Nobody fled the party, but people knew to get out of the way. Half of the guests were on the terrace watching through the French doors when the police and paramedics arrived.
The two paramedics went straight to Prager and knelt beside him. A cop with a dense mustache stood over them, talking to Caleb.
“It was an accident,” Caleb told the cop. “My mother was showing this man her gun and—”
“She shot me!” cried Prager from the floor. “I gave him a bad review and his mother shot me!” The critic had not said a word since the “accident,” and his anger startled everyone. He was furious, but he sounded panicked too, his voice breaking. There was more fear than righteousness in his bugged-out eyes.
“Chill, buddy,” said a medic. “Relax.”
Molly still sat on the sofa, Jessie beside her, holding her mother’s hand. “I don’t know how it happened,” said Molly. “I was just talking to the man and the next thing I knew I was waving my gun to make a point.”
“Where is the gun?” said the cop.
Jessie passed him the large sandwich Baggie in which she had put the revolver and loose bullets.
The cop examined it. “Why’s a nice lady like you carrying?”
Toby remained with the medics, watching them, studying their movements, gently whispering to Prager, “You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”
The bloody shirtsleeve was torn away, the forearm swaddled in a blue bandage, the arm locked in a clear plastic tube. A third paramedic appeared with a stretcher. Toby helped them lift Prager onto it. They strapped him in. He grew calmer, hugged by the straps, but he was still angry.
“Is there anyone we should call?” asked Caleb. “So we can tell them where you are?”
“Your mother shot me and you want to be nice?”
“Sir,” said Henry. “She was following her instincts. Like a mama lion.” He spoke with only the faintest hint of a smirk.
Prager looked left and right in a panic when the medics lifted the stretcher. They swung him out the door and down the stairs to the elevator. Toby went with them, carrying Prager’s jacket.
A detective arrived, a thirtyish fellow named Plecha. He had two-toned bleached hair, which looked odd on a cop, and a gym body, which looked odder still. Even cops changed with the times. He conferred with the patrolman, then spoke to Molly, then Caleb. He spoke to Henry too, but only because Henry radiated a certain authority. “I know you from somewhere. Like TV or movies.”
“It’s possible,” said Henry. “I am an actor.”
But Plecha didn’t pursue it. He addressed the room. “That’s all, folks. You don’t have to stay. You can go home. Just don’t walk through the blood on your way out, okay?”
People began to leave. A few spoke to Caleb as they passed, saying such things as “Good luck” or “Sorry” or “If you need help, call.” Nobody said anything clever or sarcastic, which surprised Caleb. But people prefer to be kind, even theater people. They saved the smart, cool jokes—and there must be jokes—for later.
Plecha put the Baggie with the gun and bullets into a black rubber evidence bag and began to take down addresses and phone numbers.
“So our mom’s not under arrest?” said Caleb.
“Of course she’s under arrest. There’s firearms involved.” He looked down at Molly. “I hereby inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Until you are with counsel of your own choosing or assigned by the state.”
Molly nodded and offered him her wrists.
“Please,” said Plecha. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”
“You’re a reasonable man,” purred Henry in his most English accent. “This is a good woman. She’s old enough to be a grandmother. You can’t possibly arrest her for what was clearly an accident?”
“Sorry, pal. That’s for a judge to decide. I’d book my own granny under these circumstances.” He helped Molly to her feet.
Molly straightened her dress and picked up her purse. She seemed terribly reasonable herself, disturbingly reasonable, like a robot. “This is why I don’t like to come into the city,” she declared.
“I’ll talk to Irene,” Caleb told her. “We’ll get a lawyer tonight. You won’t be there long.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Jessie. “I’m going too,” she told Plecha.
“Sorry, miss. You can’t ride with us. Procedure. You can meet us there. We’re taking her to the Sixth Precinct. Over on Tenth Street.”
The cop with the mustache pulled Henry aside. “You’re not just any actor. You’re the star of Tom and Gerry.” The mustache brushed Henry’s ear. “How can I get tickets?” he whispered. “My wife’d love me forever if I got us into that show.”
Henry told him he’d see what he could do.
The cop rejoined Plecha, and they escorted Molly down the stairs to the elevator. The others followed.
“I’ll meet you over there,” Jessie called out.
“I’ll be there too,” said Caleb. “With the lawyer.”
Their mother looked so strange stepping into an elevator between a detective and a uniformed cop. She tried to smile at her son and daughter, but the smile looked broken, almost psychotic. Then the elevator door closed and she was gone.
Everyone else started down the stairs. Caleb ran back up to the apartment. “We have to go to the police station,” he told Jack. “You can lock up after you finish, can’t you?”
“Sure thing, friend. What a night. What can I say? Hey.” And his caterer gave him a warm, brotherly hug.
Caleb did not use the elevator but walked down the five flights, worrying about his mother, wondering about Prager, finding the unreality of tonight so, well, unreal. But if a flesh wound isn’t real, what is?
Outside there were no police cars or ambulance, no sign that anything extraordinary had happened. It was a soft, mild spring night with herds of people still strolling the street.
The others were waiting for him, not just Jessie, but Frank and Henry.
“Does anyone know what happened to Toby?” said Henry.
Caleb had forgotten about Toby.
“My guess is he went to St. Vincent’s with the ambulance,” said Frank. “The police station’s over this way.” He pointed toward Seventh Avenue, and they all started walking.
Caleb saw no point in everyone’s going, but they had already started, so he said nothing. He needed other people right now, no matter how superfluous. He felt terribly superfluous himself.
The apartment upstairs was nearly empty. There was nobody on the terrace. A light breeze fluttered the canvas umbrella and blew empty plastic cups off the table, one by one.
Inside the only people left were the two caterers, Jack and Michael, and the cast of 2B.
“Crazy party,” said Dwight. “Psycho party.”
“Poor guy,” said Jack. “Even if he is a critic. Poor Molly too.”
They all knew one another. Dwight, Chris, and Allegra sometimes worked for Jack as cater waiters. Chris and Dwight now helped clean up. Allegra sat cross-legged on a table, eating a piece of Caleb’s cake.
“Wow, wow, wow,” she said. “Kenneth Prager was at our show. And Caleb’s mom shot him? He’s not gonna think well of tonight.”
“Oh well,” said Jack. “Maybe next time.”
“Just when the fun was starting,” sang Chris in a low sweet contralto. “Comes the time for parting.”
Jack laughed and sang with her:
Oh well.
We’ll catch up
Some other time.
“What do we do about this blood on the carpet?” said Dwight. “Do the police want us to save it? Should we put salt on it?”
“That works only for wine,” said Michael. “Look at this. Yuck.” He held up the bloody shirtsleeve the paramedics had torn off.
“Bring me the arm of the Buzzard of Off-Broadway,” said Allegra. “Maybe we can sell it on eBay.”
Meanwhile Jack and Chris continued with the song from On the Town, a wry, sad, sweet number with a slippery, difficult tune:
This day was just a token.
Too many words are still unspoken.
Oh well,
We’ll catch up
Some other time.