Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

“This is Toby,” I said, looking at the phone messages. “Phil’s brother.”

“I’m Mrs. Dudnick. Nathan and David said you were coming to take them to a movie after school, but Mr. Pevsner told the boys not to expect you.”

“I’ll be there, Mrs. Dudnick,” I said, seeing that another message was from my ex-wife, Anne. “How’s Ruth?”

“Surgery was this morning. Haven’t heard yet.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be over at four to pick up the boys.”

The third message on the spindle read: Woman called. Said she was Greta Garbo. Will call back.

Shelly was seated in his dental chair doing a dental crossword puzzle in one of his journals when I came out.

“When did the Garbo call come, Shel?”

“Six-letter word for ‘tooth rot,’” he mulled.

“The Garbo call,” I repeated.

“Lousy imitation,” Shelly said, looking up from his puzzle and launching into awful Garbo. “I vant to be by mineself.”

“‘To be alone,’ Shel. She didn’t say ‘mineself.’”

“Mineself. Alone. Whatever. Well?” he asked.

“Well?” I answered.

“The tooth. Dali was supposed to paint me a tooth, remember?”

“I guess he forgot. He had a lot on his mind.”

Shelly put his magazine in his lap, pulled out a cigar, lit it and thought for a few seconds before saying, “Can’t trust artists or hardware store clerks.”

I wanted to call Anne but it would have to wait. I went downstairs, got into Gunther’s ear and asked him to drive me to the hospital. It took about fifteen minutes. We got there just after noon, and my stomach was growling.

“I’ll meet you back at Mrs. Plaut’s,” I said. “Thanks for everything, Gunther.”

“I am pleased to have been of service,” he said, looking clean-shaven and spiffy in his powder blue suit complete with matching vest.

I found Phil in the surgery waiting room, his tie loose, his eyes red.

“How is she, Phil?” I asked, sitting next to him.

He looked at me and shook his head as if remembering some long-ago stupid question I had asked him.

“She’ll be okay,” he said. “Doctor said it looks like she’ll be okay. Goddamn doctors.”

“Goddamn doctors,” I agreed.

“You trying to be funny?” he asked, turning to me, his fists tight, ready. He needed a shave.

“No,” I said. “I’m not trying to be funny. You want to go get something to eat?”

“No,” he said.

We sat in silence for about three minutes, looking at the door, waiting for a nurse, a doctor, a report.

“You’re still wanted for taking evidence from the scene of a crime,” he said.

“I didn’t kill that guy, Phil. You know I-”

“I know. I heard. Some shit about clocks and dead guys committing murder. It’s Cawelti’s case. I don’t want to hear about it.”

“How about when we hear about Ruth we go out for something to eat and go back to my office?”

“Back to your office?” Phil said, looking at me with red eyes. “Why the hell would I want to go to your office?”

“I bought a painting,” I said. “Mother and two kids. Looks like you and me and Mom.”

“What have you been drinking, Tobias? Mom died when you were born. You didn’t even know her.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Hell,” Phil said suddenly, running his thick right hand over his short-cropped white hair, “Let’s go look at your painting.”

My brother punched my shoulder and we both stood up. I looked down at my father’s watch.

“Quarter after one,” I said.

Phil looked at his watch.

“Quarter after one,” he agreed.