Part 49 (2/2)

The sound of a m.u.f.fled shot rang out in the empty room. There was the dull thud of a body falling. Tiny bits of plaster came down from the decaying ceiling and settled on the floor. In the street outside, there was a sudden frightened silence as the noise reached them.

Willie Borden had come home to die. The hard way.

”How about the gray one, Mistuh Johnny, the one with the chalk stripes?” It was Christopher's voice.

I looked up at him blankly. My mind had been far away.

”It'll go nice with yo' red and blue tie an' brown shoes, Mistuh Johnny,” he a.s.sured me earnestly.

I took a deep breath. ”Sure, Christopher,” I said. ”Anything you say.”

I went into the bathroom and shaved while the hot water ran into the tub. Then I got into the tub and leaned back in the water. It was hot and I could feel its warmth seeping through my body, soothing my jumping nerves. Soon I was relaxed, almost drowsy.

Christopher came into the room and looked down at me. ”Ready to get out now, Mistuh John?”

I nodded my head.

He reached out a hand and helped me up. I placed both hands on the parallel bars next to the tub and swung myself out. He covered me with a bath towel and rubbed me dry. My skin was pink and tingling when he got through. I grinned at him. My headache was all gone.

I got to Peter's house a little after three. It was one of those unusually warm days that spring often brings to California and I wiped my face with a handkerchief as I walked up the front steps. Doris's voice called to me from the pool. I turned around.

She was just coming out of the water, little drops were clinging iridescently to her black bathing suit, shooting sparkles of sunlight into the air around her like tiny diamonds. She took off her bathing cap and shook her hair free. ”It looked so inviting,” she said as I approached her, ”I just couldn't resist taking a dip.”

She held up her face as I kissed her. We began to walk back toward the house and she slipped a terry-cloth robe around her shoulders as we walked.

”How's Peter?” I asked.

She turned a smiling face to me. ”He seems much better today,” she answered happily. ”He's sitting up in bed and is acting more like himself. He asked if you were coming over. He wants to see you.”

”I'm glad,” I said simply.

We entered the house through the finished bas.e.m.e.nt and walked on up the stairs. We stopped in front of his door.

”You go on in and talk to him,” she told me. ”I'll slip on some clothes and join you in a little while.”

”Okay,” I said. I looked at her. ”Is Mother around?”

”She's taking a nap,” she answered over her shoulder as she walked away.

I opened the door and walked into his room. He looked up and smiled at me as I came in. The trade papers were spread all over the bed in front of him and I knew that he was aware of everything that had been going on the last few days. The nurse was sitting in a chair near the window reading. She got to her feet.

”Don't tire him too much, Mr. Edge,” she admonished me and then she turned and left the room.

Peter smiled again and reached out a hand as I reached the bed. I took it. There was a warmth and strength in his grip that had been lacking the day before. ”How're yuh doin'?” I asked looking down at him.

”All right,” he said ruefully. ”I want to get out of bed, but they won't let me.”

I smiled as I sat down in a chair next to the bed. ”Don't be a shtarker,” I said. ”Just do what they tell yuh and you'll be okay.”

He laughed at my p.r.o.nunciation of the Yiddish word meaning strong man. ”They think I'm a baby,” he protested.

”You were a pretty sick man,” I told him, ”so don't try to rush things.”

He looked down at the bed for a moment, then back up at me. A serious look had come on his face. For the first time he spoke about Mark. ”I was paying for my mistakes,” he said. ”I should never have treated the boy like that.”

”Don't reproach yourself,” I said slowly. ”It wasn't a question of making a mistake. No one could tell you whether you did right or wrong. It wasn't even that. You did what you felt you had to.”

He shook his head. ”I should have known better.”

”Forget it,” I said sternly. ”It's over and done with and you can't turn back the clock.”

”No.” He echoed my words hollowly: ”You can't turn back the clock.” His hand played with the sheet for a few seconds. I could see the blue veins on the back of them. He looked over at me. His eyes were moisture-bright. ”I know he was a spoiled and selfish kid,” he said. ”But it was my fault he was that way. I gave in to him too much. I always let him have his own way, thinking he was young yet, there was time enough tomorrow for him to change. But tomorrow never came.”

He looked down at the sheets clutched in his hand. I could see the tears rolling silently down his cheeks. I didn't speak; there was nothing I could say.

He lifted his head and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. ”I'm not crying so much for him,” he said brokenly, trying to explain away his tears. ”It's for myself. I was such a fool, I never gave him time to prove himself. He was my son, my own flesh and blood, and I cast him out in my wicked rage and anger. It was I who was really selfish; if I hadn't been so crazy I would have stopped to think.” He took a deep breath. ”He was my only son, and I loved him.”

We were silent a moment, then I reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. ”I know, Peter,” I said quietly. ”I know.”

I could hear the clock on the night table ticking away as we sat there without talking. At last Peter stirred and turned to me again. I could see the tears were gone.

”They're after you now,” he said tonelessly, his hands waving at the copy of today's Reporter lying in front of him.

I nodded silently.

He looked at me closely. ”How do you think you'll make out?”

I shrugged my shoulders casually. I didn't want him to see how concerned I really was. ”I don't know,” I confessed. ”I honestly don't know. They got all the money.”

He nodded his head in agreement. ”Yes, that's it,” he said slowly. ”They got all the money.” He looked at me frankly. ”I was wrong, you know. That's what it really was all the time. You were right when you said it wasn't anti-Semitism and this only goes to prove it.”

I was curious. ”What do you mean?”

A peculiar look came over his face, a strange mixture of sympathy and sorrow. ”If it were anti-Semitism they wouldn't be trying to bring Farber and Roth in, over your head. They're Jewish and you're not.”

I hadn't thought about that. He was right. I didn't answer, but inside me there was a strange sort of gladness that at last he could see the way things really were.

”What are you going to do?” he asked after a little pause.

I rubbed my hands wearily across my forehead. I was beginning to get tired. The restless night I had spent was beginning to catch up with me. ”I haven't made up my mind yet,” I answered. ”I don't know whether to stay until I'm forced out or quit now.”

”You don't want to quit, do you?” he asked.

I looked at him and shook my head.

”No, you wouldn't,” he continued thoughtfully. ”I didn't think you would. We've spent too much time there, you and I. Put too much into it to ever want to leave it. It has become a secret part of us, part of our souls perhaps. You feel now as I did when I had to sell out. I've felt sort of empty ever since.”

<script>