Other Plans (12 page)

Belatedly, he realized he'd painted a too-attractive picture. “You wouldn't like it,” he said hastily. “We better head for home. Every once in a while, the cops raid Alfie's.” He wagged his head and assumed a lugubrious expression. “Your aunt and uncle would never let you go out with me again if I had you in there when there was trouble.”

That last was genius, pure and simple.

“The local blab publishes a list of the people who're in the joint when it's raided. It could get very embarrassing.”

Young Grace didn't demur. Instead, she became somewhat kittenish and snuggled under his arm for protection as a mastiff bared its teeth at them.

“There you go, Chester,” he showed off, roughing up Chester's coat. The dog was a friend from paper-route days. “How's it going, Chester? Don't take any wooden bones, okay?” Chester practically rolled over and played dead. When they hit the Lerners' house, young Grace said again that her aunt and uncle wouldn't be home from their party until late, and that there was plenty of beer in the fridge.

He hated beer. And he hated this part, the after-the-ball-is-over part. He was never sure of what to do or how to go about doing it, and tonight he had a real live one. He knew lust when he saw it. This girl, woman, from Seattle lusted after him. A first. She looked as if she'd been around the track once or twice and, although he was disinclined to make it with femmes who outweighed him, he was tempted. If the truth must out, most of them outweighed him. He hoped, with time and good nutrition, he would come up in the standings.

He'd have to be crazy not to go ahead, to pass up such a chance to develop his technique, never mind his libido. And wondered how long it would take to fumble through the layers of clothing to get at the boobs. Suppose the Lerners caught him in flagrante delicto? Old Grace was the kind who'd publish the banns in church next Sunday if she found him fooling around.

“Here.” Young Grace handed him the front door key. “You do it. It always gets stuck when I try.”

Under cover of darkness he flashed his teeth at her to show he understood, and set to work on the door. Under his skilled fingers it swung open, creaking and groaning, a regular Dark Shadows type door. He half expected a couple of bats to fly out.

“A piece of cake,” he said, giving back the key. In a trice she had him in a hammerlock. “They won't be home for hours,” she whistled into his ear. He allowed himself to be conducted inside. Without relaxing her grip, she shut the door with her foot. He admired her dexterity. Then, like a plumber's helper, she attached herself to his neck and began drawing blood.

A light touch seemed indicated.

“I knew her before she was a virgin,” he mumbled, quoting Groucho, anxious to bring a smile to her lips to distract them from the havoc they were wreaking on his neck.

Grace, however, threw him from her as if he'd suddenly broken wind. He fell against a table, sending magazines flying.

“What's
that
supposed to mean?” she said.

“It was just a funny,” he said weakly, running a furtive hand over his shoulder, exploring it for possible dislocation. One false move now and she could pull out a Saturday night special and blow him away. “I didn't mean anything,” he said. “I was only fooling around.”

Drawing herself up to her full height, she began throwing off garments, one by one, à la Gypsy Rose Lee. She caught him full in the eye with one of her heavy ski gloves, bruising his eyeball, perhaps permanently.

“All I did was ask you in for a beer,” she said icily. “You Easterners are all oversexed. It's a known fact.”

“Where'd you hear that?” It was the first interesting thing she'd said all night. “I never heard that. Maybe you're right.”

She made a sudden move and he flinched, thinking she was going to take him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out. No matter what he said from here on in, it would be wrong.

“I'm sorry,” he said, though for what? He didn't know what he'd done that he should apologize for, but an apology seemed to be in order.

She pointed to the door. “You have no couth,” she said.

“That's what my mother says.” He went in the direction she indicated. Once outside, teetering on the top step, he listened as she shot bolts, slid locks, and, in all probability, turned on the burglar alarm, if they had one. He walked across the frozen turf and stood on the sidewalk watching as young Grace plastered her nose against a window, watching him. When he blew her a kiss, she thumbed her nose at him and doused the lights.

He loped homeward through the night, which had turned starry, not completely displeased with the way things had turned out. He'd probably regret it in the morning. But he didn't care how big the boobs were if there was no sense of humor behind them.

By morning, the hickey she'd given him glowed back at him in the mirror. It was a beauty, worthy of having its portrait painted by Andy Warhol. How could he keep it in viable shape until Monday morning for locker-room show and tell? Pack it in dry ice, maybe. Plenty of times he'd stood by while guys had exhibited hickeys that paled beside this one. Now it would be his turn.

You sex maniac, you, he told his image fondly. There's nothing you can't do, Hollander. You can do it all. Smiling, scratching his hairless chest, he bounded down the stairs to the kitchen.

His mother was banging around, flicking her dishcloth like a waitress on the night shift at a diner, anxious for the last customer to leave.

“John,” she said. No hello, no nothing. “I've got some errands I'd like you to run for me today. The cleaners, the—”

“Hey, Ma. I need some grunts before I tackle the world.” He opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice, along with a package of day-old doughnuts, his mother's specialty. He hadn't had a fresh doughnut in years. They were bad for your teeth, too soft, too spongy, she said. When you sank your teeth into a day-older, you really had something. Besides, they were cheaper.

“It's time you had a decent haircut,” she looked at him with narrowed eyes. “With Les coming home.”

“Give me a break, Ma. I just got up. Les likes me with long hair. She told me she did. Don't you want to hear about last night? The orgy, I mean.” He couldn't believe he'd said that. All he'd wanted to do was cheer her up a little. During the night deep lines seemed to have formed on either side of her mouth, aging her.

“What on earth is that thing on your neck?” She put out an exploring finger and he backed off. “That's my hickey,” he said. “I'm guarding it with my life.”

“Your hickey?”

“Yeah. Grace Lerner's niece hung it on me. I resisted. I swear I did, Ma. She attacked me. I might've lost my head. Not to mention my you-know-what.” He rolled his eyes at her.

She sat down at last, shaking her head, laughing. “Don't you know it's not considered gallant to kiss and tell?”

“I didn't lay a hand on her. If she says I did, she lies.”

“Did you have fun? Is she pretty?”

He yawned, an exaggerated, simulated yawn. “Let's just say it was a one-night stand, all right? Where's Dad?”

She got up and began flicking her dishcloth again. “John, I just hope you behaved like a gentleman. He's gone to have some blood tests taken.”

“How come?” His family were strictly steer-clear-of-doctors types.

“He thinks he might have a low-grade virus.” His mother had a thing about doctors and hospitals. “I do wish Leslie had said exactly when she was coming.”

“She said Sunday. How exact do you want?”

“You know something?” His mother wove her fingers together. “I wish she were coming alone. I get so little chance to talk to her. When she leaves, I always think of lots of things I wanted to ask her. There never seems to be enough time.”

“I know,” he said.

“I've got a hair appointment at ten, John. Will you be a good boy and vacuum the guest room while I'm gone?”

“What for?”

She looked surprised. “Why, for Leslie's guest, of course.”

11

The hospital was at the top of a hill. He parked his car and walked slowly toward the massive granite pile, wondering what urban planner would consciously put a place of healing in such a spot. A hospital should be built on flat land surrounded by rolling green hills. Or perhaps a prairie or, lacking a prairie, a plain filled with flowers and trees, sweet-smelling, cooled by a shallow stream. Birds would swoop overhead, mostly bluebirds, the birds of happiness. A hospital should be welcoming in its aspect, beckoning the lame, the halt, and the blind to enter. Abandon hope, never.

An ambulance, siren shrieking, sped up the hill and pulled into the emergency entrance. Another ambulance, quiet as a mouse, drove down the hill aimlessly. I hope I never have to go in one of those things. They scare the hell out of me, he thought. He always averted his head when an ambulance screamed by him, just as he did when a hearse passed.

He passed through the revolving doors into the lobby. He hadn't been here since the last time with John. About six years ago, that was. He remembered how brave John had been. He hadn't made a peep, not even when the doctor had set the broken bone. It had almost finished him when the kid hadn't made a sound. He'd expected all sorts of crying and carrying on. It made things harder, somehow, when they were heroic.

The hospital walls were painted green. An unwritten law states that all hospital walls must be painted a particularly bilious shade of green, peculiar to hospitals the world over. He went to the desk, gave his name, his doctor's name. The nurse checked a list, chewing on a pencil as she did so. That doesn't look sanitary, he thought.

“Oh yes, Mr. Hollander,” she said in a sprightly manner. “Doctor said we could expect you.” She was young, not much older than Leslie. Blonde and quite homely. Where were all the pretty nurses hiding? The television screen was crowded with pretty nurses. He hadn't seen one since this business started.

“Down the hall.” The nurse half rose from her chair, pointing in the direction he was to take. “It's room one-sixty-seven, Mr. Hollander. I'd take you but I can't leave here, we're short today. Turn left, go as far as you can, then turn right. You can't miss it. Room one-sixty-seven.” She repeated the room number. Maybe she caught some indication of what he thought of as his approaching senility. He did find it difficult to concentrate lately. Only last week, when Burrell had been showing him the plans for a building the firm had contracted to do, asking him for his ideas, his attention had wandered so noticeably that Burrell, not a patient man at best, had said something sarcastic about snapping out of his daydream and focusing on the matter at hand. That was bad. One lapse was excusable. Two was cause for concern.

He followed directions. Unaccountably, when he made the final turn and had gone as far as he could go, the walls suddenly became yellow, bright yellow, one of his favorites. A good omen. The nurse had given him perfect directions, and he had remembered them. He knocked.

“Come in, please.” They were expecting him. He felt like a character in a Kafka novel.

It was 9:20
A.M
. A Saturday. Ordinarily, he would be having a third cup of coffee, a weekend indulgence, reading the paper, enjoying the feeling of freedom a Saturday always brought. He liked Saturdays, the open feel of them. He could do anything he chose to do on a Saturday. This was a holdover from childhood, he knew. On his way to the hospital he had stopped at the library to return some books and was surprised, indignant, really, to learn the library didn't open until ten. In a month or two, his golfing pals would be after him to play a round or two. He was terrible at the game, and he played only for the camaraderie. Still, there was nothing nicer on a shining green day than to be out there, swinging, walking, swinging again, just trying not to make a damn fool of himself. Except to garden. This weekend Leslie would be home. That had been his first thought after waking. His heart grew lighter thinking of his daughter's imminent arrival. Once more, they would be a complete family. He knew she was bringing a friend and dismissed the thought from mind, the way he did most thoughts that didn't meet with his approval. There would be the four of them again. It had seemed to him for some time that when any one of them was absent, there was a hole. An empty feeling. He recognized the absurdity of this, since it was only a matter of a few years before he and Ceil would be alone, childless, as alone as when they were first married. But with a difference.

In recent weeks, apprehension had been his constant companion, walking side by side, holding him in its delicate, unbreakable grip. Apprehension of what, he didn't know. It was only when the four of them were together that he breathed easier. As if by having them all in his sights, he could keep them safe forever. His father had been right; a family is a tremendous responsibility.

“Mr. Hollander, we're ready for you now.” They have asked him questions, so many questions, the answers to which they solemnly record. He donned another backward hospital gown, looking down at his skinny white shanks with distaste, hating the indignity of a physical examination.

The X-ray technician was a burly black man wearing several gold chains and a heavy gold ID bracelet. Surreptitiously, he checked the man's earlobes and was relieved to see they weren't pierced.

“Bring your chin up, please. Chest a little to the left. Very good. Good. All right now, take a deep breath, please, and hold it.… Terrific.” The man showed magnificent teeth when he smiled. “Okay, relax now. We'll have you out of here in no time. Plenty of time for your big Saturday night bash, right?” The man winked at him, sliding plates in and out of his machine with dexterity. He would wink back if he could, but he'd never mastered the art. He simply wasn't able to. As a boy he'd spent considerable time in front of the mirror, practicing winking. He'd heard girls liked it if you winked at them, that it was a sexual come-on, but he had only managed to look as if he had a tic.