Love and Will (12 page)

She came back. The handkerchief was soaked with blood and he was whining and groaning. She ran down the hall, got a bath towel out of the linen closet, wrapped it around his head, put his coat over his good shoulder, got her wallet and keys, got his wallet and made sure his hospital insurance card was in it, held his good arm, walked him out of the apartment, down the three flights and out of the building and hailed a cab.

She said, the cabby said.

They got into the cab and started for the hospital. A few blocks from the hospital a car ran a red light and smashed into her side of the cab. The cab turned over and ended up on its wheels on the sidewalk. She forced his door open and the two of them stepped out of the cab, shaken but not hurt. The pain in his shoulder was gone. The towel had fallen off his head in the crash and the wound was no longer bleeding. The cabby's head had gone through the windshield and was bleeding a lot.

They forced open the cabby's door.

A pedestrian said, she said, the pedestrian said and ran to a public phone booth and dialed.

They carefully broke the glass around the cabby's head, pulled him back into the cab, rested his head on the man's coat. She took off her sweater and wrapped it around the cabby's head. A crowd had gathered around them.

The crowd said, she said, the crowd said.

The pedestrian came back and said.

The police came in a few minutes and right behind them, an ambulance.

The police said, she said, he said, the crowd said, the police said, the doctor and the ambulance attendant said, the police said.

The doctor examined the cabby, signaled the attendant to put him into the ambulance.

She said, the doctor said, she said.

The doctor looked at her husband's head wound and shoulder while the attendant and a policeman put the cabby on a stretcher and then into the back of the ambulance.

The doctor said, he said, she said.

The doctor got into the ambulance and the ambulance drove away.

The police said, they said, the police said, he said, she said.

A tow truck from the cab company pulled up. The tower hitched the cab to the truck, held up the bloody sweater and coat and said.

She said, took the sweater and coat and put the sweater into a trash can.

The tow truck drove off, the police drove away and the crowd broke up.

She said, he said.

He swung his arm and his shoulder still didn't hurt. She touched his shoulder gently and it still didn't hurt. He said, she shook her head. He touched his shoulder a little harder than she did and it still didn't hurt. He shook his head and smiled.

She said.

He nodded, looked sad and said.

She said, he said.

She took both his hands and kissed his cheek. He kissed her lips.

A passerby said.

He said.

The passerby laughed, waved his hand at them and walked on.

She hailed a cab.

She said, the cabby said, he said.

The cabby shrugged his shoulders and drove off. They started to walk home. A scavenger picked her sweater out of the trash can, held it up, said, dropped it back in and wiped her hands on a rag. She picked the sweater up with a stick this time and dropped it into one of her two bags.

“Listen to this,” I say. “This guy comes in and says to me and I say to him and he says and I say and the next thing I know he does this to me and I do that to him and he this and I that and a woman comes in and sees us and says and I say to her and he says to me and she to him and he says and does this to her and I say and do that to him and she doesn't say anything but does this and that to us both and then a second time and he says and she says and I say and we all do and say and that's it, the end, what happened, now what do you think?”

“It won't work,” a man says. His partner says “It will work, I know it will,” and I say “Please, gentlemen, make up your minds. Do you think it will work or not?” The first man says no and his partner yes and I clasp my hands in front of my chest hoping they'll agree it will work and give me money for it so I won't have to be broke anymore or at least not for the next year, when the phone rings and the first man picks up the receiver and says “Yuh?” The person on the other end says something and the man says “You're kidding me now, aren't you?” His partner says “Who is it, something important?” and the man says and his partner says “Just tell him to go fly away with his project, now and forever,” and I just sit there and the man hangs up the phone and says to us “Now where were we?”

“I was,” I say. “He was,” his partner says. “Okay,” he says, “Let's continue where we left off from, though quickly, as I got a long day,” and we talk and he says “I still don't go for it,” and his partner says “I'm starting to agree with you, now and forever,” and I say “Please, gendemen, let me tell the story over. Maybe it will be more convincing the second time around and I promise to be quicker about it,” and I start the story from the beginning: guy coming in, says to me, me to him, does this, I do, woman, what we all said and did and then the partner, not agreeing, phone ringing, call ending, my retelling the story. After I finish I say “So what do you think? Will it work?”

“No,” they both say and I say “Well, no harm in my having tried, I guess,” and the first man says “No harm is right except for our precious lost time,” and sticks out his hand and I shake it and shake his partner's hand and say “Can I use your men's room before I go? It might be my last chance for a while.” His partner says “Second door to the right on your way out to the elevator,” and I say “Which way is the elevator again, left or right when I get out of your office?” and he says and I say “Thanks,” and they say and I leave, wave goodbye to the receptionist, go to the men's room on their floor, take the elevator down, go through the building's lobby to the street. It's a nice day, finally. It was raining heavily when I came in. My umbrella! Damn, left it upstairs, should I go back for it? No. Yes. What the hell, why not, it's not an old umbrella, it's still a good serviceable umbrella. And if I don't get it I'll have to buy a new umbrella at probably twice what the one upstairs cost me three years ago the way inflation's going crazy today.

I go back through the lobby, elevator, get on it, upstairs, their floor, past the men's room, into their office and the receptionist says and I say, “I know, but I,” and point to it and the partners come out of the room we were talking in before just as I grab my umbrella and look at me but don't say anything when I say hello but just walk into another room and I say goodbye to the receptionist and she nods at me and starts typing rapidly and I leave the office, elevator, lobby and see it's raining heavily again. Rain coming down like, streets filled with water like, people running out of the rain like, sky like, traffic like, I open the umbrella and walk in the rain totally protected because of my umbrella, long raincoat and boots and think “Well, I at least did one thing right today and that's going back for the umbrella, and maybe one other thing and that's wearing the right rain clothes,” when someone ducks under my umbrella, a woman, hair soaked by the rain, and says “Mind if I walk with you as far as the bank on the comer? It closes in a few minutes and I have to put in some money by today.”

“Sure,” I say and we walk, I hold the umbrella, she her coat together at the collar, and talk, she “Can we walk faster?” I say sure, she asks where I was going, I say to an office building a block past her bank, she asks, I tell her, she says “Well what do you know,” because it seems she's a good friend of the very man I want to see most about the same story project I spoke to those partners about, but whom I haven't been able to get an appointment with for more than a month. So I suggest, she says “Yes, but let me get done with my bank first,” goes in, comes out, we have coffee at a coffee shop across the street, she asks, I tell, starting with the guy who comes in and says and I say and we do and the woman and all we said and did and then the partners, men's room, lobby, sunshine, umbrella, should I? shouldn't I? upstairs, receptionist and partners again, I retrieve, I leave, typing rapidly, raining heavily, everything looking like something else, open the umbrella, woman ducks under, though at first I didn't think it was a woman, I thought it was a mugger, walk, talk, faster, she asks, I say, well what do you know, she knows so and so, I suggest, she says yes, bank, coffee shop and coffees. “So what do you think?” I say. “Your friend will like it or am I fooling myself?”

“If he doesn't like it he ought to change professions,” she says and borrows a coin from me, makes a phone call, comes back, “He says to hustle right over,” we do, elevator, office, receptionist, secretary, big how do you do from her friend who I tell the whole story to from the beginning, he says “Better than I expected even from what Pam told me it would be over the phone. I'll take it,” and we shake hands, sign a contract, he writes out a check, we drink champagne to our future success, Pam and I leave, downstairs, lobby, sunny outside. Oh my God, I think, I forgot my umbrella again. “Oh my God,” I say, “I left my umbrella upstairs.”

“Leave it,” she says, “since you now have enough money to buy ten umbrellas. Twenty if you want, though I don't know why you would.” “True,” I say. “Want to go for another coffee?” “Coffee?” she says. “I think a drink's more what we deserve. I know I sure do after what I just did for you.” “True,” I say, “and we'll go to the best place possible,” and we start walking. Sun goes, clouds come, we walk faster, looking for a classier bar than the three we pass, but not fast enough, as the rain suddenly comes, drenching us before we can find protection from it.

“I knew I should have gone up for my umbrella,” I say. “So we're wet,” she says. “So what? It'll make the day more memorable for you. In fact, what I'd do if I were you, just to make the day one of the most memorable of your life, is—” but I cut her off and say “I know, I might,” and she says “Not you might, you should,” and I say “I know, I will,” and she smiles, I smile, we take each other's hands, put our arms around each other's waists, “Let's,” she says, “Let's,” I say, and run out from under the awning into the rain. “Dad, look at those crazy people getting wet,” a boy says, protected by his father's umbrella.

“You know what I want most of all now that I've sold my story project?” I say to her, standing in the pouring rain and holding and hugging her and looking over her shoulder at the boy being pulled along by his father because he wants to stay and watch us and she says “What?” and I tell her and she says and I say “And also to eventually walk in the pouring rain with an umbrella over my future wife and me and future daughter or son, but with the child being around that boy's age.” “Why an umbrella?” she says and I say and she says “Silly, you don't get colds that way,” and I say and she says “No,” and I say “Oh.” Just then a cab drives by too close to the curb and splashes us up to our waists and I start cursing and shaking my fist at it and she says and I say “You're right, raincoats and all we're already slopping wet,” and we laugh and go into a bar a half-block away and order a glass of wine each.

“What are you two so happy about,” the bartender says, “besides getting yourselves dripping wet and probably catching your death?” and I say “Really interested?” and he says “Interested,” and I say “Then I'll tell you,” and do, starting from the time the man came in, woman, partners, office, men's room, lobby, sunny again, umbrella and rain, woman and bank, coffees, what do you know, so and so, deal, champagne, check, no umbrella, mixing the story up a little here and there, sun goes, rain falls, running through it, father and son, my thoughts and wants, bar, drinks, bartender and he says “That story rates a drink on the house if I ever heard one,” and pours some more wine into our glasses, we toast and drink, he holds up his glass of soda water, people coming in ask what the celebration's about, I tell them, from beginning to end, leaving a little out now and then. “Very interesting,” one of them says and buys us another wine each. By that time the rain's stopped but we're not dry yet and I say to Pam “Let's make it a perfect end to a great day,” and she says “No, really, I've had a change of mind, besides my boyfriend waiting at home,” and goes.

Just then a man comes in and I say “You wouldn't believe—” and he says “Wouldn't believe what? Because if you think you've something to say, listen to my story first,” and he tells me about his wife who suddenly left him last week same day his dad got a coronary and his dog ran away and I say “Excuse me, you're right, and I think I better get home before it rains again,” and I get off the stool. “Wait,” he says, “you haven't heard the worst of it yet,” but I'm out the door, rain's started again, I hail a cab, feel in my pockets, no wallet, wave the cab away and walk the two miles to my home. Phone's ringing when I enter the apartment. It's the man who bought my story project. He says “Tear up that check and contract as I just received a cable from overseas that says our company's gone bankrupt.” I shout “Liar.” He says “Not so.” I slam down the receiver, am shivering, sneezing, want to get into a hot tub, but for some reason the water only runs cold.

Stop, go, don't write anymore. She's downstairs reading my work. Stop, go, don't write anything anymore. Reading what I've written the last two months. Stop, go, go for more, get another quick one in while she's reading my work, anything to relieve the, divert the, take my mind off the anxious feelings I have about her reading my work. Because she is reading my work. I hear a page turning. I heard a groan before. I heard a few laughs before. I heard pages turning before. First one's twelve pages, next is six pages, one after that's eight pages, last one I completed today, actually completed it yesterday but rewrote the last page today so I suppose I can say I completed it today, anyway that one's sixteen pages. She's reading them all: all the stories, all the pages. Stop, go, just write some more. Fill up this page, go right on to another. How many pages more will it take to make a story, have one ready for her when she finishes the other four, run downstairs, while she's coming into the house and about to walk or run upstairs, and wave the new one at her, this one, and say stop, don't come up, stay down there, go back to the porch, here's another one I want you to read, the first draft of something I just this moment completed, in fact maybe I won't rewrite it at all, so this is perhaps the completed story, because I've always in the past rewritten the first draft of my stories, all two-fifty to three hundred of them, and this one I want to be just a little bit different than the rest, a story in its more natural and raw form, the first draft, so here it is, don't come up, I said stop, not another step, go back, where are your glasses? you leave them on the porch? well put them on, rather, go outside, sit down in the chaise longue again, put on your glasses and read this, it's short so shouldn't take long.