.”

“No, it doesn't.”

He picked up the hat. The nurse had said only a few minutes, and already it was more than that. But she was looking at him in a way that made it almost impossible for him to go. He couldn't stand to have her look at him like that, as if he were better than anything else she had ever known. He knew that he wasn't; he knew that he wanted to get down by the bed and pour out his heart to her. But he couldn't do that either; he couldn't do anything except look at his hat.

“Danny,” she said.