She tried to push me over but fell over herself. Then I called 911.”
“Are you saying she wanted to push you off?” asked the young cop.
The old cop sipping his coffee scrutinized him with a frown.
“Yes. She was very disoriented. She kept calling me Marty. Doctor-patient confidentiality prohibits me from saying much, but she was very, very unhappy. Mind you, even though she was pregnant, which should give you an idea. My groin area is somewhat bruised, if you want pictures or anything.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the old man said, speaking for the first time. “This one’s open and shut. Though if she wakes up, Dr. Falcon, you may want to charge her with attempted murder.”
“Thank you, but she’s been through quite enough, and her new little girl will need her.”
“We could tell right away by the way she landed that she wasn’t pushed,” said the old cop, though the younger one gave him a dirty look. I inferred that the older cop thought his partner was over-zealously suspicious of everyone and that he would keep him in check.
“Do you know how to reach Mr. Martin Goldstein?” the young cop asked.
“I imagine at their home.” I was careful to say nothing about the impending divorce. I wondered if they were trying to fool me and would try to open my sealed record from when I was professor or do a DNA test on the baby.
Yet as the days went by, there really was nothing more to it, provided that Linda didn’t wake up. Or, if she did, maybe she wouldn’t remember what happened, or I could say she was being delusional. Of course, a lil’ ol’ thing called a paternity test could’ve put an end to my theory, but maybe Esther would think the baby was so goddamned cute she’d go easy on me.
I had a brief moment of insanity in which I thought about approaching Esther about adopting the baby without saying who Da-Da was. Thankfully, I got over it in a hurry. Marty Goldstein, once found, kept tearful watch by his wife’s bedside every evening after work, frequenting the non-denominational chapel to pray for his preemie daughter’s survival. Maybe the Goldsteins would have a happy ending. And as far away from me as possible.
If only things had gone more smoothly on the home front.
When I exhaustedly arrived home that first night, Sabrina was already asleep from jet lag. Esther, though, had waited up to tell me, “Don’t think I don’t know what really happened. Or that I don’t know enough , anyway.”
“My patient’s alive,” was all I offered in reply, hanging up my coat. Unless Linda had talked to Esther at some point, I was reasonably certain Esther did not know anything. She was on a kind of fishing expedition, hoping to trip me up in a lie.
Esther stared ahead blankly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was raised to have self-respect. My parents worshipped me.”
“Well, that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“You always have some smart answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Not really. It’s simply that you’re not as smart as you think.”
Esther marched toward me and spat in my face. Then she silently marched to the kitchen, to put the three plates, three forks, and three glasses we used for our takeout dinner into the dishwasher. This probably took her thirty seconds, but she said, without turning to look at me, “You’ve always been such a help around the house.”
“Well,” I replied, “you’ve always been such a lousy lay.”
She stared at me soberly. “Why do you hate me?”
“Because there’s nothing to love.”
I could hear her mumble, “What a dickhead,” as she stormed off to her bedroom. Sabrina knew we slept in separate rooms, though she thought it was because of my snoring instead of Esther’s frigidity.
The morning after the Linda incident, I woke up early to go through some papers on the identity theft case. Through an amazing coincidence, the papers had turned into tiny, confetti-like pieces since the day before. My, could
“Are you saying she wanted to push you off?” asked the young cop.
The old cop sipping his coffee scrutinized him with a frown.
“Yes. She was very disoriented. She kept calling me Marty. Doctor-patient confidentiality prohibits me from saying much, but she was very, very unhappy. Mind you, even though she was pregnant, which should give you an idea. My groin area is somewhat bruised, if you want pictures or anything.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the old man said, speaking for the first time. “This one’s open and shut. Though if she wakes up, Dr. Falcon, you may want to charge her with attempted murder.”
“Thank you, but she’s been through quite enough, and her new little girl will need her.”
“We could tell right away by the way she landed that she wasn’t pushed,” said the old cop, though the younger one gave him a dirty look. I inferred that the older cop thought his partner was over-zealously suspicious of everyone and that he would keep him in check.
“Do you know how to reach Mr. Martin Goldstein?” the young cop asked.
“I imagine at their home.” I was careful to say nothing about the impending divorce. I wondered if they were trying to fool me and would try to open my sealed record from when I was professor or do a DNA test on the baby.
Yet as the days went by, there really was nothing more to it, provided that Linda didn’t wake up. Or, if she did, maybe she wouldn’t remember what happened, or I could say she was being delusional. Of course, a lil’ ol’ thing called a paternity test could’ve put an end to my theory, but maybe Esther would think the baby was so goddamned cute she’d go easy on me.
I had a brief moment of insanity in which I thought about approaching Esther about adopting the baby without saying who Da-Da was. Thankfully, I got over it in a hurry. Marty Goldstein, once found, kept tearful watch by his wife’s bedside every evening after work, frequenting the non-denominational chapel to pray for his preemie daughter’s survival. Maybe the Goldsteins would have a happy ending. And as far away from me as possible.
If only things had gone more smoothly on the home front.
When I exhaustedly arrived home that first night, Sabrina was already asleep from jet lag. Esther, though, had waited up to tell me, “Don’t think I don’t know what really happened. Or that I don’t know enough , anyway.”
“My patient’s alive,” was all I offered in reply, hanging up my coat. Unless Linda had talked to Esther at some point, I was reasonably certain Esther did not know anything. She was on a kind of fishing expedition, hoping to trip me up in a lie.
Esther stared ahead blankly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was raised to have self-respect. My parents worshipped me.”
“Well, that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“You always have some smart answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Not really. It’s simply that you’re not as smart as you think.”
Esther marched toward me and spat in my face. Then she silently marched to the kitchen, to put the three plates, three forks, and three glasses we used for our takeout dinner into the dishwasher. This probably took her thirty seconds, but she said, without turning to look at me, “You’ve always been such a help around the house.”
“Well,” I replied, “you’ve always been such a lousy lay.”
She stared at me soberly. “Why do you hate me?”
“Because there’s nothing to love.”
I could hear her mumble, “What a dickhead,” as she stormed off to her bedroom. Sabrina knew we slept in separate rooms, though she thought it was because of my snoring instead of Esther’s frigidity.
The morning after the Linda incident, I woke up early to go through some papers on the identity theft case. Through an amazing coincidence, the papers had turned into tiny, confetti-like pieces since the day before. My, could
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