Dear Old Dead(17)

Ida went in through the cafeteria doors, picked up a tray and put it on the metal runners. She took a fork and a knife and a spoon out of habit, in spite of not knowing what she wanted to eat. She looked out across the sparse crowd and found Victor sitting at a table almost exactly in the center of the room, plowing through a copy of the New York Sentinel. There were always stacks of copies of the New York Sentinel in the cafeteria and the common rooms of both the east and west buildings, given out free. It was one of the things Charles van Straadt did for this place.

“There’s Victor,” Ida told Martha. “He’s actually reading something. The stars may fall from the heavens.”

“Did you know that Rosalie was here?” Martha asked. “Rosalie and Grandfather both, but you know Grandfather. He gets himself to where he wants to go and then he stays put. Rosalie is wandering around.”

Well, Ida thought. That’s just like Martha. That’s just like Martha. She takes the only important piece of news she has, and she treats it like waste paper.

“Bowl of duchess,” Ida said to the young woman behind the counter. The young woman was vaguely familiar from around the center, but not familiar enough for Ida to know her name. The soup was passed over the high end of the counter and Ida said, “Thanks.”

“Now,” she said to Martha, “go back to the beginning on this. Rosalie and Grandfather are here at the center.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“The usual thing. Probably because of all that news about Michael, don’t you think? Don’t you think it’s disgusting? What is it with men, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Ida hadn’t known many men. That is, she hadn’t known them intimately. The only reason she wasn’t a virgin was that she had made a point of losing her virginity. “When did Grandfather and Rosalie get here?”

“I don’t know. I saw Rosalie wandering around just after six. And Grandfather’s been trying to call me. He’s probably been trying to call you, too.”

“Probably. What do you mean, been trying to call you?”

“Well, I haven’t been taking the calls, have I? I mean, why should I? I mean, he’s being such a pain in the ass about all this stuff. Why should I hop to it every time he wants to tell me what an idiot I’m being for not getting my hair cut at a good salon.”

“Does he lecture you about that?”

“About that kind of thing. All the time. My clothes. My hair. Why I don’t wear makeup.”

“Maybe he thinks I’m hopeless,” Ida said. “He never talks to me about that kind of thing at all.”

“You want beef, fish, or chicken?” the woman behind the main-course counter asked.

“I want two grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches,” Ida said. Then she turned around and looked at Victor, still oblivious to everything behind the pages of his paper. Maybe he was reading out loud under his breath. Maybe he was spelling everything to himself to decode the words. Maybe she should stop being so nasty about Victor.

The counter woman handed her two grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches on two separate paper plates. Ida put them on her tray and reached into the pocket of her pants for some money.

“Look,” she said to Martha, “do me a favor, will you? Pay me out and bring my tray over to the table. My colitis is acting up.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means I have to go to the bathroom. I have to go now. Will you do this for me, please?”

“Well… I suppose so. Are you going to be long?”

“How the hell should I know? It’s a tension thing. Please, Martha, I’ve got to go now.”

“Well.” Martha looked mulish. “All right.”

Ida threw the money on the plastic tray and bolted, back down the line, back through the doors, out into the stairwell again. She did not, however, go to the ladies room. She went up the stairs instead.

One of the few things Ida Greel had always liked about her body was her legs, because they were strong, and because they were fast. Right now, she wanted to be very, very fast.





9


IT WAS AFTER EIGHT o’clock by the time Dr. Michael Pride got a chance to breathe again, and by then he was so tired it felt like too much effort to draw breath. It felt like too much effort to take off his gloves and his mask and sit down. It felt like too much effort to think about what he was going to have to do next. He was going to have to do a great deal. He had just performed two very difficult operations, because those two had been the two least able to wait. Over the next twenty-four hours, he was going to have to perform half a dozen more—and that was assuming that his emergency help didn’t wimp out on him, which they probably would. Michael was very good at getting fancy high-paid physicians to come down to the center and do some work, but those physicians defined work in their inimitable Park Avenue way and not in the way anyone on staff at the center was forced to define it. Michael would start to consider himself overworked when he had done three more surgeries back-to-back and without sleep. His two friends probably thought they were about to collapse from exhaustion already, having each performed one.