Other Plans (22 page)

“You sound just like Daddy.” Leslie's mouth pursed disapprovingly. “That's exactly what I expect him to say. Don't be judgmental, John. You're too young to be judgmental.”

“I'm not being judgmental!” he shouted. “I'm telling you I can't believe you're saying what I hear you saying. What about graduating? Getting a job? If you go for two years, you might stay five. Then where'd you be?” A thought occurred to him. “You in love with this guy?”

“I think so. I'm almost sure I am.” Her eyes were like drowned violets, her hair drooped in a lank curtain around her troubled face.

“It'd kill them, Les. You know it would. You can't do that to them. They pin all their hopes on you to make it big. You know that. You're the star of the family. You gotta shine, kid. It's up to you.” It was what he'd thought all along but up to now had never put into words. Never had to. She was the great white hope of the Hollander family and now she was talking about letting them down.

“Oh, no! You're not getting away with that, John Hollander!” Leslie leaped up and gathered him to her in a crushing embrace. “You're not pushing off that responsibility totally on me. You're the one, the heir, the son and heir of the family. Someday you'll control the purse strings, John Boy. Oh, please, please, kind sir, give me a fiver for a cup of coffee. Only a fiver to buy milk for my baby. Alms, kind sir, alms for the love of Allah!” She grabbed him and made him dance with her. Round and round they went. Leslie liked to dance more than anything. She danced when she was happy and when she was sad and always had.

“For God's sake, John, quit looking at your feet!” she hollered. “Look at me. Give in to the music.”

“There isn't any.”

“Abandon yourself.” she cried. “Let your feet take wing!” And for a minute, they forgot what they'd been riled about. Eventually, Leslie pulled them both down and they lay on the floor, in a heap, chests heaving, laughing until their stomachs hurt.

“I'm old enough to know my own mind,” Leslie said quietly, after a while, crossing her ankles, watching one of her big feet in its ugly sneaker moving up and down, as if there'd been no interruption in their argument. “It's my life. I'm a responsible person.”

He sat up. “Not if you do that to them.”

“It'd save Daddy a lot of money.” Leslie sat up, too. “He's always worried about money. My tuition goes up every time you turn around. And there's you coming along. Just think of the money it'd save if I dropped out of college for a while.”

“Don't give me that crap.” He stood and brushed himself off. “That's a cheap shot and you know it. Trying to make yourself look noble by leaving college so your kid brother can get in his licks. That's crap and you know it.” He turned to stare out the window and when he looked around, she was gone.

God, he thought dismally, wait'll she lays that one on them. They'll freak out. And she knows it. She was trying it on me to see how it went. An enormous disappointment welled inside him. He'd thought Leslie was perfect. He no longer did. Not if she was going ahead with the plans for Saudi Arabia. She'd said she wanted advice, but she didn't want advice, she wanted his approval. Well, he hadn't given it. He didn't think that would stop her. She'd probably hit them with it tonight. He got all tight inside, thinking of their reaction. He didn't want to be around for that blowup, that was for sure.

Instead of going into the office, he took the limo from the airport to Norwalk, then caught a cab for home. He needed time to think. To plan. The house would be mercifully empty. John at school, Ceil off at the hospital or the library or one of the many places she frequented during the day. The girls, he knew, wouldn't be sitting at home twiddling their thumbs, not on a vacation day. The driver went down the Post Road, and he thought how much the place had changed. Apartment buildings going up, condos, office buildings, even hotels. It was getting to look like Dallas.

He paid the driver, walked up the path, thinking how much he liked his house. Thinking, too, how the flowers would be up before much longer, sprouting buds. Everything would be budding in a little while. He fitted his key in the lock, feeling as if he'd been gone for a long time. As the door swung open, he smelled something delicious, something baking in the oven. Ceil was home, after all. His first instinct was to turn and run. He wasn't ready. Ceil came out to see who it was, wearing her old blue jeans—her cooking jeans, she called them—and an old shirt of his, almost buttonless, tied in a knot at her stomach, an equally disreputable sweater underneath.

“Henry!” Her face showed pleasure at his homecoming and she almost ran to him. Then she remembered how they'd parted and held herself back. “I didn't expect you so soon,” she said in a distant voice. “How was Dallas? As swinging as they say?”

“Ceil.” He set down his bag and took a step toward her. “I have bad news.”

She struck her chest with her fist. “The children,” she said. “John?”

“No,” he said. “It's me.”

“You,” she said. “What is it? What's wrong?” Her hands met in front of her and clung together for comfort.

“I went to see Ben.” His throat was suddenly so dry he had difficulty talking. “Could I have a glass of water, please?” She ran to the kitchen. He stayed where he was, trying to find the right words to tell her. She brought him the water, and although he drank it all, it didn't seem to help.

“It seems I have cancer,” he said, not knowing how else to put it. There was no other way, no way to say it without making it real. Her hand went over her mouth. She didn't make a sound.

“I went to see Ben because the doctor I saw here told me the tests had shown a mass in the stomach and the biopsy indicated a malignancy. So, of course, I thought of Ben. I knew I could trust him. I didn't trust, not completely, anyway, the other man. He was too young, too … impersonal, I guess. Ben confirmed the diagnosis.”

He stood there in the hall, coat still on, hat in hand, wondering what to do now. He had told her the worst. Had got the words out, and now what did they do? Everything led up to the terrible moment of telling, and then they leave you, balancing on the edge of the abyss. How does one fill in the time left?

To spare her asking the question, he said, “Ben said I have maybe three months, maybe four or five. Not more than six, at the most.”

“No,” she said in the thick silence. “No, I won't have it. It simply won't do, Henry.” She went to him and took his face in her hands. “This can't happen. There must be some mistake. It can't be happening to you. To us.”

She smelled of chocolate.

“What are you making?” he said. “It smells good.”

“I told Les I'd make her favorite cake. Henry, we'll find another doctor, one who will know what to do. I'm always hearing of people who beat it. Only the other day Mrs. Hobbs told me about—”

“Ceil,” he said, “don't.” His skin was ashen. She was afraid he might faint.

“Go up and get into bed, Henry,” she said, almost briskly. “I'll fix you some tea and toast. How would that be?” Without waiting for an answer, she scurried into the kitchen, glad of something she could do for him. He went up the stairs, lifting each foot as if it wore an iron boot. He turned down the spread, got out of his clothes, and, still in his underwear, crawled under the covers. He shut his eyes and listened to her moving around downstairs. Even then, his hands moved over his stomach, exploring, trying to locate the thing that they said was there. He felt nothing. Maybe even Ben had been wrong. No, impossible. Ben had told him the truth, the truth he'd asked for and, it turned out, didn't want to know.

“Henry.” She put the tray down on the top of her bureau. She came and sat on the edge of the bed. “I won't let it happen to you,” she said, as if anything she did or could think of to do would be of any use.

“I don't think I want any tea now, Ceil. I'm sorry, when you went to the trouble. I don't think I could get it down.”

She didn't argue with him, but instead, took off the old shirt, the sweater under it, slipped out of her jeans and her bra and pants, and got under the covers beside him.

“I'm sorry I called you a liar, Henry. I was so angry. I'm ashamed of myself for saying such a thing.” Her breath lifted the hair on his chest, her voice caressed him, her arms went around him, as warm as they had ever been.

“I want to make love to you,” she said.

He laughed. “It's been a long time since we've made love in the afternoon.”

“Pretend it's the first time. Pretend we're in that apartment on Third Avenue. Can you remember how it looked, how it smelled? Can you remember Mrs.… oh, what was her name, the nosy little woman who lived across the hall and was always borrowing things she never even made the pretense of paying back?”

“Mrs. Romero.” He had a good memory for names.

“Yes, that's it. Remember when we thought we were the only ones who ever felt the way we felt then? Remember, we thought we'd discovered sex. It was lovely, discovering sex. Henry. Pretend we can't keep our hands off each other,” and she stroked him with long, delicate movements. “Henry, my love. Remember when we were so new to each other's bodies we could hardly bear going to parties and on Sundays sometimes we didn't get out of bed until it was dark.” Her mouth moved over him in a way he'd forgotten, a way she'd told him years ago she'd read about in one of her sex manuals.

“I don't think I'm up to it, Ceil,” he said in a cracked, old man's voice.

“Yes, you are,” she said fiercely. She put her length against his. “Yes, you are.” She touched him and touched him and touched him until he groaned and heaved himself up and over to her. “Oh, my dear God,” he said, moving very slowly at first, then faster until she cried out and threw her legs around his waist, crushing him to her.

She aroused him, as she had always done. He had thought himself incapable of being aroused, but she had soothed him into it, had aroused him once more, in the old way. They were young again, their lives before them.

“Henry.” She lay at his side, smelling of whatever perfume it was she used. “My darling, don't despair. We'll think of something. We'll go to the best cancer specialist in the country. You'll see.” She put one leg lightly over him.

“Once it hits the liver, Ceil,” his voice was patient and very tired, “there's nothing that they can do, no recourse to take. They both said that. Ben and the other doctor, they both said the liver was damaged and the cancer had reached it. Nothing except a miracle will stop it now.”

She raised herself on an elbow and looked down into his face through her tears. “Then we'll work a miracle. If that's what it takes, that's what we'll do.”

He looked at her and knew she believed what she was saying.

“I have to tell the children,” he said.

“No!” she cried. “Not yet. Not just yet. Give yourself time.” Give me time.

Under the blanket, his hands explored his stomach once more. “I'll put the lettuce in tomorrow,” he said. “Lettuce is hardy. Even if we get another frost, the lettuce will survive.”

Downstairs, John let himself in and headed for the kitchen. In the hall he stumbled over his father's bag. The sink was filled with bowls and spoons and the electric mixer, coated with cake batter, rested on its side. A cake was in the oven. He checked, hoping his intrusion wouldn't make the cake fall. His mother must be home, too. He went quietly up the stairs, stopping halfway. Sure enough, the door to their room was closed. He went back down and made himself a peanut butter on rye.

They're making up. He was absurdly pleased by the thought. How do you like that.

19

“She's coming home day after tomorrow,” Keith said. “The doctor says he doesn't think it'll work, having her home, I mean. But she said if she has to go back into the bin, she'll kill herself. So I guess the doctor decided that home is the lesser of two evils.”

Keith's face seemed to have developed new hollows. “I have to clean up the joint before she shows up. If she came in here right now, she might be so grossed out she'd jump out the window to escape. Lucky we're only on the second floor, huh?” He kept his face entirely without expression.

“You want me to help you?” he said. “With the cleanup, I mean. I'm pretty good at swabbing down floors, changing sheets. I even do windows.”

“That would be great,” Keith said. “I feel kind of overwhelmed by the whole thing.” Keith's smile was precarious, his mouth tilted slightly downward, threatening the smile with extinction.

“I don't blame you.” He was on the verge of asking Keith if his father had been informed of his mother's hospital stay and shoved the words back just in time. He'd learned his lesson. Keith didn't like him asking questions.

“I've been thinking.” Keith's voice was matter-of-fact. “If this doesn't work, if she can't handle it, we might work out something. The two of us.”

Did Keith mean himself and his mother, or did he mean the two of them?

“It might be a first.” Keith's tone was falsely jovial, his eyes bleak. “A mother-son suicide pact. I never heard of one. Husband-wife, sure. Old hat. Plenty of those hanging around. Boyfriend-girl friend, loads of those. But mother-son? Never. What do you think?”

There was no answer he could give that could conceal the horror he felt at Keith's remark. So he remained silent.

“I said, what do you think?” Keith hadn't laid a hand on him, yet he felt as if he'd been assaulted.

“I think it's not worth talking about,” he said. “Anything I say now would only mean you and me ending up fighting. I'm not up for talking about shitty stuff like what you just said. I can't handle it, Keith.”