Evan Hunter - Far From the Sea

“I’m not sure about tonight,” he said. “My father’s... I’m just not sure about him.”

“Oh, David, I’m so sorry.”

“I think I may just stay here in the room. In case anyone tries to reach me.”

“You do have to eat, David.”

“I can always get something from room service.”

“Of course, whatever you say.” She paused. “Will you be going to the hospital again?”

“At seven o’clock.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink before then?”

He looked at his watch.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve had two already, and I... I may have some decisions to make later on.”

“What sort of decisions?” she asked.

He did not know if he felt like discussing this with her.

“Well,” he said, “really, it...”

“Please tell me, David.”

“Whether or not to keep him alive,” he said.

“Oh, David,” she said, “how awful for you. Will you call me when you get back from the hospital? I’ll be here. However late it is. Please promise you’ll call.”

“I promise.”

“I hope everything goes well for him.”

“I hope so, too,” he said.

There was an air of gaiety in the waiting room tonight.

The Dolly Sisters were dressed to the nines. Helen, the older one, was wearing a shimmering green silk dress with matching heels. The shoes had ankle straps. When David was a boy, he and his friends used to call them “whore shoes.” They pronounced it “hoo-er shoes.” The dress was very low-cut. Her breasts swelled in the scoop top. She fiddled with a string of green beads nestling in her cleavage. Her sister Jean was wearing a silver dress with silver shoes. They looked like Christmas, the Dolly Sisters.

“We’re going to a wedding reception,” Helen said.

“Our cousin got married this afternoon,” Jean said.

“Our mother’s doing much better,” Helen said.

“She looked terrific this afternoon.”

“Maybe I’ll come with you,” Bastiglio said. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on during the four o’clock visit.

“Sure, come along,” Helen said.

“More the merrier,” Jean said.

Bastiglio was very happy. He told everyone in the waiting room that they’d be transferring his brother to a private room in the morning. The pink lady was a plump, jovial black woman who offered coffee to everyone in the waiting room. She made it seem as if she were pouring champagne. Arthur Henley, the newcomer who’d been worried that he wouldn’t get to see his father before he died, smacked his lips when he tasted the coffee.

“This is very good coffee,” he said to the black pink lady.

“My husband says I should open a restaurant,” she answered, grinning.

Henley smacked his lips again. “You should, you should,” he said.

David thought the coffee was very good, too. He asked Bessie if she was sure she didn’t want a cup. Bessie shook her head. Of everyone in the waiting room, only Bessie looked glum. She sat with her head bent, her hands in her lap, in the same attitude of prayer as this morning.

“It looks as if the old man’s going to make it,” Henley said. “I talked to his doctor, he told me he’s going to be fine. Few more days in Intensive Care, they’ll be moving him to his own room.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bastiglio said, and lifted his coffee cup as though in a toast.

“How’s your patient doing?” Helen asked David.

“His condition is stable,” David said. It was odd how quickly you picked up the hospital jargon. Stable. His mother used to call the room in which his father kept all his junk a stable. His father’s apartment this morning had looked like a stable.

“They sometimes rally very quickly,” Jean said.

“I’ve seen miracles happen here,” the pink lady said solemnly.

That’s what it’s going to take, David thought. A miracle.

His father looked wonderful.

The bewildered look was no longer on his face. His eyes had lost their unfocused, glazed appearance. They darted brightly in his head.

“How are you doing?” David asked.

His father nodded. Even the nod seemed more vigorous.

“You look good, Morris,” Bessie said. “Did you rest this afternoon?”

His father nodded again.

“I brought your ring and your wallet,” Bessie said, “all your other stuff, too. To give to David. So I wouldn’t have to worry about them, okay?”

His father nodded again.

“Do you remember those summers out on the Island?” David asked. “When Grandma used to yell not to go in the water with your rings on? You, and Uncle Martin, and Uncle Max?”

His father’s eyes smiled. The respirator tube was still in his throat, but Kaplan would remove that in the morning. He’d be more comfortable. He was going to beat this damn thing, after all. He smiled around the respirator tube. He was going to be all right.

“Well, it looks like there’s been some mail for you,” David said. “I picked it up at the nurses’ station. Do you think they’re happy with their station in life?” he asked, and again his father smiled around the tube. David reached into his jacket pocket. He had bought his father a Father’s Day card in the hotel gift shop. He had written his father’s name and address on the envelope. In the upper right-hand corner, he had drawn a stamp and then had inked what he hoped would look like cancellation marks across it. He flashed the envelope briefly and then ripped open the flap.

“Well, well,” he said, “I wonder who this is from.”

His father already knew. His eyes were twinkling in anticipation.

“To Dad,” David read from the card. “Shall I read the poem?”

His father nodded. His eyes and his mouth were still smiling.

“There are many fathers in this world of ours,” David read from the card, “and most of them are fine. But there’s only one who’s best of all, and that’s the one who’s mine.” He paused. “Guess who signed it?” David said.

His father nodded, smiling.

“David and Molly,” David said.

His father nodded again.

“That’s nice, Morris,” Bessie said.

“And you’ll have a big box of cigars waiting for you when you get out of here,” David said.

His father’s hand came up from the sheet. He extended his forefinger. On the air, he made the letter “S.” He was asking about Stephen again. He was wondering whether Stephen had sent a card as well.

“Stephen?” David said.

His father nodded.

David hesitated a moment. The only other thing he had in his jacket pocket was the envelope containing his mother’s letter. He took the envelope from his pocket.

“Stephen’s written you a letter,” he said.

His father nodded.

David opened the envelope. He took his mother’s letter from it. He looked at the letter. He drew in a short, sharp breath.

“Dear Grandpa,” he said, and hesitated again. The words in his mother’s handwriting read Dear Morrie, I am writing this because when I talk I get too excited and of course it stands to reason. I honestly was giving you a fair chance but I guess you did not want it as you are still lying to me. “Dear Grandpa,” he said again. “What are you doing in the hospital? Mom and Dad tell me you weren’t feeling so good, but that you’re feeling much better now.”

His father nodded.

Bessie was watching David.

“I want you to get better real fast, Grandpa,” David said, glancing up from the letter. “I want you to be the way you were, Grandpa. I want you to come visit us as soon as possible. I want to light your cigar for you, Grandpa. I want you to put a cigar band on my finger. I want to hear you say, ‘And now for the lighter side of the news.’