Part 21 (1/2)

”Good,” I said. ”And Esther?”

”She's right next to me,” Doris replied. ”She wants to talk to you.”

”Put her on.”

I heard the receiver change hands, then Esther's voice came on. For a moment I was shocked, it had changed so much. The last time I had heard it, it was young and firm, but now it sounded old and shaken. As if suddenly she had found herself in a room filled with strange people and wasn't at all sure of her reception.

”Johnny?” It was more a question than anything else.

My voice softened. ”Yes,” I answered.

For a moment she was still, I could hear her breathing; then in the same strangely hesitant voice: ”I'm glad you came. It means a lot to me, it will mean more to him when he learns it.”

Something was wrong inside me. I wanted to cry out: ”This is me, Johnny! We've got thirty years together behind us. I'm not a stranger, you don't have to be afraid to talk to me!” But I couldn't say that, I could hardly manage to say what I did. ”I had to come,” I answered simply. ”You two mean an awful lot to me.” I hesitated a little. ”I'm terribly sorry about Mark.”

It was her old voice that answered me now as if suddenly across the wire she recognized the someone she knew. And yet, deep within her, a feeling of pain and resignation and acceptance came and somehow spilled into her voice. It had the sound of a people that had long known the sorrows of living. ”It's G.o.d's will, Johnny, there's nothing we can do now. We can only hope that Peter-” She didn't finish her sentence, her voice broke. Across the wire came the silent sound of her crying for her son.

”Esther,” I said sharply, trying to bring her back.

I could almost see her fighting for control of herself-fighting to hold back the tears that were so ready to flow, the tears to which she was ent.i.tled. At last she answered: ”Yes, Johnny.”

”You have no time for tears,” I said, feeling like a fool. Who was I to tell her when to cry? It was her son. ”You've got to get Peter well first.”

”Yes,” she said heavily, ”I must get him well again so he can say the Kaddish for his son. So we can sit s.h.i.+veh together.”

s.h.i.+veh was the Hebrew ritual of mourning. You covered all the mirrors and pictures in the house and sat on the floor or on boxes for a week after the death of a loved one.

”No, Esther, no,” I said gently. ”Not so that you can sit s.h.i.+veh, but that you may live together.”

Her voice was docile and meek when she answered. ”Yes, Johnny.” It was almost as if she were talking to herself. ”We must continue to live.”

”That's better,” I said. ”That's more like the girl I used to know.”

”Is it, Johnny?” she asked quietly. ”Until this happened, I might have been the girl you knew, but I'm an old woman now. Nothing ever really changed me before, but this did and I'm afraid.”

”It will pa.s.s,” I said, ”and then things will seem the same in time.”

”Things will never be the same,” she said with a quiet sort of finality.

We spoke a few more words and then hung up. I sat back in my chair and lit another cigarette. My first cigarette had burned itself out, forgotten, in the ashtray.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at the phone. I remembered Mark when he was a kid. It's funny how the things you don't like about a person are forgotten when they're gone. I had never liked Mark the man, so I thought about him when he was a kid. He used to like me to swing him in the air and give him rides on my shoulders. I could still hear his little voice yelling in glee as I tossed him up. I could almost feel his fingers digging into my hair and pulling it as he rode upon my shoulders.

My leg began to ache. My leg. I always thought of it as my leg, but it was only a stump. The rest of it had been in France somewhere for the last twenty years. I could feel the pain shooting down my thigh. The stump was sore. I hadn't had the prosthetic off except for a few minutes in the past three days.

I loosened my trousers. Then I leaned back, drew in my belly and reached in and unfastened the strap around my waist that held the artificial leg in place. Through the trouser leg I loosened the other strap that tied around my thigh, and the leg came loose. It thumped on the floor.

I began to ma.s.sage the stump with the even circular motion I had learned so many years ago. I could feel the blood begin to circulate in it and the ache ease away. I continued the ma.s.sage.

The door opened and Ronsen came in. He saw me sitting at the desk and walked over to me. His step was springy, his frame big and strong. His eyes were bright and piercing behind his gla.s.ses. He stopped in front of my desk and looked down at me.

”Johnny,” he said in that strangely sure voice, ”about that Farber matter. Couldn't we...”

I stared up at him. For some reason I couldn't focus my mind on what he was saying. My hands, still ma.s.saging my stump automatically, began to tremble.

d.a.m.n him! Why couldn't he wait until I called him?

I began to agree with him almost before the words were out of his mouth, before I knew what he was saying. Anything, anything to get him out of the office. Not to have to look at him standing there, so calm, so strong, so easy. Not to feel that insatiable, ruthless surge of power that flowed out of him.

His eyes first narrowed with surprise at my quick agreement. He turned and left the office as if he were in a hurry before I could change my mind.

I stared after his straight back as the door shut behind it. With trembling fingers I tried clumsily to tighten the strap around my thigh. I couldn't get it to set right. I began to curse silently as I wrestled with it.

I felt so d.a.m.n helpless without my leg on.

THIRTY YEARS.

1917.

1.

Johnny came out of the projection room, his eyes blinking at the strong light in the corridor. He stopped and lighted a cigarette.

A man came up to him. ”Okay to print it, Johnny?”

Johnny threw his match into a sandbox. ”Sure, Irving. Go ahead.”

The man smiled. He was pleased. ”We got some good shots of Wilson as he took the oath, didn't we?”

Johnny smiled back at him. ”d.a.m.n good shots, Irving.” He started to walk down the hall, the man walking with him. ”Now get it into the theaters and we'll beat every newsreel in the business.”

Wilson had taken the oath of office for the second term of his Presidency just that morning, less than three hours ago, and Johnny had hired an airplane to bring the negative to New York instead of waiting for a train. The way he figured it, he was at least six hours ahead of any of the other companies. Those six hours meant he would be in the Broadway theaters tonight instead of tomorrow. It was a scoop in the full sense of the word.

Irving Bannon was the editor of the newsreel. He was a short, stocky man with thick black hair who had been a cameraman before Johnny recommended him for this job. What Johnny had liked about him was that he got the picture, he did not ask for elaborate setups and preparation. All he needed was enough light to see by; that was enough for him to get the picture. He was a bustling little man, full of drive, and just the type needed for the job. Johnny was pleased with him.

He scurried along with Johnny, his short little legs taking almost two steps for every one of Johnny's. ”I got those war clips from England, Johnny,” he said, panting a little from the effort of keeping step with Johnny's long strides. ”D'ya want to look at 'em today?”

Johnny stopped in front of his office. ”Not today, Irving, I'm jammed up. Make it tomorrow morning.”

”Okay, Johnny.” The little man scurried off down the hall.