Letting Go (20 page)

He was home by noon. He had wanted to stay on for the afternoon, but the doctor said that considering everything (they had discussed everything for some fifteen minutes) he should go home, if
only to pull himself together. With the light off he lay in bed and turned over and over in his hands the small slip of paper upon which the doctor had written a very few words. Paul studied the name: Dr. Thomas Smith. An alias? With his picture in the Post Office? He fell asleep finally, having first imagined various unsavory faces over Dr. Smith’s blood-stained white jacket.

Levy awakened him. Mr. Levy never smiled but was very friendly; it was only out of Libby’s softness for all those with canes and crutches that he had become an acquaintance of theirs. Paul had to admit that being able to say hello to somebody in the corridors did make the place less depressing. However, Levy—sunburned, bald, hawk-nosed—did not strike Paul as someone to particularly feel sorry for; he was too peppy, and furthermore they suspected that he tried to peek at Libby in the toilet.

Now Levy’s face was in the doorway. “How come you’re home? I thought something was up.”

“I cut my hand. They gave me the afternoon off.”

“Whew! What a cut!” said Levy, advancing. “You got a bandage like a mummy.”

“I’m all right.” He sat up, shaking the grogginess out of his head; the doctor had given him some numbing drug. “I’ll be fine.”

“Want me to make you a little Lipton’s tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“It don’t cost extra to boil water,” Levy said, spreading his fingers across the chest of his oversized, monogrammed shirt. “The tea-bag is a treat from me. You got a pretty wife.”

The remark irritated him. Levy was forever dropping his cane outside the bathroom keyhole in the morning, while Libby was brushing her teeth; sometimes it took him up to five minutes to retrieve it. So far they had been willing to believe the old man the victim of stiff knees and an arthritic back; if they did not jump to accuse him, it was because they felt sorely how unused they were to the inconveniences of rooming house living, of which Levy was only one. When Levy complimented him, Paul tried to smile—and the old man went off for the tea.

It seemed for a while that he would not return; when he did, carrying a tray with cups and kettle, he was accompanied by a pal.

“This is Korngold. Lives next door.”

Korngold shook his head as though he were not Korngold and lived in India. But his hands shook too; everything shook, poor man. Where he wasn’t brownish liver spots he was white as ashes. And
his weight was not in keeping with his height; he was underfed, and leaning on his cane (not gold-headed like Levy’s) he looked stretched and dried. It was truly pathetic to hear him get out, “Don’t rise, please. It’s a pleasure, my deep pleasure,”

Paul moved off the bed, feeling invaded. There was a typewriter on the little oilcloth-covered table, and a pile of papers; recently he had begun to try writing stories. Levy lifted typewriter and papers and set them on the floor In their place he set down his afternoon tea.

“Let’s pull ourselves up here,” he said. “Korngold, take off your coat. No wonder you cough up phlegm left and right.”

“I cough up phlegm ’cause that Nazi hands out heat in a teaspoon. My chest kills me night and day.”

“Then move. This room is a gem, was empty a whole month. I told you, Move in, Korngold.”

“I was thinking. It’s a ten-dollar place. I don’t have to live fancy. Next door is seven fifty.”

“You was thinking, all right. Now these lovely people moved in and you still live by that son of a bitch.” Levy turned and almost bowed to Paul. “Sugar?”

Still groggy, with the feeling that he had mislaid something—that
he
was, in fact, the thing mislaid—Paul said yes, please.

“I take plain,” Korngold said.

Levy said, “I know how you take.”

“Lemon sticks in my heart,” explained Korngold.

They each pulled a chair up to the table. It was too late to remove a slip of Libby’s that was draped on the back of Levy’s chair; Levy sank heavily down onto the white silky cloth. Korngold in the meantime was lifting his cup to his mouth. Three sips, and his shirt front and chin were soaked.

Levy said, “Mr. Herz, Korngold would like a word with you.”

“It’s a long story,” Korngold said slowly. “It involves a lot of son of a bitches, a lot of crooks and bastards. Let me finish my tea.”

“He had a wife,” said Levy, “was nobody’s business.”

“Only half of it,” Korngold murmured. “A son, tell him about my son.”

“And a son to boot.” Levy caught a glimpse of the slip over his shoulder.

“And,” said Korngold, swallowing hard, “a daughter-in-law. A bastard like that you shouldn’t leave out.”

“Three such people picking at one man’s insides,” Levy said. “The son is on the inside with the Nike missile, coining it, we understand. Lives like a pagan, everything fancy. Korngold freezes by that Heinie son of a bitch, counting pennies, and the son has houses, we understand, all over Florida. Plus a daughter in Smith College.”

“Europe he’s been to
twice.
”

“Europe twice,” Levy repeated. “I’m coming to Europe under waste.” He opened and closed his palms. “Korngold’s life has been ruined by the serpent’s tongue. Disappreciation from all sides. Seventy years in January.”

“Aaach,” said Korngold, “and its worse than that. Even going to the toilet is a terrible production.”

“Korngold’s plan is a letter.”

“Two letters,” said Korngold softly, “is the plan …”

“A letter first to the son,” said Levy, very businesslike. “What kind of son are you and so forth.”

“Maybe a photograph,” Korngold said, his empty cup in his gaunt hand rattling in the saucer. “Let him see my condition,” he said, a little proudly.

Levy considered the suggestion for hardly a moment. “That depends,” he said. “But a sharp note, you know?”

“Then the other letter …” Korngold reminded him, touching Levy’s sleeve.

“Then a letter to the Senate. What kind of man is this who we put secrets in his hands, should guide and steer our country, and has no respect for his father.”

“Let them do an investigation,” said Korngold, “he thinks he’s such a foolproof big shot.”

“Give him the works where it hurts,” Levy said, and rose halfway out of the chair, his hands on Libby’s slip. “But the second letter we don’t send right off now. Give him a chance to make an offer.”

“He don’t deserve it.”

“Korngold, turn the other cheek to the son of a bitch. I’m telling you what’s practical. I’m talking about keeping a hot iron for striking over his head!” He sat back down and leaned toward Paul. “Korngold is a sick man in need of help. Has got one suit this fellow, and for a dry cleaning sits around for a week in his bathrobe, which also ain’t particularly brand new. What kind of son is that when Russia has a smash head-on program in science?” He did not even wait to be understood; self-righteously he said, “I think us and the Senate may see eye to eye!”

“Exactly right,” said Korngold, almost weeping.

“Korngold is in need of a companion.”

The needy man looked at Paul for some word. When none came, he smiled. “A man like Levy can run two lives. A first-rate business head. A sharp wonderful man.”

Levy hooked his fingers into his belt buckle, monogrammed ALL. “So you’ll write the letter?” he asked.

“To whom?” Paul said. “What?”

“The son. I brought paper what’s got my name on it. Typed,” said Levy, “would be very impressive.”

“I don’t get exactly what you want,” Paul said.

Levy extracted a folded paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s a facsimile. Just fix my contractions is probably all that’s needed.” Though addressing Paul, he had spoken his last words toward Korngold, who seemed to brighten.

“He was some attorney in his day,” Korngold told Paul. “Got gangsters off the hook. How can we miss?”

The letter in his hand—Levy over his shoulder—Korngold begging solace directly in his eyes—how could he protect himself? He read.

Dear Mr. Korngold:

Mr. Max Korngold, your father, has asked for me to contact you on the subject: his condition. What kind of son could leave a man seventy in January to live so? For twenty-five a week life would improve for him by way of a companion. He needs looking after for such simple incidents as toilets and meals even bed sheets are a problem. I am active with the Senator from Michigan and could pull strings by a full scale investigation of what you are up to in your private life—your spending for one thing. My secretary has ready in her hands a letter that the Senate will see eye to eye with me on when I send it special delivery. Why not be a good son and spare us all a mess? If not you will pull down your world out of selfishness and greed. Gone will be your homes up and down Florida. What is twenty-five a week to a man like you? Answer right now or my secretary will call the Senate in the morning long distance no expense spared.

“Do I make myself clear?” asked Levy. “Needs polishing?”

Korngold plucked at Levy’s sleeve. “Maybe we should enclose a snapshot. Let him see what condition I live in.”

“Why plead?” Levy reasoned, making a fist. “He should know I
mean business. A wrong move and he’s through. You could type it up, adding here and there a comma?” he asked Paul.

Paul had heard most, but not all, of what the old men had been saying since they had come into his room. He did not have enough strength—given what had happened that day—to attend totally to these two characters. However, as much as they confused him, they touched him, and he was ready to say something helpful when he saw Levy’s hand come to rest again on the lace of Libby’s slip. “I’m not feeling well, Mr. Levy. Maybe you and Mr. Korngold better go out.” Then he smiled, for by choice and breeding he was not rude to elderly people.

“What?” asked Korngold. “A youngster like you with failing health?”

“Dummy, he’s got a bad cut.”

Levy pointed, and Korngold cringed at the sight of the bandage. Levy proceeded to assemble on the tray his cups and saucers. “I’ll leave you a facsimile, Mr. Herz, for when you have the time. That’s all right, not an intrusion?”

“No,” Paul said, wearily.

“So I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Don’t feel you gotta rush. The afternoon is fine. You could slip it under the door. I’d appreciate you wouldn’t knock—of an afternoon I take a little siesta.”

“Me, I can’t even sleep at night,” Korngold put in, holding his forehead. “Up with the birds. Awake all the time with that Nazi. For a radio he’s got a public address hookup. I wouldn’t tell you what he does in the sink—I should turn him in to the public health commission. In his room he’s got shortwave, direct to Berlin.” Korngold pushed back his chair; long and spineless as a sagging candle, he limped from the room. Levy moved after him, and, gesturing with his tray at Korngold’s back, he whispered over his shoulder to Paul, “Senility, a simple case. When the arteries go, you can call it quits.”

Libby’s face was over his. He heard her asking about his wrist before he was fully alive to the hour and the circumstance. Coming out of sleep was like climbing up a ladder. And for a moment he did not want to climb.

“I’m home,” Libby said. “What happened?”

He saw her pale-blue waitress uniform, then her. “I cut my hand at work.”

“Baby, are you all right?” She moved down beside him on the
bed. “The bandage is so big.” She held him, careful of the wrist, and he did not know whether she was on the edge of passion or panic. He was hoping for neither.

“I’m all right. I was home for the afternoon, that’s all.” He sat up. “I’m fine.”

She turned on the bedside lamp. “How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I was daydreaming.”

She touched the fingers of his bandaged arm. “Will it be all right? Can you work?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Did you lose this afternoon’s pay?”

He controlled his temper and said he didn’t know.

“Didn’t you ask?”

“No, Libby. I was bleeding. I could have bled to death.” Not happy over his histrionics, he got up and went to the sink to wash his face.

“I only wanted to know,” she said. “Your typewriter is on the floor.” She rose from the bed. “Mail?”

“What?”

She was unfolding the letter Levy had left behind.

“No,” he said.

Disappointed, she asked, “What is this?”

“Mr. Levy wants me to type a letter for him.”

She let the paper float out of her hands onto the floor. “He dropped his cane again this morning.”

“Look, Libby, do you want me to say something to him or don’t you?”

“He’s such a poor old man—” Libby began.

“Crap, Libby. We’re poorer than he is.”

“What kind of letter is it?” she asked.

“He brought a friend over with him. The man with the shakes next door. With the limp. Korngold. Korngold’s son has ruined Korngold’s life. Disappreciation—”

“Who’s Dr. Smith?”

“Who?”

She was holding up the little white piece of paper. “Dr. Thomas Smith. BA 3-3349.”

“Where was that?”

“On the table. Who is he?”

“He bandaged my hand. I have to call him.”