Evan Hunter - Far From the Sea

“Carmine Bastiglio.”

“Would you spell that, please?” she said, looking at her clipboard.

“It starts with a B, look under your B’s. Bastiglio.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, finding the name. “Are you a relative of the patient, sir?”

“I’m his brother,” Bastiglio said.

“I’m sure this will be resolved in no time at all,” the pink lady said. “Would anyone like coffee?”

No one answered.

“If no one wants coffee,” she said, “I’ll have to wash out the pot and lock up the coffee maker. I have to leave no later than four-fifteen. I have to take the keys down to Mrs. Thorpe in the Volunteer Section and then catch the hospital jitney to the bus stop. That takes time,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Last call,” she said cheerfully. “Anyone for coffee?”

“Without coffee,” Bastiglio said philosophically, “the entire system would collapse.”

“Would you care for some coffee, Mr....?” She consulted her clipboard, seemed about to try pronouncing his name, gave it up, and said, “Sir?”

“No coffee, thank you,” Bastiglio said. “I never got in the habit. If my brother hadn’t got in the habit, he wouldn’t be here now with a heart attack.”

“No coffee?” the pink lady said. “Anyone? Are you sure?”

“No coffee already,” Mrs. Horowitz said testily.

“I’ll wash out the pot then,” the pink lady said, as though ready to carry out a dire threat.

“My mother’s dying in there,” Mrs. Horowitz whispered, “and she’s hocking us about coffee.”

“You don’t know it’s your mother,” one of the Dolly Sisters said. The younger one. Jean.

“She looked terrible today,” Mrs. Horowitz said.

“In there, they all look terrible,” Bastiglio said philosophically.

“It’s no picnic in there,” Helen said.

“Really,” Jean said.

“I haven’t even seen him yet,” Henley said. “My father. He was operated on this morning. What if it’s him dying, and I don’t even get to see him?”

“An emergency doesn’t necessarily mean someone is dying,” the pink lady said from the sink, where she was washing out the coffee pot.

“No, it means somebody’s dancing up and down the aisles in there,” Mrs. Horowitz said, and everyone laughed.

The laughter broke the tension, but only for a moment.

“I hope I get to see him before he dies,” Henley said.

“How long is this going to take in there?” Helen asked.

“As long as it takes to resolve,” the pink lady said, and carried the pot to the cabinet and then locked the entire coffee maker inside it. She looked up at the clock. Everyone looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past four.

“It’s taking forever,” Bastiglio said.

“I have to leave now,” the pink lady said.

“ Alevai ,” Mrs. Horowitz said.

“I happen to understand Yiddish,” the pink lady said, and started out of the room. At the door, she turned and said, “Please don’t try to go in until they take the sign down.”

As she turned in the doorway again, the Cuban nurse materialized in the corridor outside. It’s my father, David thought. They’ve sent the Cuban nurse to tell me my father is dead. The pink lady sidled past her quickly, as though she wanted no part of this. The Cuban nurse hesitated in the door frame, her eyes searching the room. They came to rest on Mrs. Horowitz.

“Missis Horiwiss?” she said.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Horowitz said.

“Could I please speak to you for a moment?”

“Oh my God!” she said. She threw herself into David’s arms. “It’s my mother,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Weber, it’s my mother!”

He held her close, patting her shoulder, murmuring words of comfort. In the doorway, the Cuban nurse stood with solemn, sad brown eyes. She nodded confirmation to him. The emergency had been resolved. Mrs. Horowitz’s mother was dead. David kept holding her. She wept against his shoulder. He was surprised to find that he himself was weeping. At last, she drew away from him. She looked into his face, saw the tears in his eyes, and registered a small puzzled look. She nodded her gratitude to him, and patted his hand, and took a tiny lace-edged handkerchief from her handbag. She blew her nose, and dried her eyes, and went out to join the Cuban nurse in the corridor. David sat where he was. He could hear them whispering outside, near the window streaming sunlight. In a moment, the Cuban nurse came back to the waiting-room door.

“You ca’ go in now,” she said.

Mrs. Horowitz was still standing by the window streaming sunlight, her head bent, her back to the corridor, weeping softly as David passed her and went into the unit and into his father’s room.

His father was sleeping peacefully.

David moved a chair beside the bed and sat. He put his hand on the side railing of the bed, and rested his forehead on it, and closed his eyes. He did not awaken his father. He sat for the next fifteen minutes with his eyes closed, his forehead resting on his hand. When he left the room at last, he was surprised to realize he’d been praying.

The phone was ringing as he unlocked the door to his room. He threw the key on the dresser and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“David, it’s me,” Molly said.

“Hi.”

“How is he?”

“I just got back from the hospital this minute. He seems okay. He was sleeping when I left him.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“I haven’t spoken to him today.”

“Well, why haven’t...?”

“I planned to call him in a few minutes. I just got back to the room , Molly.”

She detected the edge to his voice. She was silent for several seconds.

“Have you called Uncle Max?” she asked.

“Not yet. He’s on my list, too.”

“Did you enjoy yesterday?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your lunch. Your swim. Your long walk on the beach.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You didn’t call this morning.”

“There was nothing to call about.”

“Well... let me know what happens, will you?”

“I will.”

There was a long silence.

“How’s the weather up there?” he asked.

“Hot,” she said.

“Here, too,” he said.

Another silence.

“When will you be coming home?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m supposed to check out on Sunday, but I guess... I just don’t know.”

“Jerry called this morning,” she said.

“I’ve been expecting that.”

“He said to tell you things are piling up at the office. He’s hoping you’ll be back by Tuesday.”

“Sooner than that, I hope.”

“I wish you’d talk to the doctor.”

“I will,” he said. “I’ll call him as soon as we’re finished here.”

“Get some sort of prognosis,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Well, all right then,” she said. “Call me.”

“I will.”

She hung up. He pressed the receiver rest button, got a dial tone, and dialed room service. He got the same waiter he’d spoken to on his first day here at the hotel. At least it sounded like the same waiter. He did not want to go through the Canadian club soda routine again.

“This is Mr. Weber in room fifteen twenty-nine,” he said. “Please send me two scotch whiskeys and water, please.”

“Ri’ away, sir,” the waiter said. “Fi’ minutes.”

The drinks did not arrive until fifteen minutes after he had placed the order. Close, he thought, but no guitar. He looked at his watch. It was a little past five o’clock. He would wait another five minutes and then call Kaplan. Sitting on the edge of the bed, sipping at the scotch, he dialed information and got numbers in New Jersey for both his Uncle Max’s delicatessen and his home. He had finished the first of the drinks when he called Kaplan. He got the answering service. The woman there told him she would have the doctor call back as soon as possible.