the apartment since. All I could find were three advertising circulars and an oblong manila envelope, crammed to bursting, with Brandon Hill Medical Center stamped all over it. The cab swung into the park, chugging angrily behind a bus whose driver stopped every three feet to look at the scenery.
“Look,” the driver said. “I’m going to have a smoke. You going to bitch if I have a smoke?”
“Not if you give me a light,” I said. I had the oblong envelope in my lap and a terrible feeling I was going to open it to find forty-five dollars wrapped in a rubber band. I tore the flap open and dumped the contents on my knees.
The driver threw me a pack of matches with two copulating lesbians on the cover and said, “These MTA guys, they don’t care. They don’t have to make time. Their paychecks come in regular.”
I said something like “I guess” and pored through the stuff on my lap. No money. Keys, paper clips, a mini-screwdriver, a bent lipstick case, three inkless Bic medium points, four subway tokens, an American Express pocket calendar (last year’s), but no money. Not even change. I wondered if I’d been relieved of it in the hospital or in Dana’s reception room. So much for the honor of the bureaucracy—public and private.
“He’s going down to Seventy-second,” the driver said. “You want to go to Eighty-first Street? You don’t want to go to Eighty-first Street, it’s going to take all day.”
“Go to Eighty-first Street,” I said. The little silver thing was at the bottom of the pile, among the paper clips and tokens. I picked it up. It had a long stem (two inches) and a shorter branch. One end came to a flat, side-pronged point. The other looked as if it had been broken in two places. The break on the side had stretched the silver into a peaked tuft, like the peaks on birthday cake icing. The break at the end was sharp. It had edges.
“This is Central Park West,” the driver said. “This is no problem from here.”
“Right,” I said.
I was still holding the silver thing in my hand when we pulled up in front of the Braedenvoorst. I had put the rest of the debris back in the envelope, but the silver thing bothered me. When the cab came to a stop, I got some money out of my pocket, threw it on the driver’s seat, and got out. It brought the tip to $1.17, but I had too much on my mind to wait until he made change.
“Just like I always say,” the driver said. “Women tip better than men. Always did. Always will.”
“Right,” I said.
“Wrong,” Phoebe said. “What are you doing here?”
It was like someone coming up behind you and yelling “Boo” in your ear while you were standing at an open window on a high floor. I nearly fell off the curb.
“For God’s sake,” I said. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Phoebe said. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”
“I couldn’t get anything done in the hospital,” I said. I held up the silver thing for her to see. “You know what this is?”
Phoebe is not easily deflected. “I want to know why you’re not in the hospital,” she said, “and I want you to tell me while we’re in a cab taking you back.”
I did the only thing I could do. I ignored her. I waved the silver thing at her again.
“It was in this envelope full of stuff from my pockets,” I said. “What is it?”
Phoebe squinted at it. “Oh,” she said. “You were holding that when they brought you into the hospital. You wouldn’t let go of it for anything. They kept trying to get it away from you and you wouldn’t unlock your fingers. Not even drugged.”
“I was holding it when I came into the hospital?” I said.
“That’s right. I think you had it with you all the way in. It took a general anesthetic and some kind of sleeping shot to get you to give it up.”
“But what is it?” I asked.
Phoebe regarded it solemnly. “It’s a little silver thing,” she said.
I said
“Look,” the driver said. “I’m going to have a smoke. You going to bitch if I have a smoke?”
“Not if you give me a light,” I said. I had the oblong envelope in my lap and a terrible feeling I was going to open it to find forty-five dollars wrapped in a rubber band. I tore the flap open and dumped the contents on my knees.
The driver threw me a pack of matches with two copulating lesbians on the cover and said, “These MTA guys, they don’t care. They don’t have to make time. Their paychecks come in regular.”
I said something like “I guess” and pored through the stuff on my lap. No money. Keys, paper clips, a mini-screwdriver, a bent lipstick case, three inkless Bic medium points, four subway tokens, an American Express pocket calendar (last year’s), but no money. Not even change. I wondered if I’d been relieved of it in the hospital or in Dana’s reception room. So much for the honor of the bureaucracy—public and private.
“He’s going down to Seventy-second,” the driver said. “You want to go to Eighty-first Street? You don’t want to go to Eighty-first Street, it’s going to take all day.”
“Go to Eighty-first Street,” I said. The little silver thing was at the bottom of the pile, among the paper clips and tokens. I picked it up. It had a long stem (two inches) and a shorter branch. One end came to a flat, side-pronged point. The other looked as if it had been broken in two places. The break on the side had stretched the silver into a peaked tuft, like the peaks on birthday cake icing. The break at the end was sharp. It had edges.
“This is Central Park West,” the driver said. “This is no problem from here.”
“Right,” I said.
I was still holding the silver thing in my hand when we pulled up in front of the Braedenvoorst. I had put the rest of the debris back in the envelope, but the silver thing bothered me. When the cab came to a stop, I got some money out of my pocket, threw it on the driver’s seat, and got out. It brought the tip to $1.17, but I had too much on my mind to wait until he made change.
“Just like I always say,” the driver said. “Women tip better than men. Always did. Always will.”
“Right,” I said.
“Wrong,” Phoebe said. “What are you doing here?”
It was like someone coming up behind you and yelling “Boo” in your ear while you were standing at an open window on a high floor. I nearly fell off the curb.
“For God’s sake,” I said. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Phoebe said. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”
“I couldn’t get anything done in the hospital,” I said. I held up the silver thing for her to see. “You know what this is?”
Phoebe is not easily deflected. “I want to know why you’re not in the hospital,” she said, “and I want you to tell me while we’re in a cab taking you back.”
I did the only thing I could do. I ignored her. I waved the silver thing at her again.
“It was in this envelope full of stuff from my pockets,” I said. “What is it?”
Phoebe squinted at it. “Oh,” she said. “You were holding that when they brought you into the hospital. You wouldn’t let go of it for anything. They kept trying to get it away from you and you wouldn’t unlock your fingers. Not even drugged.”
“I was holding it when I came into the hospital?” I said.
“That’s right. I think you had it with you all the way in. It took a general anesthetic and some kind of sleeping shot to get you to give it up.”
“But what is it?” I asked.
Phoebe regarded it solemnly. “It’s a little silver thing,” she said.
I said
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