school; my marks were good enough. But all I ever wanted was to be a cop. As long as I can remember. And I’ll tell you why: because when the laundry comes back from the Chinaman-as you well know, my dear, after thirty years-I insist on-”
“Thirty-one years, brute.”
“All right, thirty-one years. But the first year we lived in sin.”
“You
“Well, we did: the most marvelous year of my life.”
She put a hand over his. “And everything since then has been anti-climax?”
“You know better than that. All right, now let me get back to the instinct of a true cop.”
“And the Chinaman’s laundry.”
“Yes. Well, as you know, I insist on putting my own clean clothes away in the bureau and dresser. Socks are folded once and piled with the fold forward. Handkerchiefs are stacked with the open edges to the right. Shirts are stacked alternately, collar to the rear, collar to the front-so the stack won’t topple, you understand. And a similar system for underwear, pajamas, and so forth. And always, of course, the freshly laundered clothes go on the bottom of each pile so everything is worn evenly and in order. That’s the word: ‘order.’ That’s the way I am. You know it. I want everything in order.”
“And that’s why you became a cop? To make the world neat and tidy?”
“Yes.”
She moved her head back slowly and laughed. How he loved to see her laugh. If only he could laugh like that! It was such a whole-hearted expression of pure joy: her eyes squinched shut, her mouth open, shoulders shaking, and a surprisingly full, deep guffaw that was neither feminine nor masculine but sexless and primitive as all genuine laughter.
“Edward, Edward,” she said, spluttering a little, taking a lace-edged hanky from her purse to wipe her eyes. “You have a marvelous capacity for deluding yourself. I guess that’s why I love you so.”
“All right,” he said, miffed. “You tell me. Why did I become a cop?”
Again she covered his hand with hers. She looked into his eyes, suddenly serious.
“Don’t you know?” she asked gently. “Don’t you
He thought about that a long time. Then they rose, and hand in hand they strolled into the park.
In Central Park, there is an inclosed carousel that has been a delight to generations of youngsters. Some days, when the wind is right, you can hear its musical tinkle from a distance; the air seems to dance.
The animals-marvelously carved and painted horses-chase each other in a gay whirl that excites children and hypnotizes their parents. On a bench near this merry-go-round, Barbara and Edward Delaney sat to rest, shoulders touching. They could hear the music, see the giddy gyrations through trees still wearing summer’s green.
They sat awhile in silence. Then she said, not looking at him, “Can you tell me now?”
He nodded miserably. As rapidly as he could, he delivered a concise report of what Dr. Bernardi had told him. He omitted only the physician’s fleeting reference to a “Proteus infection.”
“I see no choice,” he said, and gripped her hand harder. “Do you? We’ve got to get this cleared up. I’ll feel better if Bernardi brings in other men. I think you will, too. It only means five days to a week in the hospital. Then they’ll decide what must be done. I told Bernardi to go ahead, get the room. A private room. Barbara? Is that all right?”
He wondered if she heard him. Or if she understood. Her eyes were far away, and he did not know the smile on her soft lips.
“Barbara?” he asked again.
“During the war,” she said, “when you were in France, I brought the children here when the weather was nice, Eddie could walk then but Elizabeth was still in the carriage. Sometimes Eddie would get tired on the way home, and I’d put him in the carriage with Liza. How he hated it!”
“I know. You wrote me.”
“Did I? Sometimes we’d sit on this very bench where we’re sitting now. Eddie would ride the merry-go-round all day if I let him.”
“He always rode a white horse.”
“You do remember,” she smiled. “Yes, he always rode a white horse, and every time he came around he’d wave at us, sitting up straight. He was so proud.”
“Yes.”
“They’re good children, aren’t they, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“Happy children.”
“Well, I wish Eddie would get married, but there’s no use nagging him.”
“No. He’s stubborn. Like his father.”
“Am I stubborn?”
“Sometimes. About some things. When you’ve made up your mind. Like my going into the hospital for tests.”
“You will go, won’t you?”
She gave him a dazzling smile, then unexpectedly leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. It was a soft, youthful, lingering kiss that shocked him with its longing.
And late that night she still burned with that longing, her body kindled with lust and fever. She came naked into his arms and seemed intent on draining him, exhausting him, taking all for herself and leaving nothing.
He tried to contain her fury-so unlike her; she was usually languorous and teasing-but her rage defeated him. Once, thrashing about in a sweated paroxysm, she called him “Ted,” which she had not done since their life together was born.
He did what he could to satisfy and soothe, wretchedly conscious that his words were not heard nor his caresses felt; the most he could do was be. Her storm passed, leaving him riven. He gnawed a knuckle and fell asleep.
He awoke a few hours later, and she was gone from the bed. He was instantly alert, pulled on his old patterned robe with its frazzled cord. Barefoot, he went padding downstairs, searching all the empty rooms.
He found her in what they still called the “parlor” of their converted brownstone, next door to the 251st Precinct house. She was on the window seat, clad in a white cotton nightgown. Her knees were drawn up, clasped. In the light from the hallway he could see her head bent forward. Her hair was down, hiding her face, drifting shoulders and knees.
“Barbara,” he called.
Her head came up. Hair fell back. She gave him a smile that twisted his heart.
“I’m dying,” she said.
2
Barbara Delaney’s stay in the hospital for tests was longer than the five days predicted by Dr. Louis Bernardi. It became a weekend and five days, then two weekends and five days, and finally a total of fifteen days. To every inquiry by Captain Edward X. Delaney, the doctor answered only, “More tests.”
From his daily-sometimes twice-daily-visits to his wife’s private room, Delaney came away with the frightening impression that things were not going well at all. The fever persisted, up one day, down slightly the next. But the course was steadily upward. Once it hit almost 103; the woman was burning up.
He himself had been witness to the sudden chills that racked her body, set teeth chattering and limbs trembling. Nurses came hurrying with extra blankets and hot water bottles. Five minutes later she was burning again; blankets were tossed aside, her face rosy, she gasped for breath.
New symptoms developed during those fifteen days: headaches, urination so difficult she had to be catheterized, severe pain in the lumbar region, sudden attacks of nausea that left her limp. Once she vomited into a
