The City When It Rains (29 page)

“That doesn't sound so bad,” Corman told him.

Scarelli laughed. “See what I mean?” he said as he stood up and headed for the door.

For a while Corman remained at the table studying the well-heeled habitués of the Inside Track as he calculated his next move. With Scarelli out, it was up to him now. If there was a mystery, he alone would have to find it.

Dr. Owen looked at him from behind his desk. “You're a reporter, my secretary said.”

“Photographer,” Corman told him.

“But for one of the newspapers, is that right?”

“Yes,” Corman said. “I'm working on a story.”

“About obstetricians?” Owen said with a wry smile.

Corman shook his head. “Sarah Rosen.”

The name registered instantly in Owen's mind. “I see.”

“You remember her?”

Owen nodded. “A bit, yes. She was my patient for a time.”

“During her pregnancy.”

“Brief as it was, yes,” Owen said. “She was about two months pregnant when I first saw her.”

“And you did an abortion not long after that?”

“Yes,” Owen said with sudden hesitation. “That was a long time ago.” He looked at Corman curiously. “There were no complications that I knew of. Why are you interested in Sarah?”

“She killed herself last week.”

“She was a friend of yours?”

“I never knew her,” Corman said. “I'm just trying to find out a few things.”

“Like the details of her abortion?”

“That, and how you felt about her. What you saw. Anything.”

“There's such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality,” Owen said.

“I know,” Corman told him. “But I thought you might just answer a few questions. Sarah's not alive anymore.”

Owen watched him cautiously. “I can only tell you this much. The abortion itself was therapeutic.” He stopped. “Well, maybe one other thing. I didn't recommend it.”

“You didn't?”

“No. I didn't think it was necessary. The risk was not great in her case.”

“What kind of risk?”

“I thought you only wanted a few details.”

“Just what the problem was,” Corman said quietly. “I'd like to know that.”

“She had a very slight heart problem,” Owen said offhandedly. “Nothing terribly serious at all. Millions of women have them and experience no difficulty in giving birth.” He shrugged slightly. “Still, it was my duty to make her aware of it. I didn't advise the abortion, but Dr. Rosen insisted.”

“Dr. Rosen?” Corman asked. “How about Sarah?”

“She agreed to it,” Owen said. He thought a moment. “If we can talk, as they say, ‘off the record'?”

“Okay.”

“Well, the whole situation struck me as rather strange,” Owen said. “I called Sarah and asked her to drop by the office. I told her that there was something I wanted to talk to her about. I expected her to show up as most women do, either alone, or with the male party, husband, lover, whatever. But Sarah brought her father with her instead.”

“Had you ever met him?”

“No,” Owen said. “But he later said that he'd done some checking before directing Sarah to me. I don't know what kind of checking that was. A few phone calls to the AMA, perhaps, something like that.”

“So he selected you for Sarah?”

“That's what he told me, yes.”

“What happened at the meeting?”

“Well, I tried to tell them about the heart problem as casually as I could. It wasn't something she needed to be alarmed about, really. Just notified, that's all.”

“But she was concerned anyway?”

“Her father more than she. He was quite adamant. He didn't want her to take the risk of having the baby, no matter how slight that risk might be.”

“How did she react?”

“She was very quiet. She seemed to have very little will of her own, if you know what I mean.”

“He dominated her?”

“I would say so, yes.”

“And he wanted the abortion?”

“Absolutely,” Owen said firmly. “There was never any question in his mind that that was the appropriate thing to do. Even though I told him several times that the birth would probably go just fine.”

“What did he say?”

“He was very sharp at that point,” Owen replied. “Even haughty. ‘Probably?' he said in this very stiff way he has, ‘I don't care for probablies, Doctor.'” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “And that was the end of it. I scheduled the abortion for the following week, and when it was over, Sarah and Dr. Rosen walked out of my office. I never saw them again.”

“She never came for a follow-up appointment?”

“No,” Owen said. “I had my secretary call her several times. We left messages on her machine, but she never called back.” He stopped, and looked at Corman curiously. “You say she killed herself?”

Corman nodded. “She jumped out a tenement window down in Hell's Kitchen.”

Owen did not look surprised. “Well,” he said dryly, “something in her was dead already.”

Corman left Owen's office a few minutes later, glanced at his watch and realized that it would soon be time to pick Lucy up at PS 51. He tried not to think of her, the school, Lexie's righteous cause, and so let his mind drift toward less threatening worlds. For a time, he thought of Lazar, but found that his mind continually returned to Lucy, circled awhile, then went on past her, finally settling on Sarah Rosen, her body sprawled across the wet street, as if in some indecipherable way everything now came back to her, fell precipitously toward her body like the rain.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

C
ORMAN WAS STANDING
at the door, watching Lucy take off her raincoat, when the phone rang. It was Pike.

“Hey, Corman,” he said. “I got a call from that little fag who writes the society column. What'd you do, buddy, blow his joint?”

Corman didn't answer.

“Anyway,” Pike went on. “He likes your work. Says you'd be great for his beat when Groton leaves.”

“I did my best,” Corman said.

“Well, this call is just a friendly reminder that Groton has a shoot late tomorrow afternoon,” he added. “If you're interested, meet him at his place.”

“Okay. When?”

“Six o'clock, sharp.”

“I'll be there,” Corman assured him. He hung up and turned to Lucy. “I may be getting a steady job,” he said and instantly thought of Julian, the faint hope he offered that there might still be some way out.

Lucy shrugged. “That's good, I guess.”

“I'd be home nights.”

Lucy glanced up at him and smiled. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “Even when you're gone, it's like you're here.” She darted into her room and did not come out again until Corman called her to dinner, scooping out a portion of something he called “Whatever,” a mixture of whatever vegetables and meat were still left in the refrigerator at any given time.

“Are you going out tonight?” she asked, as she drew her fork tentatively to her mouth.

Corman nodded and took his seat at the table. “An old professor of mine, if I can get in touch with him.”

Lucy looked puzzled. “Are you going back to school?”

Corman shook his head. “No. It's about something else. Some pictures I'm working on.”

“Mama's thinking about going back to school,” Lucy said.

“Really?” Corman said. It was the first he'd heard of it. “To study what?”

Lucy shrugged. “I don't know.” She began circling her fork in the food. “She said you were a great teacher.”

“I'm glad she thought so,” Corman said. He glanced over at his answering machine. The red light was blinking madly, but he didn't feel like listening to his messages yet.

“I guess I'll never have you, huh?” Lucy said.

“I guess not,” Corman said. He nodded toward the listlessly circling fork. “It's to eat, not to play with.”

Lucy took a minuscule amount of food onto the fork then brought it slowly to her mouth. “I have lots of homework,” she said after she'd swallowed. “I guess I can't watch TV or anything.”

“Homework first,” Corman said. “You know that.” To set the right example, he took a large bite of Whatever and chewed it, faking enjoyment as best he could.

Within a few minutes, dinner was over. Corman began clearing the table, while Lucy sat at the small desk in her room, groaning audibly about her homework, but continuing to do it anyway. He washed and dried the dishes, then picked up the few things that had remained scattered across the room long enough to attract his attention: pieces of newspaper, an old cigarette pack or two, junk mail.

The red light of the answering machine finally annoyed him enough for him to listen to the messages. There was only one, from Joanna, telling him she'd be at one of their usual places at around midnight and hoped he'd drop by. Her voice seemed calm, and it was impossible for Corman to judge what she wanted or whether Leo had gotten bad or good news from the tests.

Lucy peeped her head out the door of her room when the message ended. “I guess you'll be seeing Joanna, too,” she said teasingly.

Corman faked a smile. “Finish your homework.”

When she'd gone back into her room, Corman clicked off the machine, then looked up Dr. Maitland's number and dialed it.

A man answered immediately, and Corman recognized the deep, resonant voice that he remembered first from the lecture halls, then from the short, earnest conversations along Columbia Walk.

“Dr. Maitland,” he said. “It's David Corman.”

“David?” Dr. Maitland said brightly. “My God, I thought you'd fallen off the edge of the world.”

“Just to Forty-fifth Street,” Corman said.

Maitland chuckled. “Well, that's not too far,” he said. “But it's been a long time since I've heard from you.”

“Yes, it has,” Corman said. “As a matter of fact, I was wondering if I could meet you for a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Dr. Maitland said.

“Tonight?” Corman asked hesitantly.

Dr. Maitland laughed. “You always were a fast starter, David,” his voice hinting subtly that it was the finish line that had always given him problems.

“West End Cafe?” Corman said. “Around nine?”

“I'll be there,” Dr. Maitland said. “Just be sure you are.”

He was, and as he waited for Dr. Maitland, sitting silently in his old haunt, the darkened booth in the rear corner of the cafe, he thought of all the leisurely times he'd spent there, all the high, purposeful talk he'd listened to, with Lexie across from him, boldly holding forth on whatever popped into her mind. It was the sort of memory that had a well-defined potential for bitterness, but quite unexpectedly, Corman found that he still felt a distant fondness for the Lexie of his youth, the one who'd been so brazen, so full of high mockery. She'd had the mimic's gift for lampooning people, especially her professors. She closed her eyes with mock portentousness as Dr. Berger did. She rolled her eyes and sputtered like Dr. Wilkins. She delivered orotund pronouncements, then sank into obfuscation. She did all of this while Corman and the other students around her teared with laughter. No doubt about it, she'd reigned like a comic queen in those days. It was the years after college that had given her trouble. After graduation, she'd simply put her life on hold, drawn in close to the fire, while everyone else had finally gotten up, swallowed hard and ventured out into the jungle. He couldn't imagine why this had happened or whether he'd been in any way responsible. He only knew that her edginess had slowly worn down and that a kind of decomposition had set in. There were even times, toward the end, when it seemed almost physical, as if while sitting across from her at dinner, he half-expected to see her face crack like dry ground or a handful of iron gray hair suddenly come loose from her scalp and float down to her shoulder.

Maitland came in a few minutes later and stared around, squinting in the darkness, until he caught Corman's eye. Then he moved heavily through a barricade of crowded tables until he reached the booth in the rear corner. He was a large, potbellied man now, not exactly old, but getting there fast. His hair had thinned considerably since Corman had last seen him. It had gotten grayer too. He looked more weathered than before, but still robust, energetic, full of quick responses.

“Hello, David,” he said as he slid into the booth.

Corman nodded and smiled.

Maitland turned toward the bar, ordered two beers on tap, then looked at Corman. “So, what have you been doing since you left Columbia?”

“I taught for a while,” Corman said. “That private school you wrote the reference for.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” Maitland said. “How'd that turn out?”

“It was okay.”

“But you're not there now?”

“No.”