physicians today who cannot recognize (because they have never treated) typhus, small pox or poliomyelitis. But that is by the by.”
“Doctor,” Delaney said, wearied by all this lubricous talk, “let’s get down to it. What do we do now. What are our options?”
Dr. Bernardi leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his two forefingers together, pressed them against his plump lips. He regarded Delaney for a long moment.
“You know, Captain,” he said with some malevolence, “I admire you. Your wife is obviously ill, and yet you say ‘What do we do’ and ‘What are our options.’ That is admirable.”
“Doctor…”
“Very well.” Bernardi sat forward sharply and slapped the file on his desk. “You have three options. One: I can attempt to reduce the fever, to overcome this mysterious infection, by heavier doses of antibiotics or with drugs I have not yet tried. I do not recommend this out of the hospital; the side effects can be alarming. Two: Your wife can enter a hospital for five days to a week for a series of tests much more thorough than I can possibly administer in this office. I would call in other men. Specialists. Neurologists. Gynecologists. Even dermatologists. This would be expensive.”
He paused, looking at the Captain expectantly.
“All right, doctor,” Delaney said patiently. “What’s the third choice?”
Bernardi looked at him tenderly.
“Perhaps you would prefer another physician,” he said softly. “Since I have failed.”
Delaney sighed, knowing his wife’s faith in this oleaginous man.
“We’ll go for the tests. In the hospital. You’ll arrange it?”
“Of course.”
“A private room.”
“That will not be necessary, Captain. It is only for tests.”
“My wife would prefer a private room. She’s a very modest woman. Very shy.”
“I know, Captain,” the doctor murmured, “I know. Shall you tell her or shall I?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Yes,” Dr. Bernardi said. “I believe that would be best.” The Captain went back to the reception room to wait for her, and practiced smiling.
It was a doxy of a day, merry and flirting. There was a hug of sun, a kiss of breeze. Walking north on Fifth Avenue, they heard the snap of flags, saw the glister of an early September sky. Captain Delaney, who knew his city in all its moods and tempers, was conscious of a hastened rhythm. Summer over, vacation done, Manhattan rushed to Christmas and the New Year.
His wife’s hand was in his arm. When he glanced sideways at her, she had never seemed to him so beautiful. The blonde hair, now silvered and fined, was drawn up from her brow and pinned in a loose chignon. The features, once precise, had been softened by time. The lips were limpid, the line of chin and throat something. Oh she was something! And the glow (that damned fever!) gave her skin a grapy youthfulness.
She was almost as tall as he, walked erect and alert, her hand lightly on his arm. Men looked at her with longing, and Delaney Was proud. How she strode, laughing at things! Her head turned this way and that, as if she was seeing everything for the first time. The last time? A cold finger touched.
She caught his stare and winked solemnly. He could not smile, but pressed her arm close to his body. The important thing, he thought—the most important thing—was that…was that she should out-live him. Because if not…if not…he thought of other things.
She was almost five years older than he, but she was the warmth, humor, and heart of their marriage. He was born old, with hope, a secret love of beauty, and a taste for melancholy. But she had brought to their home a recipe for lentil soup, thin nightgowns with pink ribbons, and laughter. He was bad enough; without her he would have been a grotesque.
They strolled north on Fifth Avenue, on the west side. As they approached the curb at 56th Street, the traffic light was about to change. They could have made it across safely, but he halted her.
“Wait
“Doctor,” Delaney said, wearied by all this lubricous talk, “let’s get down to it. What do we do now. What are our options?”
Dr. Bernardi leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his two forefingers together, pressed them against his plump lips. He regarded Delaney for a long moment.
“You know, Captain,” he said with some malevolence, “I admire you. Your wife is obviously ill, and yet you say ‘What do we do’ and ‘What are our options.’ That is admirable.”
“Doctor…”
“Very well.” Bernardi sat forward sharply and slapped the file on his desk. “You have three options. One: I can attempt to reduce the fever, to overcome this mysterious infection, by heavier doses of antibiotics or with drugs I have not yet tried. I do not recommend this out of the hospital; the side effects can be alarming. Two: Your wife can enter a hospital for five days to a week for a series of tests much more thorough than I can possibly administer in this office. I would call in other men. Specialists. Neurologists. Gynecologists. Even dermatologists. This would be expensive.”
He paused, looking at the Captain expectantly.
“All right, doctor,” Delaney said patiently. “What’s the third choice?”
Bernardi looked at him tenderly.
“Perhaps you would prefer another physician,” he said softly. “Since I have failed.”
Delaney sighed, knowing his wife’s faith in this oleaginous man.
“We’ll go for the tests. In the hospital. You’ll arrange it?”
“Of course.”
“A private room.”
“That will not be necessary, Captain. It is only for tests.”
“My wife would prefer a private room. She’s a very modest woman. Very shy.”
“I know, Captain,” the doctor murmured, “I know. Shall you tell her or shall I?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Yes,” Dr. Bernardi said. “I believe that would be best.” The Captain went back to the reception room to wait for her, and practiced smiling.
It was a doxy of a day, merry and flirting. There was a hug of sun, a kiss of breeze. Walking north on Fifth Avenue, they heard the snap of flags, saw the glister of an early September sky. Captain Delaney, who knew his city in all its moods and tempers, was conscious of a hastened rhythm. Summer over, vacation done, Manhattan rushed to Christmas and the New Year.
His wife’s hand was in his arm. When he glanced sideways at her, she had never seemed to him so beautiful. The blonde hair, now silvered and fined, was drawn up from her brow and pinned in a loose chignon. The features, once precise, had been softened by time. The lips were limpid, the line of chin and throat something. Oh she was something! And the glow (that damned fever!) gave her skin a grapy youthfulness.
She was almost as tall as he, walked erect and alert, her hand lightly on his arm. Men looked at her with longing, and Delaney Was proud. How she strode, laughing at things! Her head turned this way and that, as if she was seeing everything for the first time. The last time? A cold finger touched.
She caught his stare and winked solemnly. He could not smile, but pressed her arm close to his body. The important thing, he thought—the most important thing—was that…was that she should out-live him. Because if not…if not…he thought of other things.
She was almost five years older than he, but she was the warmth, humor, and heart of their marriage. He was born old, with hope, a secret love of beauty, and a taste for melancholy. But she had brought to their home a recipe for lentil soup, thin nightgowns with pink ribbons, and laughter. He was bad enough; without her he would have been a grotesque.
They strolled north on Fifth Avenue, on the west side. As they approached the curb at 56th Street, the traffic light was about to change. They could have made it across safely, but he halted her.
“Wait
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