CHAPTER 10

“You better go with her, Dad,” I told my father. “She said she didn’t need any help, but I think you ought to at least offer.”

I listened as my father dialed Al’s number and talked to her. He offered his services, said he’d be glad to accompany her and her mother to the doctor. She told him the same thing she told me. “I can manage,” she said over the phone. I heard her. “Thank you anyway, but I can manage.”

“Well,” my father told her, “we’ll be here if you need us, Al.” Then he hung up.

“I’ve done all I could do,” he said. “If she doesn’t want anyone to go along, you certainly can’t force yourself on them. Al will manage. At least she’s seeing that her mother gets to the doctor. That’s the important thing.” Then he went to the store to do the marketing.

I sat down and tried to write a letter to Polly. I tried to make the letter funny, to make Polly laugh as I wrote about last night at Thelma’s. I had to be careful, though. Polly and Thelma were friends. I didn’t want to make too much fun of Thelma. Polly wouldn’t like it if I did. I told about the other kids and how all they talked about was how they were going to make big bucks when they grew up. And I also told her about the conversation about the Riviera and what Al had said about the handkerchief tucked into the armpit. That would give Polly a good laugh.

Every time I heard a noise in the hall, I got up and listened at the door. Once or twice I opened the door. The hall was always empty. Time passed very slowly. Every time I checked the clock, only a few minutes had gone by. I went back to my letter writing. I told Polly about going to Tiffany’s, leaving out the part about what Al said about maybe marrying Brian and living off the land. I told her about the zoo. I’d make Polly sorry she was missing all the fun here at home. Temperature 85, humidity 90 percent. She only thought she was having a blast going sailing and swimming every day. What did she know?

My wastebasket filled up gradually with balls of paper I’d thrown away. Letter writing is not the easiest thing in the world. At last I heard the elevator door opening. I rushed to the door. My father stood there, juggling two big bags of groceries, trying to hit the doorbell with his elbow. I let him in.

“Would you believe this little bit of food cost me more than fifty dollars?” he said. It does men good to do the marketing, my mother says. That’s the only way they’re going to learn about the high cost of living. I helped him unpack the stuff. I kept going to the door and listening. Maybe I could help when Al and her mother got home. Probably the doctor would give Al’s mother some medicine to fix her up. Al might have to go to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. I could sit with her mother while she went.

The minutes dragged by. My father said it had stopped raining. He went out to do some errands, pick up some things at the dry cleaner’s. I thought if Al didn’t get home soon, I’d split a gut. It had been more than two hours, now, since she’d left. Usually doctors keep you waiting in the office. That’s why they have so many magazines for patients to read. I hoped he wouldn’t keep Al’s mother waiting too long.

On the other hand, maybe Al would call me from her apartment. Instead of ringing the bell, that is. I hate waiting for the telephone to ring. The suspense is terrible. To keep myself busy, I put clean sheets on the beds. Not Teddy’s. He wouldn’t know a clean sheet if it hit him in the face. Just my parents’ bed and mine. The phone still hadn’t rung. I made us some deviled ham for sandwiches for lunch. I jazzed it up with pickle relish and some chopped egg. My father would never recognize that deviled ham.

Our apartment is at the back of the building. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t see Al and her mother when their taxi pulled up in front. They’d have to take a taxi if Al’s mother was sick. Al said her mother wouldn’t take a taxi even in a blizzard and if she had a broken leg. This time she’d have to.

Still no Al. I was tempted to go out for a walk. But sure as shooting, if I did that, the minute my back was turned, Al would come home and might need me for something. Maybe just to talk to. I stayed put.

When I’d about given up, I heard the elevator door slide open. I looked out. It was Al. She was alone.

She looked at me. I didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sucking in her cheeks or anything, the way she does when she wants to look older. But still, she looked older.

She came inside. I figured I wouldn’t ask her any questions until she felt like talking.

“You took so long,” I said at last.

“I know.” Al began to pace the room. Around and around she went, like a dog settling down for a nap.

“She had to go to the hospital,” Al said. She cleared her throat. “The doctor said she’d be better off there. I guess he’s right. It’s nothing serious, he says. It’s pneumonia. But not serious, he said.” She looked at me, and her eyes were filled with fear.

“I mean,” she said, “it’s not as if she was going to die or anything.”