A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) (38 page)

“What’s the matter, Spit?” I asked coldly. “Chicken?”

He turned to me snarling. “I don’t trust yuh. I know yuh too good!”

Maxie’s voice was heavy with command. “Sit down and shut up, Spit!” he snapped. “I’m runnin’ this show!”

Slowly Spit subsided into his chair, his eyes flashing angry lights at me.

Maxie’s voice was still heavy, only he was talking to me now. “It’s a deal, Danny,” he said slowly. “But there’s no backin’ out now like yuh did before. This time yuh try an’ run me aroun’ an’ yuh’re deader’n hell.”

In spite of myself, I shivered as I got to my feet. At the doorway I turned. Spit was watching me, his eyes filled with hatred. Maxie’s were cold, his face without expression. I could see him breathing heavily.

“You make up the bill, Maxie,” I said quietly. “I’ll pay it!” I closed the door behind me and went down the stairs.

It was a few minutes to six when I paid the cab-driver off in front of my house. As the cab pulled away, I paused on the sidewalk and
looked at the house. I felt tired and old and empty. But it was good to be home.

Suddenly I realized that I had never thought of any place else as home. None of the other places I had lived meant anything to me. None of them were mine, none of them belonged to me the way this did. Then, as I stood there, I thought of what I had done, and all the satisfaction of coming home drained out of me. Now it didn’t seem to matter.

I had gone through too much. I was not the same person who had left this house so many years ago. I had lost my childish wonder. Life was too grim. You had to fight it all the time or you would be nothing. There was no peace, no friends, no real happiness. This world was a war for survival. You had to kill or be killed.

My footsteps echoed on the cement stoop. It had taken me a long time to realize it. You couldn’t feel too much if you wanted to get along. You had to close your heart and lock it against people. No one must touch you, for you were alone on the day you were born and you’d be alone on the day you died.

I put out my hand to open the massive front door, but it swung open before I touched it. “Hello, Danny,” the voice said quietly.

There was no surprise in me. I had heard the voice before. It was the voice of the house that had spoken to me the day Nellie and I came to buy it.

“Hello, Papa.”

My father took my hand and together we walked into the house as once we had many years ago. For a moment we didn’t speak, there was no need for words. Then we stopped in the living-room and looked at each other. There were tears standing in his eyes. It was the first time I had ever seen him weep. His voice was low, but filled with pride, and I realized as he spoke that his pride was for me.

“We’ve all come home again, Danny,” he said humbly. “If you can forgive an old man’s mistakes, we’ll never have to leave what we found here.”

I smiled slowly, beginning to understand many things. His voice was the voice of the house. It had never really been my house at all, it had belonged to him. When I had told the house of my love, I was speaking to him, and when the house spoke to me, he was speaking to me. It would never be my house until he gave it to me, no matter how much I paid for it.

I looked around the room. Something had been missing all the time, and now that he was here, the house was warm and alive again. I was glad that he had come. I didn’t have to say anything cither; he seemed to know just how I felt.

“It was the most wonderful birthday present I ever had, Papa,” I said.

Then for the first time he became aware of the way I looked. “My God!” he exclaimed. “Danny, what happened?”

His words snapped me back to the present. “I had an accident, Papa,” I said. “Where’s Nellie?”

His face stared up at me. “Mamma’s got her to lie down upstairs. She was almost hysterical with worry over you.”

There was a sound at the top of the stairs. Nellie was standing there, her white face looking down at me. In the harsh white light of the still unshaded stairway bulbs I must have been a hideous sight. Her lips parted in a half scream. “Danny!”

Her voice was still echoing against the walls as I started up the stairway toward her. She took a small step down toward me, then her eyes turned upward in their sockets and she fainted.

“Nellie!” I shouted, springing to catch her.

But she was falling, tumbling clumsily down half the flight before I could stop her. She was a small huddled heap near the wall and I was on my knees beside her, my hands frantically turning her face toward me. “Nellie!” I screamed at her.

Her face was the white transparency of a bottle of milk, and her eyes were squeezed tight with pain. I could see her bloodless lips whispering in her agony. “Danny, Danny, I was so worried about you.

I turned wildly toward Papa. “There’s a doctor in the corner house across the street,” I shouted at him. “Get him! Quick!”

I turned back to Nellie, hearing the front door slam. I rested her head against my shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she was very still. She seemed to be hardly breathing.

Why did I have to learn so many things so late? I could see the whole thing now. It was my fault. Nellie had been right. I hugged her head against my breast. It couldn’t happen, it mustn’t. She was all my world. I shut my eyes tightly and prayed, the tears seeping from beneath my eyelids.

“Please, God…. Please …”

Nervously I paced up and down the small hospital waiting-room. It seemed as if I had been there for days instead of only a few hours.
I stuck another cigarette in my mouth and tried to light it. I broke three matches before Zep finally lit one for me and held it to my cigarette.

I looked at him gratefully. I don’t know what we would have done without him that day. All day he had stayed with Nellie, calming her and helping her, and now he was here with me. “Thanks, Zep,” I muttered.

Exhausted, I dropped into the chair between my father and him. “The doctor’s been out an awful long time,” I said.

Zep looked at me understandingly. He knew how I felt. “Don’t worry, Danny,” he said, awkwardly patting my shoulder. “She’ll be okay. The doctor said she had a chance, and I know my sister. She’s a scrapper. She’ll come through.”

That was it. She had a chance. The doctor had said that. She had a chance. I had to keep thinking of that over and over or I would go mad—stark, raving mad. All the way down to the hospital, riding next to her, her cold limp hand in mine, as we roared through the streets in the screaming ambulance, I had to keep thinking that.

She had hurt herself inside. The baby had shifted, the doctor said. There was a pressure inside her and she was torn and bleeding. All inside where you couldn’t see it. You could only know it when you looked at her face, white and bloodless.

Quickly and efficiently they had placed her on a small white table and rushed her up to the operating-room. Her eyes were still closed, she couldn’t see me. Through her pale lips came a thin small sound of pain. Then she was gone through the white doors and I had to wait.

That was more than two hours ago and I was still waiting. We were still waiting. I looked over at her mother, sitting on a chair by the window, nervously twisting a handkerchief. Her eyes were puffy with tears as she listened silently to my mother trying to console her. She hadn’t said anything to me, but I knew that she blamed me for what had happened to Nellie. And she was right. But still, if it hadn’t been for Sam none of this would have happened.

There were footsteps in the corridor outside. Mimi was
coming
toward me, an anxious look on her face. “Danny, what happened?”

I didn’t answer her; my eyes were fixed on Sam, walking behind her. There was a strange uncomfortable look on his face. “What are you doing here?” I shot at him.

“Your father called and told us Nellie had an accident. Mimi was too upset to drive, so I brought her out here,” he explained.

I got to my feet slowly. I could feel my legs trembling with rage. My mouth was suddenly dry. “You satisfied now?” I asked harshly. “This the way you wanted it?”

There was a peculiarly shamed look in his eyes. “This wasn’t the way I wanted it, Danny,” he replied in a low voice.

Then I heard the doctor’s voice: “Mr. Fisher!”

Sam was forgotten as I turned and grasped the doctor’s lapels. “How is she, Doc?” I asked huskily. “How is she?”

His face, covered with weary lines, relaxed slightly as he looked at me. “She’s resting comfortably, Mr. Fisher,” he answered quietly. “She’s in considerable pain, but she’ll be all right.”

I went limp, all the emotion drained out of me. I sank weakly back into a chair and covered my face with my hands. For once my prayers had been heard.

I felt the doctor’s hand on my shoulder and looked up at him. “Can I see her, Doc?”

“Not just yet.” He shook his head, his face was grave. “Mr. Fisher, we have an outside chance to save your son’s life if we can find the right type of blood.”

I was on my feet again. I didn’t understand him. “What d’yuh mean, Doc?”

His eyes were on mine. “Your son wasn’t badly hurt, maybe because he was premature and therefore small, but he has lost some blood. If we can replace it soon enough, he has a good chance of growing up.”

I was pulling at his arm. “Come on, then,” I said anxiously. “I got plenty.”

He shook his head again. “I’m afraid your blood wouldn’t do,” he explained. “There was a mild Rh factor involved, and your blood would be incompatible. The type we need is one that only one donor in a thousand might have. I’ve put out a call for one already. It all depends on what time we can get him here.”

A sinking feeling came back into me again. No luck. I slipped back into the chair. The doctor’s voice continued his explanation. “The only chance your baby would have had anyway was by a cæsarian section with complete blood replacement.”

Zep’s voice spilled into my ears like the sweetest music. “Maybe my blood will match, Doctor.”

I looked at him gratefully, then back at the doctor. “Maybe it will,” the doctor said wearily. “Come with me and we’ll see.” He looked
around the room. “If any of you would like to be tested, come along.”

We all followed him out of the waiting-room. A few steps down we turned into a small laboratory, where a nurse was sitting, reading a newspaper. She got to her feet quickly as we entered.

“Check the blood type of these people right away, Nurse,” the doctor said.

“Yes, doctor,” the nurse replied, already turning to the table behind her.

I watched her prepare the slides and place them near the
microscope.
When they were all finished, she deftly inserted one under the lens.

“I’ll look at it, Nurse,” the doctor said quickly.

She stepped aside as the doctor bent and peered into the microscope. He shook his head and she slipped the next one into the rack. I held my breath until he had looked at them all. Then he straightened up, shaking his head.

“No, Doc?” I asked hopelessly.

He looked around the room. My mother and father, Zep and his mother were watching him intently. He turned back to me. “Sorry, Mr. Fisher,” he said sincerely. “No one here will do. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the donor to get here.”

“But it might be too late,” I said weakly. “My son might—might—” It was the first time I had said those words: my son. But I couldn’t finish the sentence.

The doctor’s hand rested sympathetically on my arm. “We can only hope he’ll get here soon,” he said comfortingly. “He might be here any minute.”

The door opened and I turned toward it hopefully. Then I felt my heart slipping down into my shoes. It was only Sam.

Awkwardly he pushed his way into the room. He looked at me with embarrassment for a moment, then turned to the doctor.

“Down at the blood bank, Doc,” he said in his rough heavy voice, “they told me I got a rare-type blood. Maybe it’s the type yuh’re lookin’ for.”

“We’ll find out in a minute,” the doctor said. He beckoned to the nurse.

I stared at Sam for a second, then walked past him out into the corridor. The laboratory door swung shut behind me. There was no use in hanging around: he could do me no good. All he brought me was trouble. From the first time I saw him.

“Danny! Danny!” Zep’s voice echoed excitedly behind me. He
was running down the corridor toward me, his dark face alive with excitement. “The doc says Sam’s blood is the type!”

I stared at him, not believing my ears.

Half an hour later the doctor came into the waiting-room where we were sitting. There was a smile on his face. He came toward me, holding out his hand. “I guess you’ll be passing out cigars after all, Mr. Fisher,” he said. “Congratulations!”

I could hardly see his face through the blur in my eyes. “Thank you, Doc,” I said fervently. “Thank you.”

The doctor smiled again. “Don’t thank me,” he said quickly. “Just thank God and your brother-in-law for being around! It’s a miracle for a seven-month premature Rh to get even this far!”

My mother-in-law began to cry happily. Zep was hugging her. Mamma, Papa, and Mimi were crowding around me. Mimi’s arms were about my neck, her lips against my cheek. My tears were wet on her face. Nothing else mattered—only the joy of this moment.

I turned to the doctor. “Can I see my wife now, Doc?”

He nodded. “But only for a few minutes,” he warned. “She’s still very weak.”

The nurse sitting at the side of the bed rose quickly when I came into the room, and I heard the door close softly behind me. I stared at the bed. Only Nellie’s face showed above the white sheets, her bluish-black hair cascading across the pillow behind her. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be sleeping.

I walked over to the bed and sat down beside her, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing her. But somehow she knew I was there. Her eyes fluttered open. They were dark brown and gentle. Her lips barely moved. “Danny.” She tried to smile.

I put my hand on the sheet where I could see her hand beneath it. “Don’t try to talk now, baby,” I whispered. “Everything’s all right.”

“The baby too?” Her voice was faint and doubtful.