Evan Hunter - Far From the Sea

The restaurant was small and empty.

He took a table near a fish tank with three tropical fish in it. He watched the fish. In the kitchen, a radio was going. Frank Sinatra. He did not recognize the tune. A waiter came to the table.

“Would you care to see a menu, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, but first I’d like a drink. Canadian and soda, please,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have a liquor license,” the waiter said.

“Oh,” David said.

“Only wine and beer, sir.”

He debated leaving. He wanted a drink very badly. He had been wanting a drink ever since Kaplan told him they would be doing the operation tomorrow morning.

“Well, let me have a... do you have any Beaujolais?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A bottle of Beaujolais then. A half-bottle, if you have it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have Beaujolais in the half-bottle.”

“What do you have in the half-bottle?”

“Nothing, sir. We have only the full bottles, or you can order by the glass.”

“Let me have a full bottle then.”

“Yes, sir, a bottle of Beaujolais.”

“And I’ll look at the menu, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter came back a few moments later. David was watching the fish in the tank.

“Shall I open it now, sir? Let it breathe a little?”

“Please,” David said. He didn’t know you had to let Beaujolais breathe.

The waiter showed David the label on the bottle. David nodded. The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured wine into David’s glass. He handed David a menu.

The special tonight is seafood marinière,” he said. That’s catch of the day with shrimp and lobster, sautéed in a tomato sauce with garlic and shallots.”

“What’s the catch of the day?” David asked.

“Red snapper.”

“Well, give me a minute to look this over.”

“Take all the time you need, sir,” the waiter said, and walked off.

David lifted the wineglass to his lips. He sipped at the wine. He raised his eyebrows. Nice, he thought. Not much body, but amusing nonetheless. And a trifle foxy. He smiled. They used to make a game of imitating wine mavens, he and Molly.

They walked, he and Molly, off the boardwalk and out into the side street where her hotel nested in a warren of similarly gray-shingled buildings. The storm clouds had blown far out to sea. The leaves were wet and brilliantly green after the storm. The streets were wet, too; they glistened and steamed in the sunshine. Everything smelled of summer. Her stride matched his. Long legs. High-heeled sandals clicking on the rain-washed pavement.

Her name was not Regan with an a, she told him, but Re gen with an e. A harried Ellis Island customs official had mistaken the name of her grandparents’ town for their surname and had then summarily shortened it to something that sounded more “American.” Her grandparents had come from Regensburg, in the southern part of Germany, not far from Nuremberg. His shiksa was a Jewish-American Princess.

She took off her sandals and walked barefoot in the puddles alongside the curb. He put his arm around her waist. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin summer dress. She sidled away from him. His heart was beating so fast he thought he would collapse right there on the street. There were two old ladies in house-dresses sitting on the rickety porch of her hotel, rocking, looking out at the sunshine, rocking.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Tonight?”

“No, Tm busy tonight.” She looked at her watch. “In fact, I have to get dressed. He’s picking me up at six.”

“Early date,” he said.

“Well, what business is that of yours?” she said.

Typical, he thought. Why couldn’t she have been a shiksa?

“How about tomorrow night?” he said.

“Well, why don’t you call me in the morning?”

“What’s your number?”

“Look it up. There’s the name of the hotel,” she said, and gestured breezily over her shoulder.

He kissed her suddenly and impulsively. The two old ladies kept looking out at the sunshine, rocking.

She broke away from his embrace. “Hey,” she said.

She was trembling. He could see her trembling. He wanted to kiss her again.

“Just...” she said.

Her green eyes met his.

“Take it easy, okay?” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Have you decided yet, sir?” the waiter asked.

David looked up at him.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

The phone was ringing.

He fumbled for the receiver in the dark and then turned on the bedside lamp.

“Hello?” he said.

“David?”

“Yes, hi.”

“I’m sorry, were you asleep?”

“That’s okay.”

“I just got in. Is everything all right?”

“Where were you?”

“I went to a movie.” She paused. “With Marcia.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Did I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That I was going?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How is he?”

“They’re going to operate again tomorrow morning. See if they can find what... what’s...”

“David?”

“Yes?” He had almost said “what’s killing him.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Where’d you have dinner?”

“A little French place up the street.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, go back to sleep. Call me in the morning, will you? After the operation. What time will they...?”

“First thing.”

“David? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Really. The air conditioning’s on the fritz, but aside from that...”

“You poor thing,” she said.

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Good night. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Good night,” he said.

He lay wide awake, looking up at the ceiling.

He had left the drapes and the window open again, and the lights from his own hotel and the surrounding hotels cast a glow that illuminated the window frame. The window frame was a giant rectangle of light on the southern wall. To the east was the ocean; he could hear its rumble. To the west was the hospital, where his father was sleeping now, he hoped, before an operation tomorrow morning that had only a 50 percent chance of survival as its hidden clause. Caveat emptor , he thought.

What time is it, anyway? he wondered. He pressed the little button on his digital watch, illuminating the dial. Eleven forty-seven. It was never a quarter to eleven anymore. It was always either eleven forty-four or eleven forty-six or eleven forty-seven, but never eleven forty-five, never a quarter to eleven. Digital watches, he thought. Can anybody tell time anymore? She had called — what, five minutes ago? Just got back from the movies. Went with Marcia. Who the hell was Marcia? He tried to think who Marcia might be. He could not think of anyone named Marcia.

That summer at Rockaway, he had not waited till morning to call her. He was sharing a rented room with a dental student who had found a girl with whom he spent virtually all of his days and nights. David was alone most of the time, in a seedy room with sticky sheets. He called Molly at ten o’clock and got no answer. He called her again at eleven, and again at midnight.

“Hello?” she said.

“Molly?”

“Yes?”

“It’s David.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“How was your date?”

“Well,” she said, “what business is that of yours?”