Nightwork by Irwin Shaw Page B

where, but from time to time you’ll hear from me, and if you need more there’ll be more. Do you understand that?”
    Henry slowly folded the bills and put them in his wallet. Then the tears started, silently rolling down the pallid cheeks out from under the glasses.
    “For Christ’s sake, Hank, don’t cry,” I pleaded.
    “You’re in trouble,” Henry said.
    “Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, I have to keep on the move. If anybody ever comes to you and asks you if you know where I am, you don’t know anything. You got that?”
    “I got it.” Henry nodded. “Let me ask you a question, Doug.” He was sober now, sobered by money. “Is it worth it? Whatever you’re doing?”
    “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when I find out. I think we can skip coffee, can’t we?”
    “I don’t need any coffee. I can get coffee in my happy home from my happy wife.”
    We stood up and I helped Henry put on his coat. We walked out together, after I had paid the waiter. Henry walked in a straight line, a bent, oldish figure, then stopped for a moment, as I was pushing at the door. “Just before he died,” Henry said, “do you know what Pa said to me? He said, of all his sons he loved you best. He said you were the purest.” His voice sounded petulant, almost childish. “Now why would a man on his deathbed want to tell his oldest son something like that?” He started walking again, and I opened the door for us, thinking, I am an opener of doors.
    It was cold outside, the night wind gusting. Henry shivered a little, settling deeply into his coat. “Beautiful old Scranton, where I live and die,” he said.
    I kissed him on the cheek, hugging him, feeling the wetness of his tears. Then I put him in a cab. But before the cabby could start off, Henry tapped him on the shoulder to stop him and rolled down the window on my side. “Hey, Doug,” he said. “I just noticed; I knew something was peculiar about you all evening and I couldn’t put my finger on it. You don’t stutter anymore.”
    “No,” I said.
    “How’d it happen?”
    “I went to a speech doctor,” I said. It was as good an explanation as any.
    “Why, that’s great, that’s wonderful. You must be a happy man.”
    “Yep,” I said. “I’m a happy man. Get a good night’s sleep, Hank.”
    He rolled up the window and the cab started away. I watched its tail-lights go down the street, disappear around a corner, carrying away the brother of whom our mother had said that of all her children he was the one who was born to be rich and successful.
    I took a deep breath of the icy night air, shivered, remembered the warm beds of Washington. Then I went in and took the elevator to my room and watched the television for hours. Many objects were advertised that I would never buy.
    I slept badly that night, tantalized by fleeting visions of women and funerals.
    The ringing of the telephone on the bedside table put a welcome stop to my dreams. I looked at my watch. It was only seven thirty. “Doug …” It was Henry on the phone. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Nobody else in the whole world knew where I was. “Doug … I have to see you.”
    I sighed. I felt as though we had exhausted each other the night before, that there was no need to see each other for another five years. “Where are you?” I asked.
    “Downstairs. In the lobby. Have you had your breakfast?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll wait for you in the dining room.” He hung up before I could say yes or no.
    He was drinking a cup of black coffee, alone in the dining room. It was still dark outside. Henry had always been an early riser. It was another one of his virtues that my parents had praised.
    “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said, as I sat down across from him. “I wanted to make sure I got hold of you before you left town.”
    “That’s okay.” Half-remembering my dreams, I said, “I wasn’t particularly enjoying my sleep.”
    The waitress came over to us and I ordered breakfast.