What's in It for Me? (23 page)

“The nearest I could understand, he said the bang against the wall or the step, whichever it was, formed a clot inside the leg on one of the varicose veins, and she's got to remain absolutely quiet in bed, without moving, for a few weeks. Till the clot settles or hardens or something. I don't know, Harry. All I know is the doctor said she has to have absolute rest and quiet.”

I let my breath out and reached for a cigarette.

“But she's all right now?”

“Oh, yes. There's nothing really wrong with her, Harry. Except that she has to have absolute quiet and rest. My mother's with her now and—”

“That's swell, Murray. I'll call her up right away and—”

“I don't think you better, Harry. She'll have to get out of bed to answer the phone and that's bad for her.”

“Oh.”

“I'll tell you, Harry. My mother is with her now, but well, frankly, she can't be there all day and I think you ought to get a maid or a nurse or something, to sort of—”

“Of course I will. I'm just trying to figure out when it'll be—” I looked at him quickly. “But she's all right, isn't she, Murray? I mean, you saw her, and you—?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, buttoning his coat and putting on his hat. “She's all right. It's just that she has to stay in bed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I have to get downtown to my office, Harry.”

“Thanks, Murray, all the—your mother and—you—the—”

I didn't know how to say it. I remembered what I used to think of him. And I knew that was what I still thought of him. Now I had to thank him.

“It's all right, Harry,” he said, smiling. “Forget it. It's nothing. But you'll take care of it, won't you?”

“Of course I will. It's my mother, isn't it?”

“I didn't mean that,” he said quickly. “I just thought you'd well, maybe you're too busy to—”

“I'm not too busy for my own mother,” I snapped. “I'm going right straight uptown now.”

“Okay, Harry, okay. If you're around tonight, I'll drop down to see you.”

“Do that, Murray.”

“So long, Harry.”

“So long.”

He went out and I turned on my heel, but Yazdabian came into the showroom. He was wearing his hat and coat and was carrying a small bag.

“Come on, Mr. Bogen. We'd better hurry.”

“Well—”

“Get your hat and well go down to the bank. I've sent Eric on ahead with the sample cases and my bags. We'll meet him at the station.”

“All right,” I said finally, “I'll get my hat.”

I figured I'd get rid of him and grab a cab uptown.

“Ready?” he asked when I came back into the showroom.

“Yes.”

We went down to the bank and asked to see an officer. When we were seated at his desk, I tried to rush things, but Yazdabian insisted on explaining the situation.

“I'm going out of town on a selling trip, Mr. Farrell. And I should like to have our account adjusted so that Mr. Bogen's signature alone on our checks will be all right.”

“How long will you be gone, Mr. Yazdabian?”

“About three or four weeks, I suppose.”

“Just a moment, please.”

He buzzed for an office boy and told him to get the signature cards on the Hrant Yazdabian, Inc., account

“Please sign here, Mr. Yazdabian.”

Yazdabian signed, then Farrell pushed the cards in front of me.

I signed and he picked up the four cards and clipped them all together.

“Will you notify us, Mr. Yazdabian, when you want the account to go back on a two-signature basis?”

“I will,” said Yazdabian. “As soon as I get back. This is only temporarily, Mr. Farrell, so that we may be able to pay our bills while I am away.”

“I don't blame you,” Farrell said with a smile. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Yazdabian.”

“You mean a successful trip,” Yazdabian corrected.

“My error,” said Farrell. “A successful trip, Mr. Yazdabian.”

They bowed and we shook hands all the way around. Then I took Yazdabian's small bag and bundled him into a cab and rode down to Penn Station with him. I walked Yazdabian to his train. He filled me full of last-minute advice on a number of subjects until the train was ready to leave. Then, for a parting shot, he touched on his favorite.

“And on the entertaining expenses, Mr. Bogen, well, you'll be careful, won't you.”

What was he crapping me about with entertaining expenses? I was buying elephant guns and he was warning me not to shoot too many rabbits.

“Don't worry, Mr. Yazdabian,” I said with a reassuring smile. “With the bank balance the condition it's in, I'll be doing well if I meet the bills regularly as they come due.”

A
S SOON AS I SAW
Yazdabian's train pull out I took a cab back to the place. I hurried through the showroom into Miss Eckveldt's office and started hunting for the check book. She watched me for a moment.

“What are you looking for, Mr. Bogen?”

“The check book. Where the—?”

“I have it here.”

“Why don't you keep it with the other books in the safe?”

“I was getting some payments ready. I need it for—”

“All right,” I said, “but keep it in the safe from now on.”

I took the check book from her and tore out a blank from the back.

“What are you—”

“I'll give you a complete report on my movements tomorrow. You don't mind if I leave now, do you?”

“I merely wanted to know the amount of the check, Mr. Bogen,” she said quietly, “so I could enter it up properly and keep my balance straight.”

If she'd only learn to keep her face straight when she talked to me, I would be far more satisfied.

“You'll know tomorrow.”

I couldn't even blow my nose any more without answering questions.

“All right, Mr. Bogen.”

She could just about bet her ass it was.

“Thanks,” I said elaborately as I went out. “I won't be back today.”

I hurried to the bank and wrote the check at the teller's window for two hundred and fifty bucks. I made it out to cash and signed it and pushed it across the marble slab at him. He picked it up, glanced at it casually, then looked at me with interest.

“Your corporation checks require two signatures, don't they, Mr. Bogen?”

“We had that changed this morning. My signature alone is enough now.”

“Well,” he said, hesitating.

“Check on that with Mr. Farrell. He's got the new signature cards.”

“Just a moment, please.”

He hurried out of his cage and came back in a few minutes.

“Okay?” I said with a smile.

“Yes,” he said, smiling back. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but the new signature cards hadn't been filed yet, and—”

“That's all right.”

“How will you have that, Mr. Bogen?”

“Tens.”

“All tens?”

“Yes, all tens.”

I slipped the money into my pocket and went out to get a cab. Luckily, I got a driver who knew where Honeywell Avenue was. He also seemed to understand that while I was in a hurry, I was also faintly interested in getting there in one piece. For that he got a nice tip.

“Wait for you, bud?” he asked when I got out.

“No,” I said. “I'm staying here.”

I hurried upstairs and rang the bell. There was the sound of unfamiliar footsteps coming down the hall. The door opened and I was facing Mrs. Herman.

“Mr. Bogen!” she cried. “You—!”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Murray stopped off in my office this morning and told me all about it.”

She put her finger to her lips and motioned for me to come inside.

“Ssshhh! She's sleeping now and—”

“How is she?”

“She's all right. It's just that—”

Suddenly there was a loud yell from the bedroom.

“Hershie! That's you, Hershie!”

“Yeah, Ma! This is—”

“Then what are you standing in the hall like a statue for? Come inside where a person can look at you.”

I hurried into the bedroom and Mrs. Herman followed. Mother was lying in bed, propped up with two pillows, looking disgusted and sore and irritated and a couple of other things. All except sick. “Hello, Mom.”

I bent down and kissed her and sat down on the chair beside the bed.

“Hello, Hershie.”

“What's all this I hear about you having accidents, Ma?”

“Accidents! Everything is called an accident! Used to be, to be an accident, a horse had to run away, a truck had to fall in river, a house had to burn down. But today? Today, you give yourself a little scratch, you turn yourself a little around, so right away it's an accident!”

I laughed with relief.

“I think I'm gonna get you a teacher, Ma, to give you private lessons how to walk up and down stairs.”

“Better get yourself a teacher should learn you how to talk to a mother, better.” She turned around to face Mrs. Herman and pointed to me. “You see, Mrs. Herman? Now I got two ways to get a look at him once in a while. One way is to go downtown like a policeman and catch him myself, and the other way is to fall on the stairs so I should have to lay in bed.”

Whatever it was, it hadn't affected her tongue. I found that a cheerful discovery to make.

“Come on, now, Ma. Don't start telling me you fell on the stairs on purpose so's you could get me home.”

She grinned at me.

“So far that's the only good thing that came from this.”

I grinned back at her.

“Maybe it's not such a good thing, Ma.”

She made a threatening gesture and half raised herself in bed.

“Maybe you're right, you great big smart—!”

Mrs. Herman moved forward quickly and pushed her back onto the pillows.

“You know the doctor said you shouldn't move, Mrs. Bogen.”

Mother waved her hand.

“Doctors! On my enemies' head I wish doctors! Doctors! What do they know? All they know is to come and look at you and shake their heads and take your money.”

“What did the doctor say?” I asked.

“He said—” Mrs. Herman began.

“What didn't he say!” mother said. “Above One in heaven, how they talk! From a little thing like this, it's big like a button the whole thing, so he says I gotta stay in bed six weeks. Six weeks in bed I'll give him! Either he's crazy or I'm crazy.”

“Ma,” I said, laughing, “doctors aren't crazy.”

“Sure they're not crazy. Crazy like they are, so crazy I should be. To get dopes to pay them money yet for the things they say, that's crazy? That's smart!”

“Who's the doctor?” I asked.

“Doctor Silverman,” Mrs. Herman said.

“From Tremont Avenue?”

Mother shook her head sarcastically and addressed Mrs. Herman.

“See, Mrs. Herman? He still knows the names from the streets in the Bronx!”

“I got a good brain, Ma.”

She grinned and shook her head.

“Good it could be, Hershie. But perfect, it isn't. It's not Doctor Silverman from Tremont Avenue. It's—” She turned to Mrs. Herman. “From where, Mrs. Herman?”

“He's by the Concourse and 171st Street.”

I spread my eyes wide.

“Getting classy, eh, Ma?”

“Not me, don't worry, Hershie. One person to get classy in the family is by me enough. For my part, you could have them all, from Tremont Avenue, from the Concourse, from the Above One knows where, they're all a bunch fakers. But fakers! Six weeks in bed for a little thing like this!”

“I called Doctor Silverman,” Mrs. Herman said. “His son and my Murray, they went to school together, and I know he's a good doctor, so I—”

“Sure he's a good doctor,” mother said. “Good prices he knows how to charge and he—”

“Stop worrying about the prices, Ma. I'll take care of that. You know I—”

“Yeah, sure, I know. You're the big shot. You take care of everybody.”

“What then,” I said with a grin, “you're smart? At least I don't go around falling down stairs.”

“Open your mouth only a little more, Hershie, and you'll fall in yourself in a minute.”

I laughed and turned to Mrs. Herman.

“I'd like to see this Doctor Silverman and talk to him, Mrs. Herman.”

“Ah-hah! Ah-hah! My Hershie is already getting smart with doctors. I don't talk so much with doctors, Hershie. They know a little more than you do. You get too smart with them, you'll find yourself maybe in bed, too.”

“A minute ago you said they're dopes, Ma. And now you say they're smart.”

She grinned at me wisely.

“Compared with you, Hershie, even a doctor is smart.”

“That's why I ought to meet him. It don't hurt to meet a smart person.”

“You it'll never hurt, Hershie. You only learn from the dopes, not the smart ones.”

“I'll take a chance, Ma.” I turned to Mrs. Herman again. “You know his number, Mrs. Herman? I'd like to call him up and—”

She started to hunt in the pocket of her apron, then stopped.

“What time is it, Mr. Bogen?”

I glanced at my wrist watch.

“Ten to twelve, Mrs. Herman. Why?”

“Then you don't have to call him up. He said he'd be here again between half-past eleven and twelve. He wants to—”

“He wants to collect another three dollars,” mother said dryly. “Six weeks in bed I'll give him!”

“What's wrong with that, Ma? At least you'll get a rest”

She let out a roar.

“To lay six weeks in bed is by you a rest?”

“Aah, now, Ma,” I said in mock protest, “it's not six weeks steady. I'm sure the doctor said you could get up to go to the toilet. Didn't he, Mrs. Herman?”