to come to see her tonight.” Myron Prinzmetal attended to the overstressed hearts of the Industry’s upper echelon.
“And I got her a private room and private nurses around the clock.” Tim voiced these extravagances with pathetic pride.
“Can we see her?” Barry asked.
They had been walking up the corridor. Tim tapped on room number
513.
A capped gray head popped out.
“No visiting right now, Mr. Cordiner.
Our girl needs her rest. “
“My son and daughter wanted to look in on her.”
“Oh, you must be Barry,” the nurse said.
“She’s been asking for you.”
Barry slipped into the dimly lit room. Clara Cordiner’s thin face looked as white as if the skull beneath were showing.
“Mom?”
Her eyes opened slowly.
“Barry… ?”
“Hi.”
“My heart….”
“Don’t try to talk, Mom,” he said, smoothing her hair.
“Doctor Prinzmetal’s on the way. He’ll patch you up.”
“Missed you….”
“And I’ve missed you, Mommy.” How long since he had called her that?
“Your school… ?” she whispered.
“Practically have a Phi Bete key in my pocket.” The still hospital air seemed to vibrate with his lie. He hadn’t even told Alicia the bad news when his self-addressed postcards had arrived with ten units of Ds and four of Incompletes.
“Mom, I sold a story. A famous literary magazine’s going to print my work.”
Clara’s white lips curved in a weak semblance of a smile, then her eyes closed.
The nurse tapped Barry’s sleeve. As he left the room, thick tears spurted. Embarrassed, he ran up the corridor to the men’s room, where he gasped out his filial remorse. When he emerged, he saw his Uncle Frank standing with his arm around his brother-in-law. Frank Zaffarano was five four, and Tim Cordiner nearly a foot taller, but the director, virile in his alpaca sport jacket, appeared the dominant figure.
Seeing Barry, Frank raised his clenched fist.
“You’re lucky we’re in a hospital, Barry. If we weren’t, I’d give you a good beating.” In his thirty years in California, Frank had lost much of the Sicilian accent of his youth, but the final syllables of his words became more lyrically inflected when he was in the midst of emotion-drenched family brouhahas like this.
“What sort of son are you, staying away from your mother?”
“Uncle Frank,” Beth murmured, “Barry came the minute Dad called.”
Frank shook his head, from which thick gray hair grew in profusion, as if bewildered by the ways of irresponsible sons.
“And where has he been all these months?”
“Barry, how’s Mom?” Beth asked.
“She spoke to me,” Barry said, trying to sound confident. Frank tapped his stocky chest.
“Seeing her son is the best cure for a mother’s heart.”
Myron Prinzmetal pronounced his patient’s condition to be serious. Tim Cordiner and his two children sat up all night in uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs. When the doctor arrived at seven he reported that Clara’s condition had stabilized. The twins and their father returned to the tract house in Westchester.
The breakfast was like thousands of others, except that Beth, not Clara, scrambled the eggs. Barry and Tim ate, then lingered over black coffee at the kitchen table, splitting the Times, Tim reading the sports section while Barry turned to Robert Kirsch’s book review.
Despite his guilty anxieties about his mother, Barry felt more at peace than at any time since he’d left this house with Alicia.
//
“Do you think it’s a good idea for me to buy a used car?” Alicia repeated.
“What did you say, hon?” Barry’s pen stopped racing, but he continued to scan his yellow notepad.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“We have enough for a down payment on a car. You won’t need to drive me to work.”
“If a car’s what you want, fine with me.”
“Can you go with me to look this weekend?”
Barry had begun to write again.
This was one of their rare evenings together:
“And I got her a private room and private nurses around the clock.” Tim voiced these extravagances with pathetic pride.
“Can we see her?” Barry asked.
They had been walking up the corridor. Tim tapped on room number
513.
A capped gray head popped out.
“No visiting right now, Mr. Cordiner.
Our girl needs her rest. “
“My son and daughter wanted to look in on her.”
“Oh, you must be Barry,” the nurse said.
“She’s been asking for you.”
Barry slipped into the dimly lit room. Clara Cordiner’s thin face looked as white as if the skull beneath were showing.
“Mom?”
Her eyes opened slowly.
“Barry… ?”
“Hi.”
“My heart….”
“Don’t try to talk, Mom,” he said, smoothing her hair.
“Doctor Prinzmetal’s on the way. He’ll patch you up.”
“Missed you….”
“And I’ve missed you, Mommy.” How long since he had called her that?
“Your school… ?” she whispered.
“Practically have a Phi Bete key in my pocket.” The still hospital air seemed to vibrate with his lie. He hadn’t even told Alicia the bad news when his self-addressed postcards had arrived with ten units of Ds and four of Incompletes.
“Mom, I sold a story. A famous literary magazine’s going to print my work.”
Clara’s white lips curved in a weak semblance of a smile, then her eyes closed.
The nurse tapped Barry’s sleeve. As he left the room, thick tears spurted. Embarrassed, he ran up the corridor to the men’s room, where he gasped out his filial remorse. When he emerged, he saw his Uncle Frank standing with his arm around his brother-in-law. Frank Zaffarano was five four, and Tim Cordiner nearly a foot taller, but the director, virile in his alpaca sport jacket, appeared the dominant figure.
Seeing Barry, Frank raised his clenched fist.
“You’re lucky we’re in a hospital, Barry. If we weren’t, I’d give you a good beating.” In his thirty years in California, Frank had lost much of the Sicilian accent of his youth, but the final syllables of his words became more lyrically inflected when he was in the midst of emotion-drenched family brouhahas like this.
“What sort of son are you, staying away from your mother?”
“Uncle Frank,” Beth murmured, “Barry came the minute Dad called.”
Frank shook his head, from which thick gray hair grew in profusion, as if bewildered by the ways of irresponsible sons.
“And where has he been all these months?”
“Barry, how’s Mom?” Beth asked.
“She spoke to me,” Barry said, trying to sound confident. Frank tapped his stocky chest.
“Seeing her son is the best cure for a mother’s heart.”
Myron Prinzmetal pronounced his patient’s condition to be serious. Tim Cordiner and his two children sat up all night in uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs. When the doctor arrived at seven he reported that Clara’s condition had stabilized. The twins and their father returned to the tract house in Westchester.
The breakfast was like thousands of others, except that Beth, not Clara, scrambled the eggs. Barry and Tim ate, then lingered over black coffee at the kitchen table, splitting the Times, Tim reading the sports section while Barry turned to Robert Kirsch’s book review.
Despite his guilty anxieties about his mother, Barry felt more at peace than at any time since he’d left this house with Alicia.
//
“Do you think it’s a good idea for me to buy a used car?” Alicia repeated.
“What did you say, hon?” Barry’s pen stopped racing, but he continued to scan his yellow notepad.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“We have enough for a down payment on a car. You won’t need to drive me to work.”
“If a car’s what you want, fine with me.”
“Can you go with me to look this weekend?”
Barry had begun to write again.
This was one of their rare evenings together:
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