At the Oceana Apartments, he reflects that in all their years together, Ben Shipman has never uttered to him the words “I told you so,” although Ben Shipman has been offered ample opportunity. Instead Ben Shipman has quietly followed him from crisis to crisis, like a valet with a dustpan, ever ready to sweep up the broken shards of his master’s relationships.
Ben Shipman calls him on the telephone, as Ben Shipman does every day. There is always some small business matter to be discussed, some offer of work to be declined: a script, a television interview, a personal appearance. When there is no business, there is a mutual acquaintance encountered on the street, or a kind mention in a newspaper column in Peoria or Des Moines.
But he has been spending much time lately in contemplation: of Babe, of the errors of his life. It is how he knows that he is dying.
So he asks Ben Shipman the I-told-you-so question.
Why would I have said that? Ben Shipman replies.
Ben Shipman is old, but Ben Shipman is still a lawyer, and is therefore never happier than when answering one question with another.
I knew I’d told you so, Ben Shipman continues, and you knew I’d told you so, so why would I have to tell you that I’d told you so?
—Because I might have learned my lesson.
—What lesson? That you weren’t entitled to try for happiness? That you’d be better off dying alone behind high walls, with a nurse feeding you from a spoon? What lesson is that to teach a man?
—I’d be wealthier.
—But I’d be poorer. You’d prefer to see me out on the street? Don’t be so selfish. If you hadn’t spent all your money on lawyers and alimony, you’d have found another way to rid yourself of it. And it’s only money. You never own money. You hold on to it for a time, you die, it goes to someone else. You give it to someone else, you get something in return, you die. Those are the two options. Where is this coming from, anyway? You have regrets now? You’re too old to have regrets.
They talk some more. Ben Shipman promises to call again tomorrow. Ben Shipman does not need to promise this, but Ben Shipman always does, just as Ben Shipman always calls.
In the past, when he felt this way, he might have gone fishing, or taken a trip to Catalina Island, but he no longer has the strength for such pursuits. Instead he sits by his window, and seeks comfort in the fading light. He smells the sea, and listens to the waves break in time to the beating of his fractured heart.