“What did he say?”
“That you seemed depressed.” Rivera finished with the foil and got the corkscrew. “He said you lost money on the horses.”
“That’s good, he remembered. It explains my cash withdrawals from the teller machine in the lobby. Twelve-five over the last two weeks.”
“It’s very generous, Mrs. F.”
“Not really. Compared to the fees charged for medical procedures, it’s about in line with an appendectomy.”
Once Rivera got the corkscrew started, he looked back at her. Because they were old and rich and he was Mexican, many of his clients disrespected him. Not Mrs. Frieslander. She never insulted him or used bad language. But as he held the wine bottle between his knees and pulled on the cork, Rivera remembered another of his clients. They were standing together, watching workers pull off the blue shrink wrap from Mr. Burlson’s new boat, and Mr. B had pointed at the men. Illegal spics, every one of them, and they breed like rabbits. Then Mr. B leaned close and squeezed Rivera’s arm. Not you, Jim. You know I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about a certain element.
The cork came free with a pop.
“Bottom shelf, next to the sink.”
He found wine glasses, got out two and closed the cabinet. Mrs. F had long ago stopped drinking. At seventy-eight, along with being diabetic, she had suffered two strokes and was now going blind from macular degeneration. Rivera never drank, but this was different.
“I want to ask you something,” she said. “I assume I’m not the first.”
“No.”
“How many others have you helped this way?”
He hesitated before pouring the wine. Arnold Kleinman would warn against saying anything. Warn about surprises and curveballs. There wouldn’t be any with Hilda Frieslander. She had no family except a niece who never came to visit.
“Four,” he said. “Three men, one woman.”
“I don’t want details, I was just curious.”
He poured carefully, brought the glasses over and handed one to her. They clinked and drank. Rivera thought now that it was too bad they hadn’t met sooner. Mrs. F could have taught him useful things about wine.
He lowered his glass. “Would you like me to read to you?”
“Oh, I had quite a list,” she said. “Passages from Lear and Hamlet. Poems by Auden. Then I realized I was just assembling a bibliography to keep me up past my bedtime.” She sipped her wine. “A bibliography—”
“Is a list of books on a specific subject.”
She winked at him to acknowledge his good memory and raised her glass. “To the undiscovered country,” she said and drank. Rivera did the same.
When he again looked at her, Mrs. Frieslander was staring. Not at him, but over his shoulder, remembering something. “That’s what Hamlet calls death,” she said. “The undiscovered country. ‘Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.’” She focused on him. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You can see how prepared I was. The rubber band, the clothes, earrings. You can’t imagine how hard it is for me now, getting into pantyhose. All dressed up and ready just an hour ago. But I’m sorry, I think not.”
She drank off her wine and held the glass out to him. “No, James, not today. A glass of wine, but not ‘the thing itself.’ Because it has to feel right, doesn’t it? You said so yourself, when we worked this out. ‘You’ll know when it’s time,’ you said. Just before you came, I was listening to the radio, NPR. To take my mind off it. They did a story on the favorites running in this year’s Kentucky Derby. I thought to myself, what’s the rush? That’s perfect, Hilda, the Kentucky Derby in May. It would be more appropriate, everyone knows I’m crazy about horses. Doing this in May would be my own run for the roses.”
In May. He nodded and took her glass. Something similar had happened with the client with Parkinson’s. In the end, Rivera had talked him out of postponing, but Mrs. Frieslander was different. She was still clear-headed and sharp.
“All right—” He set the empty glass on the counter and put his own next to it. “Why don’t we go in the living room? We’ll talk.”
“We can freeze the turkey for later.”
“Yes, but first I think we should be sure about the bag. For when you’re ready.”
With difficulty she pulled the plastic bag from her pocket. He took it and stepped behind the wheelchair. He put the bag to his mouth and blew. “OK, try it on—”
Holding it by the bunched end, he reached over her shoulder and handed it to her like a bouquet. She took it, spread it wide, and raised it over her head. “To keep your hair nice, want me to help?” She nodded. With both hands he took the open poultry bag, and as she lowered her arms, he carefully brought it down without disturbing her hair. “Good?” She nodded. “We also need to be sure you can put on the rubber band by yourself. Otherwise, they might want to talk to me. You know I can’t have trouble with Immigration.”
Nodding, Mrs. Frieslander took out the rubber band. The bag compressed and inflated as she stretched the band with splayed fingers. She raised it above her head as though putting on a hat and lowered it over her hair and nose. Breathing calmly, she held the band open at the neck.
“Do you remember when we talked about this the first time?” he asked. “You talked about not getting something. What was the saying? I can’t remember.”
“Cold feet,” she said, voice muffled.
“That’s it, cold feet. Getting nervous, changing your mind.”
“I’m sorry, James. In May, not now.”
“Of course.”
“I just think the Derby—”
“The only problem, Mrs. F, I was more or less planning—”
“The money? I put it right where we agreed. In the recipe box next to the microwave. Go ahead and take it. We’ll call it payment in advance. I trust you.”
The bag crackled with her breathing. Through the now-foggy plastic she looked up, signaling for him to take it off. The money
