Boys & Girls Together (23 page)

“Don’t make me go back in there, Sidney. It could turn out very bad. Bad for me, bad for you, worse for them in there.”

“Oi, God, Doctor. Come ... please ...”

“What am I gonna do, Mannie? You tell me.” He threw the empty vodka glass against the wall, where it shattered. Sid threw it, Sid was watching it, but when the noise came he jumped with fear. “Tell me, Mannie.”

“I’ll give her a sedative. You get drunk, she’ll sleep. Tomorrow ...” And he shrugged. “Can things be any worse?”

“
Shimah Yisroel ...”

Again Sid jumped. “All of a sudden she’s religious.”

“When people hurt, they get religious. No pain, no God.”

“
Baruch adonoi eluhenu ...”

“So what do I do, Sidney?”

No quick answer.

“It’s best. I promise. Please take my word. Who needs grief? God gave us enough.”

Sid sat. Then, finally, he said, “Yeah. Enough.”

“You’re doing the right thing, Sidney.”

“Yeah.” It was hard for him to breathe.

“Please, God, Dr. Lautmann ...”

“Coming,” Mannie said. “Coming.” He stood and started moving for the door. “Coming,” he kept saying. “Coming. Coming,” over and over, which was probably why he did not hear Sid leap up, why he was so surprised when Sid’s hands spun him so viciously around. “What?” he managed before Sid took over.

“Kill it! Now, now, now, kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it now!”

Mannie quietly closed the door to the bedroom, took off the white coat, folded it carefully and dropped it on the sofa beside Sid, who sat too stiffly, nodding his head, nodding his head. “The bloody deed is done,” Mannie muttered.

Sid continued to nod.

“Some instructions, Sidney. Listen. Keep her flat on her back. Don’t let her move around much. Tomorrow I’ll come back and finish it off. I couldn’t scrape, she was too far along, but this works as well; it just takes a little longer. Bamboo expands, you see, and so in time ...” Mannie shrugged. “I think all went well. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sidney.”

Sid heard the door close.

He sat, still stiff, not knowing quite what to do, where to go. Esther lay behind the bedroom door and there was his place, he knew, beside her in this time of ... Time of what? Grief? No, something ... something ...”

Sid crossed to the corner of the room and picked up the shattered vodka glass. His hands moved quickly, carelessly almost, asking for a cut. Pain. A little pain would have felt good, but his fingers were too deft and no blood spilled. Dumping the slivers into the trash, he went to the bathroom and combed his hair, then suddenly threw the comb down hard and dashed into the bedroom.

Esther didn’t look so hot.

“Oh, Tootsie, God,” Sid said, the words out before he knew it. He dropped onto the bed beside her and gently touched her hair. “You O.K.? Huh?”

Esther wasn’t saying much.

She tried with a smile but missed and after that she just lay there while Sid touched her hair, her skin, while he kissed her eyes. He offered her some food but the idea didn’t thrill her; neither did liquid of whatever nature.

Sid, though, felt the need of a little pick-me-up, and with a little kiss, a quick muttered “ ’Scuse me,” he dashed for the kitchen, returning with the bottle of vodka, which he swilled liberally. He held her very close, muttering love, rocking her mutilated body. The motion was pleasing and soon her eyes half closed, her fatigue battling the pain, winning little by little, so that by one in the morning she fell into a dizzy sleep. Sid continued to drink, holding the bottle in one hand, her soft shape with the other, until the bottle deserted him and he dropped it empty to the floor. Then, undressing, he slipped into bed beside her, resting his handsome head on her handsome bosom, hearing only her soft breathing growing louder, louder as his own eyes closed. Sid slept then, along with Esther, their bodies close, their breathing a unison. The sight of the two was close to idyllic and the evening, considering what it might have turned into, wasn’t half bad.

Until Esther started hemorrhaging.

Sid woke to find her writhing, biting down like a crazy woman on her lower lip, drawing blood almost, her small hands kneading her stomach. “What-what?” Sid cried but she would not answer, continuing to writhe, moaning in spite of herself, unwanted tears trailing down across her cheeks, dipping for a moment into the tight crease of her lips, then on again, falling down her chin, where they mixed with the sweat that glistened on her taut neck. “Esther, Esther, what can I do?” But still she twisted, her head shaking now as the vowelless groans grew louder, higher in pitch, approaching the kingdom of the scream. Panicky, Sid bolted from the bed, running around to her side, but she turned away from him, digging in with her fingers, grabbing her stomach, trying to rip it away. Sid ran like a fool around the bed again, jumping onto the mattress, grabbing her as she tried to turn, but she was deep in pain now and too strong, so his hands slipped from her wet shoulders as she began to cry out, “God-God-no-no” and Sid hollered along with her, “Esther, my little Esther,” until she managed to clamp her teeth back down on her lower lip, leaving Sid to shout alone, “Esther, sweet Esther,” and no telling how long that would have gone on if her sexy legs, kicking on their own to some secret rhythm, hadn’t swiped him good and sent him sprawling off the bed to the hard floor. Sid rose and stared at the kicking thing on the mattress. Whatever resemblance she had once had to Esther was rapidly disappearing as the thrashing and the biting picked up tempo. The entire body was coated with pale sweat and the tendons in her neck awed him. He watched her until he realized that very likely she was going to die and once that thought took hold he threw himself into his clothes, shouting, “Hospital! Hospital!” hoping he could get through to her.

“No,” Esther screamed.

Sid jammed his shoes on, buttoned his shirt, buttoned his fly, hands never once stopping until Esther said “No hospital.”

Sid tried to take her hand and lift her from the bed but she fought him.

“Esther, for God’s sake.”

“No hospital!”

“Es—”

“Father might find out. Somebody else. No. No. Please don’t.”

Sid grabbed her with all his might and pulled her into a sitting position. “Quit now.”

“I don’t want people to know. Leave me here. Leave me here.”

“Come.”

“No. Please. Leave me be.”

“Come.” Sid lifted her as well as he could, looping her arm around his shoulder, forcing them toward the door.

“I want to die. I want to die.”

Sid grabbed the front door, flung it open, started out along the corridor and down the stairs. The Dago woman next door appeared beside him but he shouted for her to get the hell away and she did as he took the stairs one at a time with Esther screaming every step, “No hospital, let me die, no hospital,” until suddenly she sagged semiconscious, just weight now, all fight gone. Sid staggered with her out onto the street praying for a cab and it worked, the driver helping to lift Esther inside, then breaking all records on the way to Michael Reese. When they reached the emergency ward Sid said, “My wife, miscarriage, miscarriage,” to whoever would listen and insisted on a private room for his beloved. As they started to wheel her away, Esther, who had staged a mild comeback, held his hand as long as possible. “Miscarriage,” Sid said to the wheeler, a young man in a white coat. “A private room. The best.” The white coat nodded. Sid indicated a desire for privacy and the white coat retreated. Sid bent to taste his wife’s pale lips. “Sleep, dumpling,” he whispered. “We killed it,” soft into his ear.

“Sleep, dumpling,” Sid repeated, and he smiled. His was a helpful smile, a smile of reassurance.

So why was she smiling back?

As she awaited the arrival of the doctor, little Esther half dozed. The knotting pains of the bedroom were loosening now, and she was able to breathe again—a luxury. She remembered the piker yelling “Private room, private room” and that was something to look forward to. Also she had gone through, in her mind, those young interns and potential physicians she had known before E. Scrooge had worn her down, and none of them worked at Michael Reese, so she could relax on that score, confident that neither Maxwell Baum nor Tommy Sternman nor any of the other surgeons-to-be who pursued her on their nights off would come popping in and thereby provide her with an unnecessary humiliation. (Maybe the private room would have a view of the lake. In any case, she hoped it was wildly expensive; a little apoplexy would do Sid good.) Maxwell Baum and Tommy Sternman. Esther drifted. Doctors always appealed to her—more than lawyers, dentists, architects. The only trouble with doctors was it took so long before you started cashing in. The young
goy
pushing the wheelchair had looked at her with lust in his blue eyes, and that was flattering; if you could lure them at your worst, you were really something. That was what she was: a real something. Married to a real nothing, true, but everybody fumbles on occasion. The thought of divorce made her smile. In a month, probably, she would be looking herself again, and that was the time to make the move. Let Sid pay for the convalescence (do him good), then off to the races. Toot, toot, tootsie, goodbye. Let him crawl a little first, beg awhile (do him good), lead him on, let him think he’s still got a chance of keeping her, then out the door. Stick him for what she could on alimony (her smile broadened)—every penny. God knows she was deserving, living with the little letch the way she had. Esther began laughing softly but it hurt, so she stopped. Those pains. Never would she forget those pains. No matter what they told you about childbirth, it couldn’t be as bad. That Dr. Lautmann: some
schlemiel
of a surgeon he was. But that was typical; you marry a third-rater, you travel third class.

An intern walked by.

Esther returned his smile, watched him until he was gone. Tall, good head of hair, nice springy walk. Next time around, a doctor. Definitely. A surgeon; if possible, a specialist on the brain. If you made one thousand for an operation, and you did five operations a day, and you worked five days a week, that was ... mink for little Esther, that’s what it was. A mink coat and a mink stole and a mink blanket. A mink blanket? Did people have such things? She shrugged. Why not? Give one good reason. It would supply warmth; it would last and last, so it really wasn’t such an extravagance. No. In many ways, it was sensible. Her stomach began to hurt and she pressed down with her hands. Not so bad this time. The worst was over. The good days were coming up hard on the horizon. She had her looks, her good brain; that was plenty. From now on, nothing but doctors, early thirties at the youngest, maybe a little gray at the temples. The good days. From now on, nothing but good days. The future glistened before her, colored bright mink. She felt good. For the first time since the Shrimp had cast a blight on her life, she felt good. No Sid, no kid, no nothing to remind her of the past. Take an apartment on the near North Side and let the suitors come. She was a divorcee, now, a woman of mystery as well as beauty. What a combination. Mystery and beauty. She felt wonderful. Really wonderful. Really incredibly fantastically unbelievably wonderful.

So why, all of a sudden, was she crying?

The ex-papa danced a jig on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. It was late, five, six in the morning (who cared), and he was brimming to the top with piss and vinegar. “Toot, toot, tootsie, goodbye,” he sang, breaking into a little soft-shoe. (He was one helluva dancer when he wanted to be.) A cab cruised by and Sid whistled it dead, hopped inside and slammed the door behind him. To the cabbie’s “Where to?” Sid said “Drive,” and he settled himself in the back, content to watch the dying moon over Lake Michigan. Home was probably the place to go (wouldn’t be so bad with the Bitch gone) but who could sleep? They drove along the lake, Sid whistling a little Gershwin, a little Kern, punctuating the concert with occasional bursts of laughter. The thought crossed his mind to go beat the shit out of Mannie for doing a lousy job that was going to cost him a hospital bill, but was tonight a time for vengeance? Mannie could pay the bill when it came (if he balked, a little phone call to the cops), so why sweat? Sid’s fingers danced across his knees, and Sid, heeding their call for action, directed the driver to the Loop, where he got out at Painter’s, the best pool hall in the city, open all night. Ordinarily Painter’s was a little stiff for Sid, the sharks a little too tough, but tonight, his fingers told him, was no night to be chicken. So he mounted the inevitable steps, confident that he could kill any shark alive. Painter’s was empty, or nearly so, and Sid grabbed a cue (first testing the weight, making sure the balance was perfect), then proceeded to a table, where he hacked away like an amateur, whistling all the while. His act was good enough to lure a shark, an old man with watery eyes and not much hair, and after the usual pleasantries (Care for a game? Well, I’m not much good. Neither am I. Et cetera) they got down to business. The old guy could shoot and in the dim, low-ceilinged room he seemed quite at home as he moved his tired bones around the green, but Sid panicked not. No reason to with his fingers dancing the way they were, and when the watery eyes emerged the victor in the first clash at straight pool (they were both trying to give it away) there followed round two of the chatter (Christ, I stink. No, I was lucky. Shall we try it again? If you want to. I wouldn’t mind. You break. Here goes nothing) and Sid won the second game (still for free) but by the fourth they had ten bucks riding (a pittance) and the old man won, so they doubled up to twenty and he won that too but when it got to fifty bucks a game, Sid released his fingers and they went to work. They banked, they drew, they applied follow English, the touch elegant, precise, caressing the cue with genuine devotion. True love always finds a way, and by the eighth game Sid was up two hundred and roaring. The old man called for coffee, Sid for Scotch, and the night gimp (they gotta be gimps—union regulation) returned with their orders, getting a fiver from Sid for his pains. The old man, hyped by the caffeine, staged a little comeback, but Sid hung in there, erasing the Elder’s earnings with a hot streak of his own, increasing the bankroll to two-fifty. “Last game double or nothing,” Sid (ever the sportsman) said and the Elder nodded, chalking his cue, lifting his watery eyes (maybe praying to Hoppe), sipping a fresh pot of tea (always change a losing game). The preliminaries done, they began.