Evan Hunter - Far From the Sea

“That guy’s been wearing a tuxedo for the past two weeks,” a swarthy man across the room said.

“Things go slow on soap operas,” Mrs. Daniels said.

“Things go slow right here,” the man said.

He was growing a mustache; it sat like a smudge on his upper lip. He kept touching it constantly, checking on its progress. He had black hair and very dark eyes. He introduced himself as Albert Di Salvo. He told the others that his mother had suffered a stroke two weeks ago. He came to visit her whenever he could. He was worried that she was still in Intensive Care. He was an only child; he wanted to visit her more often, but he had to go to work, didn’t he? As it was, he was losing a lot of work hours. Mrs. Daniels comforted him. She told him he was of course doing the best he could; he couldn’t come here every minute , could he, and maybe lose his job?

“Same tuxedo for the past two weeks,” Di Salvo said. “I’m forty-three years old, I don’t have a tuxedo. That kid there on television is what, twenty-four, twenty-five, he’s got his own tuxedo.”

“It really belongs to the show,” Mrs. Horowitz said, puffing on her cigarette.

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to be his,” Di Salvo said. “He’s supposed to be rich.”

“He probably is rich,” Mrs. Daniels said. “I mean, in real life. Those TV actors make a lot of money.”

“Sure, they do,” Di Salvo said.

David lit another cigarette. Mrs. Daniels turned to him and gently said, “You shouldn’t smoke so much, Mr. Weber. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you have to watch your own health, too.”

“Let him smoke if he wants to,” Mrs. Horowitz said. “My mother never smoked a day in her life, she’s here in Intensive Care hitting her own daughter. Let him smoke.”

“You should eat, too,” Mrs. Daniels said. “To keep your strength up. There’s a coffee shop downstairs, they serve a nice lunch. Did you have lunch today, Mr. Weber?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Keep your strength up,” Mrs. Daniels said.

“When he finally takes off that tuxedo,” Di Salvo said, “it’ll walk across the room all by itself.”

Bessie, silent until now, suddenly said, “It always seems like forever. Waiting.”

It must have been during the four o’clock visit that David met the psychiatrist. The man walked into the room unannounced, the way they all did. He was holding a clipboard; David figured at once he was a doctor.

“Hello, Weber,” he said, “how are you feeling today?”

“Great,” his father said.

“Better than yesterday?”

“Better than yesterday, worse than today,” his father said.

The man looked at him shrewdly.

“What do you mean by that, Weber?”

“You’re the psychiatrist, you figure it out.” He looked at David. “They’re sending me a psychiatrist, they think I’m nuts.”

“That’s not true, Weber.”

“I’m his son,” David said, and extended his hand.

“Dr. Wolfe,” the psychiatrist said. He did not take David’s hand. “He’s been very depressed,” he said as if David’s father were not in the room with them. “We thought he’d be happy when they took the tube out of his nose, but he’s still depressed. Why are you so depressed, Weber?”

“Some psychiatrist,” David’s father said, and shook his head.

“Why are you depressed, can you tell me?”

“No reason at all,” David’s father said. “I’ve got a hole in my belly, they’re taking pictures to see if I’ve got more blockage, why should I be depressed? I should be dancing in the streets instead.”

“They’re trying to help you,” Wolfe said. “We’re all trying to help you.”

“You can help me by leaving me alone. I never had such a crowd of people around me in my life. It’s like the New York subway system in this room.”

“ Have they...?”

“During rush hour.”

“ Have they been taking more pictures?” Wolfe asked. Whenever he talked directly to David’s father, he raised his voice a decibel or two, as if he were talking to a dull child or a deaf person.

“No, I made that up so your day’ll be interesting,” David’s father said.

“Have you been making anything else up?”

“I’ve been making up all the beds on the floor.”

“When do you do that, Weber?”

“After I get through making the nurses. They’re very hot numbers, these Cuban nurses.”

“How about the shelves behind the wall, Weber? Have you been seeing those again?” He turned to David and lowered his voice. “He’s been hallucinating,” he said.

“By the way,” David’s father said, “I may have a hole in my belly, but my hearing’s fine.”

“I didn’t say anything to your son that I wouldn’t say to you,” Wolfe said, raising his voice again.

“Why do you sound like you’re calling long distance when you talk to me?”

“What?”

“You yell like you’re on long distance. I’m not in Philadelphia.”

“Have you been seeing those shelves again, Weber?”

“I don’t know what shelves you’re talking about.”

“The ones you told me were behind the wall.”

“That isn’t a wall, it’s a fake wall.”

“It’s a real wall. With a room behind it,” Wolfe said. He was writing on the clipboard pad. “When you get up and can walk around, you can see for yourself there’s a room there. No shelves.”

“I’ll give you a full report when I can get up and walk around,” David’s father said. “Don’t hold your breath, though, it may be a while.”

“How’s your memory? He’s been forgetting things,” Wolfe said to David, lowering his voice. “Can you remember things a little better now, Weber?” he asked, raising his voice again.

“What was your question?” David’s father said. “I forget your question.”

“Can you remember things a little better now? Do you remember when you came into the hospital?”

“The first Thursday in May,” David’s father said.

“That’s close, it was May twenty-sixth.”

“But a Thursday.”

“No, a Tuesday.”

“Close, but no guitar,” his father said. “All these Cubans,” he said to David, explaining the pun.

“If I gave you a hundred dollars...” Wolfe started.

“I wish you would.”

“If I gave you a hundred dollars, and you gave seven back to me, how much would you have left?”

“You give me a hundred...”

“Yes. I give you a hundred, and you give me back seven. How much is left?”

“Seven from a hundred,” David’s father said. “That’s...”

It was painful to see him struggling with the arithmetic. He had always prided himself on his meticulous bookkeeping. His checkbooks were as balanced as a high-wire act. His brow furrowed now in concentration. He wet his lips. “That would be... well, sure, that...”

“Pop, what he wants to know...”

“Let him do it himself, please,” Wolfe said, even though David hadn’t been about to prompt his father.

“It’s ninety-seven,” his father said.

“No, it’s ninety-three,” Wolfe said.

“Somebody must be hitting the cash register,” his father said. “That gonif who worked for me in the pool hall.”

“If you had three wishes, Weber, what would they be?” Wolfe asked..

“I wish you’d go away, that’s my first wish.”

“And the other two?” He was writing on the pad again.

“That’s all three. I wish you’d go back to Vienna.”

“Why Vienna?” Wolfe asked, still writing.

“Why not Vienna?”

“He’s making a reference to Freud,” David said.

“Let him answer himself, please,” Wolfe said. “Why Vienna, Weber?”