Steel: And Other Stories Page 16

  “Oh, no.” The lilt of her voice was weariness and disgust.

  Ken swallowed.

  “Well, where are they?” Helen asked. “I swear if your head weren’t fastened to your shoulders—”

  “I—I don’t know,” he said. “I—must have dropped them—somewhere.”

  “Well, go pick them up then,” she snapped.

  “Yes,” he said, “yes.” He pushed the door out almost desperately and stood in the cold air.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, but he could feel her hostility.

  He shut the door and moved away from the car, his face beginning to harden. That bastard, taking his money and—!

  He suddenly imagined himself trying to explain the lack of a hundred dollars in the checking account. She’d never believe that it had simply vanished. She’d investigate, find out about the cash he’d gotten, probe, demand. Oh, God, he thought, I’m done, I’m done.

  He looked off, his eyes unseeing, fixed on the huge neon wreath on the roof of the store. In the middle of it, tall, white letters were blinking off and on. He focused on them suddenly. MERRY CHRISTMAS—darkness. MERRY CHRISTMAS—darkness. MERRY CHRISTMAS—darkness.

  DR. MORTON’S FOLLY

  He had just finished sterilizing his dental tools when there was a loud knocking on the front office door. What on earth? Dr. Morton frowned. Who in the name of heaven would be showing up this time of night? He stood motionless, assuming that whoever it was would leave when no one responded.

  Instead, the knocking persisted, getting louder. Dr. Morton sighed wearily. Can’t they tell that the office is closed? he thought.

  The knocking continued, starting to become belligerent. Damn. Did they know he was here because the room lights could be seen from the outside? He sighed again. He was tired, and he wanted to go home.

  As the knocking went on, now with a kind of exaggerated righteous rhythm, Dr. Morton left the workroom and trudged slowly down the hall to the office door. He opened it and went inside. In a momentary silence between knocks, he said firmly, “The office is closed.”

  A man replied, “I have to see you.”

  Dr. Morton exhaled tiredly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re closed for the night. You should have—”

  “I know you’re closed,” the man interrupted. “This is an emergency. I’m in considerable pain.”

  Oh, dear God, Dr. Morton thought, the word had always gotten through to him. Considerable pain? He sighed in surrender. “One moment,” he said. He unlocked the front door and opened it.

  The man was tall and lean, wearing a black suit, his shirt white, his collar opened above a dark tie. Around his neck he wore a red silk scarf. His skin looked sallow.

  He smiled at Dr. Morton. “I appreciate this,” he said. “I realize that it’s late, but as I said, I’m in considerable pain.”

  Dr. Morton withheld a fatigued sigh. “This way,” he said, gesturing toward the office door.

  “Thank you, sir,” the man said.

  His polite tone helped, somewhat, to ease Dr. Morton’s aggravation. He followed the man into the hall, noticing how black the man’s hair was. What’s your name, Mr. Black? he thought, sarcastically.

  “George Goodman,” said the man.

  Dr. Morton repressed a smile. No sooner asked than answered, he thought. Mr. Goodman. Hardly appropriate but possibly true.

  “In there,” he told the man, pointing toward the first workroom.

  “Thank you, sir,” the man said again.

  So polite, thought Dr. Morton. Very nice. Or affected.

  “Please sit down,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said the man. Laying his red scarf on the right counter, he sat on the chair and elevated his legs. His shoes were black as well. As were his socks. Goodman? thought Dr. Morton. Totally inappropriate. Well, let it go. “I hope this won’t take long,” the man said.

  “We’ll see,” Dr. Morton muttered. He fastened a cloth around the man’s neck.

  “So, what’s the problem?” he asked.

  In answer, the man opened his mouth and pointed inside. Dr. Morton put on his face mask and leaned in to examine the interior.

  Good God! He could not control a gasp of startled revulsion.

  “Something wrong?” the man asked.

  “Well…” Dr. Morton hesitated. “Do you … brush your teeth very often?” he asked. He wanted to speak more directly but contained himself. The man’s breath was shocking. With an ordinary patient, he would have demanded a cleaning before doing an examination. A pity Miss Jensen wasn’t here or he might well have prescribed a cleaning before beginning. However … he certainly would not attempt a cleaning himself. Under the circumstances, absolutely not.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, realizing that Mr. Goodman (Lord, what an inappropriate name!) had answered his question.

  “I said,” the man said, “occasionally.” He sounded offended. I’m the one who should be offended, Dr. Morton thought. Your breath is revolting.

  “The problem?” the man reminded Dr. Morton.

  The problem is I’d like you to get out of my office and brush your damned teeth! Dr. Morton thought. But then … pain. He couldn’t ignore that. No matter how atrocious the man’s breath was.

  Dr. Morton adjusted the overhead light and looked inside the man’s mouth, trying not to breathe. Immediately, he saw the problem. “You have a badly decayed cavity in your left canine tooth,” he said. He wanted to add that the tooth seemed abnormally long. But he’d already offended the man regarding his breath and didn’t care to add to that. Probably runs in the family, he thought. Peculiar family.

  “So what can be done about it?” the man inquired.

  “I can’t do anything,” Dr. Morton said. “I can only advise you to have the tooth extracted by—”

  “No!” the man said loudly; it sounded close to a snarl. It gave Dr. Morton a start.

  “I’m sorry, but I see no other course,” he said. “I believe the tooth should be extracted and, since I can’t do it, I’d recommend Dr. Wellington, a most dependable oral surgeon—”

  “What can you do, sir? Now. Here,” the man broke in.

  Dr. Morton gazed at him intently. There was something menacing about Mr. Goodman. Something pathetic as well. The thought was validated as the man said, “Please, Doctor. Do whatever you can. I’m in dreadful pain.”

  That word again. Dr. Morton was totally vulnerable in its presence. He had to offer something.

  “Sir?” the man said.

  “Well…” Dr. Morton started.

  “Sir?” the man demanded.

  “… might try—” Dr. Morton started again.

  “Yes?”

  Dr. Morton did not attempt to muffle a heavy sigh. What time was it anyway? Would he ever get home? Blanche was probably tired of waiting and already asleep in bed.

  “Sir?” the man demanded again. Forcefully now.

  “I could try to fill—the—” began Dr. Morton.

  “Good.” The man cut him off. “Do it.”

  “I didn’t finish.” Dr. Morton said. “I can’t guarantee anything. The cavity appears to be below the gum line. If it is—”

  “Please.” The man cut him off again. “It doesn’t matter where it is. I need the tooth.”

  “Well … sir.” Dr. Morton spoke cajolingly. “The tooth is valuable, certainly. All teeth are. But under the circumstances. The condition of the tooth…”

  “I don’t care what the condition of the tooth is!” the man said loudly. “I need it!”

  Well … damn it, Dr. Morton thought. The man seemed adamant. What to do? He couldn’t throw the man out. He didn’t think that was possible anyway. Mr. Goodman—if that was his name—could be muscular. Dr. Morton exhaled openly.

  The man watched him prepare an injection needle, filling it from the container of lidocaine.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Preparing a pain in
jection,” Dr. Morton told him.

  The man scowled. “No injection,” he said.

  “Mr. Goodman,” objected Dr. Morton. “You cannot—”

  “No … injection.” The man’s voice was almost threatening.

  Well, damn it! Dr. Morton thought. He just wouldn’t do the filling then! Let the man endure the pain! He did not intend to drill that awful looking cavity without the aid of lidocaine! Absolutely not!

  “Please, sir.” The man was starting to plead. “The pain is terrible.” No further sense of threat. There were even tears in his eyes. Dear God. Dr. Morton felt guilty. He had to try, anyway. The poor man was in dreadful need, that was obvious.

  “Oh, very well,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.” The man sounded genuinely grateful.

  Just stop calling me sir, will you? Dr. Morton thought peevishly as he prepared the drill, thinking how more convenient it was for Miss Jensen to do all the preparatory work.

  He braced himself. “I warn you,” he told the man, “this is going to hurt. If you still—”

  “Drill,” the man interrupted. “I’m ready.”

  So be it, Dr. Morton thought. Suffer, then. He felt a twinge of guilt at the unkind thought, then dropped it. He had offered lidocaine. If the man refused it, he had to be prepared for the worst. He’d likely strike the nerve. Heaven help the man then.

  He began to drill.

  At first, he assumed that, as a number of patients did, the man was resisting the commencement of pain. It wouldn’t work without lidocaine. Mr. Goodman would soon be in agony. The anticipation was initially pleasing to Dr. Morton. The man had been little but difficult to treat. The satisfaction soon wavered, then disappeared however as he waited, almost tensely, for the first sign of pain from the man. The initial tightening of his cheeks, the involuntary clamping shut of his eyes, the uncontrollable hiss.

  To his amazement none of the expected reactions took place. The man remained silent, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He never stirred, never showed a sign of distress. Dr. Morton couldn’t understand it. He was drilling straight into the decay of the cavity. He had to be affecting the nerve. Was the man one of those rare people who never felt pain? Who could lay a palm on an open flame and never notice? Curious.

  The man’s mouth was beginning to fill with particled blood. Dr. Morton straightened up. “Rinse out,” he said, gesturing toward the small round sink beside the chair. Lord, he thought. Already his back hurt. He’d been looking forward to going home, taking a hot shower, and getting into bed. No such luck.

  He watched as the man picked up the paper cup and put some water in his mouth. His cheeks puffed out as he washed the bloody water around in his mouth. Patients didn’t usually do that, Dr. Morton thought. They spit out what bloody cavity fragments and saliva were in their mouth, then rinsed out. Not this gentleman, of course. The idea vaguely amused him.

  He started, eyes widening as the man swallowed again. Good God, thought Dr. Morton. “I didn’t mean for you to drink it,” he said, his voice unmanageably revulsed.

  “It’s all right,” the man said.

  “Well,” Dr. Morton mumbled. What more was there to say? The man was more than intractable. He was disgusting.

  Finish up, he told himself. Get this damned thing over with.

  He continued drilling, making no attempt to avoid inflicting pain. It didn’t seem to matter. The man remained stoic. Dr. Morton was repeatedly struck by that fact as the drill bit deep below the gum line. Ordinarily, even with the use of lidocaine, by now the average patient would be writhing with pain. Most of the time, he’d have to give them a second lidocaine shot and wait before continuing to drill.

  Not with this man. He remained motionless, staring intently at the ceiling. When the bloody detritus collected in his throat, he swallowed it. Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dr. Morton thought more than once.

  At last, the drilling was concluded. As quickly as he could—Miss Jensen did it so much more efficiently—he mixed the filling and implanted it into the cavity with hard, abrupt movements.

  “Don’t chew on anything until this dries,” he instructed.

  “I won’t,” the man said.

  Dr. Morton drew a deep breath. He wouldn’t bother drying the filling. “Well, that’s it then. It should hold,” he said. He was about to add that he still believed the tooth should be extracted, but decided against it. He wanted the man out of here. He wanted to go home and relax.

  “About the charge,” the man said, rising from the chair.

  “Call my secretary in the morning and give her your address,” Dr. Morton said.

  “I’ll send you the money,” the man replied.

  “Fine.” Dr. Morton’s tone was impersonal.

  He walked the man to the waiting room. There, instead of opening the front door, the man turned to face Dr. Morton.

  “It was very kind of you,” he said.

  Think nothing of it, Dr. Morton felt inclined to say. I’m going to forget about it as soon as I can. “Thank you” was what he said.

  The man smiled. He put a hand on each of Dr. Morton’s shoulders. His grip was strong. It made Dr. Morton’s shoulders hurt. “Now,” said the man. His lips drew back from his teeth.

  “Yes, the tooth looks fine,” Dr. Morton said.

  The man blinked, moved his lips forward, and withdrew his hands. “No,” he said, “I may need you again.”

  Dr. Morton tightened. “I’m usually available,” he said stiffly. The nerve of the man!

  “Good,” said the man. He opened the door and moved into the corridor.

  Dr. Morton locked the door with a solid thrust. There, he thought. So much for you, Mr. Goodman. If that’s really your name.

  When he went back in the workroom to clean the drill, he saw the man’s red scarf on the counter. Oh, no, he thought. He wasn’t going to allow the man back to claim it. Snatching it off the counter, he left the room and hurried to the front door. Unlocking it, he pulled it open and lunged into the corridor. Here’s your damn scarf! he thought of raging. He wouldn’t, of course. But at least he’d be rid of Mr. Goodman. Peculiar—no, weird—Mr. Goodman.

  He opened the front door of the building and stepped outside. Here’s your scarf, sir! he said in his mind.

  The parking lot was empty. Didn’t the man drive here? Dr. Morton thought. Was he walking? At this time of night? Surely there was bus service available. A taxicab might not be possible.

  He jerked back his head as a rushing sound moved overhead. A momentary shadow swept across him, making him start.

  Quickly, Dr. Morton moved back into the building and walked to his office with unaccustomed speed. For some reason, he felt very cold.

  THE WINDOW OF TIME

  Let me say, at the outset, that I don’t blame my daughter for what happened. Actually, “blame” is too critical a word. What I mean to say is that my daughter was hardly responsible for what happened. Miriam is a good soul, a benevolent human being. She never (well, almost never) found fault with my living in her home. And Bob’s. And the three boys’. And if she did find fault, it was of such brief duration as to be negligible. Bob, on the other hand—well, let that go. (The main point I want to make is that my daughter did not demean me in any way for my extended residence. She knew I was alone and friendless; all of them deceased, including my beloved wife, Agnes. Appreciating that, Miriam treated me with thoughtfulness, kindness. And, most importantly, love.)

  So much for the outset. The upshot? I know that my daughter and her family were in a constant state of stress because of me. I did the best I could, using their second bathroom (I didn’t have the temerity to utilize the master bathroom) as expeditiously as possible, watching television on the small black-and-white set in my bedroom, rarely watching the fifty-five-inch LCD color TV in their living room and sharing that only when we all agreed on a specific program. Most of my personal books were in storage and scarcely ever reread. I’d read them all anyway.

  Oh, there were ot
her elements of stress. Certain foods I couldn’t eat. Medicine prescriptions I needed periodically. Rides to various doctors. (I’d lost my driver’s license in 2008 following my stroke.) Well, why go on? I was, to be brief, in the way. So I decided to leave. I had enough private income from social security and my retirement pension from the Writers Guild. (I was rather a successful series television writer in the ’60s and ’70s.) So I had enough income to keep paying Miriam by the month even though I wasn’t there.

  * * *

  I didn’t tell her I was leaving. I knew she’d try to dissuade me. My age (eighty-two, I’d married late), my health (questionable), my need for company (beyond question). I didn’t want to debate with her. So I just left, a parting note on the kitchen table. I didn’t take any belongings with me. I could get them after I located a furnished room or flat. I waited until Miriam had gone shopping for groceries. Bob was at work (he’s a car salesman, poor chap), the boys—Jeremy, seventeen, Arthur, fourteen, and Melvin, twelve—were at school. So I decamped from the three-bedroom, two-bath Kelsey domicile (Jeremy would likely be delighted at long last to acquire his own room) and walked over to Church Avenue. (Did I mention that their house was in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn? No, I didn’t. Well, it is.) And I had seen (for some time) an ad in the local news sheet about a retirement home in that area called Golden Years. The name gave me the pip. Golden Years my foot! But I was in no position—or condition, for that matter—to go searching to hell and gone for an appropriate landing spot.

  The home—I had trouble thinking of it as a “home”—was a couple of blocks west of Flatbush Avenue. The ad described it so. To be truthful, I can’t tell east from west or north from south. I assumed that I was heading in the right direction and evidently, I was. I found the house a block and a half distant from what had been the RKO Kenmore Theatre in my youth. Not a bad-looking house, cleanly painted, a sign hanging above its porch which read G-LDEN YEARS, the O missing. No mention of retirement. I had to assume it was the place I was searching for.

  No doorbell. Instead, a rather portentous-looking knocker made, I guessed, of cast iron painted to resemble copper. It made such a deafening resonance when I struck it against the door that it made me wince.