The 1st Deadly Sin

“I don’t like it,” Delaney said stonily.

“Nor do I,” Bernardi nodded. “First of all, your wife is ill. That is of most importance. Second, it is a defeat for me. What is this infection? I do not know. It is an embarrassment.”

An “embarrassment,” Delaney thought angrily. What kind of a thing was that to say? The man didn’t know how to use the king’s English. Was he an Italian, a Lebanese, a Greek, a Syrian, an Arabian? What the hell was he?

“Finally,” Dr. Bernardi said, consulting the file open on his desk, “let us consider the fever. It has been approximately six weeks since your wife’s first visit complaining of, quote, ‘Fever and sudden chills.’ Unquote. On that first visit, a temperature a bit above normal. Nothing unusual. Pills for a cold, the flu, a virus-whatever you want to call it. No effect. Another visit. Temperature up. Not a great increase, but appreciable. Then antibiotics. Now, third visit and temperature is up again. The sudden chills continue. It worries me.”

“Well, it worries her and it worries me,” Delaney said stoutly.

“Of course,” Bernardi soothed. “And now she finds many loose hairs in her comb. This is undoubtedly the result of the fever. Nothing serious, but still…And you are aware of the rash on the insides of her thighs and forearms?”

“Yes.”

“Again, undoubtedly the result of the fever stemming from the infection. I have prescribed an ointment. Not a cure, but it will take the itch away.”

“She looks so healthy.”

“You are seeing the fever, Captain! Don’t believe the blush of health. Those bright eyes and rosy cheeks. He! It is the infection.”

“What infection?” Delaney cried furiously. “What the hell is it? Is it cancer?”

Bernardi’s eyes glittered.

“At this stage, I would guess no. Have you ever heard of a Proteus infection, Captain?”

“No. I never have. What is it?”

“I will not speak of it now. I must do some reading on it. You think we doctors know everything? But there is too much. There are young 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 a minute,” he said. “I want to catch this.”

His quick eye had seen a car-a station wagon with Illinois license plates-coming southward on Fifth Avenue. It attempted to turn westward onto 56th Street, going the wrong way on a one-way street. Immediately there was a great blaring of horns. A dozen pedestrians shouted, “One-way!” The car came to a shuddering halt, nosing into approaching traffic. The driver bent over the wheel, shaken. The woman beside him, apparently his wife, grabbed his arm. In the seat behind them two little boys jumped about excitedly, going from window to window.

A young uniformed patrolman had been standing on the northwest corner of the intersection, his back against a plate glass window. Now, smiling, he sauntered slowly toward the stalled car.

“Midtown Squad,” Captain Delaney muttered to his wife. “They pick the big, handsome ones.”

The officer wandered around to the driver’s side, leaned down, and there was a brief conversation. The couple in the out-of-state car laughed with relief. The policeman cocked thumb and forefinger at the two kids in the back and clicked his tongue. They giggled delightedly.

“He’s not going to ticket them?” Delaney said indignantly. “He’s going to let them go?”

The patrolman moved back onto Fifth Avenue and halted traffic. He waved the Illinois car to back up. He got it straightened out and heading safely downtown again.

“I’m going to-” Captain Delaney started.

“Edward,” his wife said. “Please.”

He hesitated. The car moved away, the boys in the back waving frantically at the policeman who waved back.

Delaney looked sternly at his wife. “I’m going to get his name and tin number,” he said. “Those one-way signs are plain. He should have-”

“Edward,” she repeated patiently, “they’re obviously on vacation. Did you see the luggage in the back? They don’t know our system of one-way streets. Why spoil their holiday? With two little boys? I- think the patrolman