Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

I drew a long breath. “I suppose I’m too soft-hearted for the type of position that I have. Yes, I’m going to let you go. But you have to promise me that you’ll never set foot inside the Hotel Poole again.”

“Oh, I promise!”

“If I see you here in the future, I’ll have to report you to the police.”

“You won’t!” she assured me eagerly. “I... have an appointment with another psychiatrist tomorrow morning. I feel sure he can help me.”

I nodded. “Very well, then.” I turned to stare through the arched lounge entrance at the guests and uniformed bellboys scurrying back and forth in the lobby. When I turned back again, the street door to the lounge was just closing and the girl was gone.

I sat there for a short time, thinking about her. If she was a kleptomaniac, I reflected, then I was Mary, Queen of Scots. What she was, of course, was an accomplished professional pickpocket — her technique was much too polished, her hands much too skilled — and an extremely adept liar.

I smiled to myself, and stood and went out into the lobby again. But instead of resuming my position in the baroque chair before the elevator bank, or approaching the horseshoe-shaped desk, I veered left to walk casually through the entrance doors and out to Powell Street.

As I made my way through the thickening late-afternoon crowds — my right hand resting on the fat leather wallet and the diamond stickpin in my coat pocket — I found myself feeling a little sorry for the girl. But only just a little.

After all, Andrew J. Stuyvesant had been my mark from the moment I first noticed him entering the Hotel Poole that morning — and after a three-hour vigil I had been within fifteen seconds of dipping him myself when she appeared virtually out of nowhere.

Wouldn’t you say I was entitled to the swag?

The pain, the pain is everywhere. No, not everywhere. But I throb in places where there is no real pain. And now it is only an ache and a tired feeling. It seems as if there is no time, no space, nothing but this. But I am a little stronger than I was. So little. But I am stronger. I have to get well. I intend to get well. I will get well.

“Mr. Shaw, I think she’ll come out of it all right. As you know, it was either your wife or the baby, for a while. But she’s improved, I know that. Of course, there will always be the weakness. We can’t correct that.”

“I understand. Just to have her well again is all I care about.”

I had better open my eyes. Jeff isn’t here. I can’t sense him. But I can stand the white room now. I no longer have a wish to die. No, even though he didn’t live. I could cry and cry about it. I wanted to when Jeff first told me. But there is no strength in those sorts of tears. I will get well.

“You did tell her that the baby died?”

“Yes, Doctor. It was hard for her to take at first. Very hard. Then I told her that it had been a boy. That pleased her, in spite of... of what happened.”

There. The world is back. So much sunshine in the room. So many flowers. I wonder if Jeff—

“Did you tell her that the child is already buried?”

“Not yet. If you’re sure that she’s stronger, I’ll tell her today.”

“You don’t think she’ll hold it against you, Mr. Shaw? For going ahead with the funeral, I mean.”

“Jessie is very level-headed. Doctor. She’ll understand that we couldn’t wait. And — if you don’t think it’s out of style to say so — we love each other.”

I’m sure Jeff has done whatever is best. If only it — he — had lived until I could have seen him.... How long have I been here? Where is Jeff? Is he being sensible, as I begged him to be? Is he at work? I hope so. The job is so important to him. Oh, I do love him! And I do so want to give him fine children.

“Perhaps, then, Mr. Shaw, it would be better for you to tell her the rest of it. Better, I mean, than for me to do it. It might be easier for her to believe someone who loves her. Sometimes people think they know more than doctors do.”

“That part won’t be easy.”

I hope the children will look like Jeff. I’m not ugly. But I’m so — plain. Jeff has the looks for both of us. That’s one of the reasons they all said he was only after my money. But he’s refused to let me help him. He’s independent. He keeps working hard managing the sporting-goods department. And why? He wants to support us. Neither of us would ever have to work again, if we didn’t want to. I must get well, for his sake. I will get well.

“Easy or hard, Mr. Shaw, it has to be done. Someone has to tell her. It will come best from you. She must never try to have a child again. Never. It will kill her. Make no mistake about it — having another child will kill her.”

“I’ll take the responsibility. Doctor. You needn’t say a thing to her. I think I can convince her. Perhaps I can even persuade her to move away for a while. A room’s all set up for the baby. Those things shouldn’t keep haunting her.”

I’m glad I made my will before I came to the hospital. I’m glad I made it in Jeff’s favor. He doesn’t know about it. And it wasn’t necessary, as it turned out. But I’m glad. He’s been so good to me that now I’m sure of him...

The door swung inward, silently. She turned her head, slowly. A tired smile crept across her white face. A tall young man with crinkled blond hair was in the doorway.

“Jeff.”

He was at her bedside, kissing her hand. “Jessie.”

When they both could speak, she gripped his fingers. “Jeff, I’ve been lying here thinking. Everybody has troubles of some kind or other. We can overcome this. I’m going to get strong, fast. Then we’re going to have another baby. Just as quickly as we can. Aren’t we?”

He smiled proudly. The truth was exactly the right answer.

“We certainly are, sweetheart. We certainly are.”

Old Mrs. Twiller ran a gnarled finger over the inexpensive wrist watches on the display card and smiled tremulously at the salesgirl.

“Could I try that one on, Miss?” she said, her voice quavering a little. “The one with the pretty brown band?”

“Why, certainly,” the salesgirl said, smiling back at Mrs. Twiller. “These are very nice watches for the price.” She strapped the watch on Mrs. Twiller’s frail wrist.

“Now, isn’t that pretty?” Mrs. Twiller said, stretching out her arm and twisting it around to admire the watch from all angles. She cleared her throat. “How much is it, my dear?” she asked hesitantly.

The salesgirl beamed. “Would you believe it? They’re only $9.98. A special, this week only. Shall I wrap that one up for you?”

“Oh, mercy, no,” Mrs. Twiller said. “$9.98? Oh, mercy.” She fumbled at the buckle on the wristband, trying to undo it.

The salesgirl looked perplexed. “It’s very reasonable,” she said. “Really, it’s a bargain for the price.”

Mrs. Twiller looked up brightly. “Oh, it’s just lovely,” she assured the girl, “but with everything so dear these days — oh, my, I couldn’t possibly spend all that on a watch. Thank you anyway. Miss.”

The girl blinked a little as she helped undo the watch. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”

“That’s all right, dearie.” Mrs. Twiller patted the girl’s hand. “It’s just that a body can’t help wishing now and then.” She held the watch in her fragile hand and gazed at it with one last sympathetic look as the girl turned to another customer.

With a quick motion, Mrs. Twiller dropped the watch into the large shopping bag at her feet.