Driving Blind

“You’re not going to visit?”

“Don’t think I should, eh?”

“Nasty shock. Unforgivable.”

“Who wouldn’t forgive me?”

“Me, Henry. I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, yes. Oh dear. My, my. Good advice from my best friend.”

“Best, Henry.” Steve Ralphs leaned forward. “You do want her to get over you, don’t you?”

“No! Yes. No! God, I don’t know. Yes, I guess so.”

“After all she has missed you and cried every day for most of four years.”

“Yes.” Henry Grossbock nursed his glass. “She has put in the time. I suppose I should let her off the hook.”

“It would be a kindness, Henry.”

“I don’t feel kind, I don’t want to be kind, but hell, I’ll be kind anyhow. I do love the dear girl.”

“After all, Henry, she has lots of years ahead.”

“True. Damn. Think of it. Men age better but die younger. Women live longer but age badly. Strange arrangement God has made, don’t you agree?”

“Why don’t you ask Him, now that you’re there?”

“Who, God? An upstart like me? Weil, well. Ummm.” Henry sipped. “Why not? What’s she up to? If she’s not dashing about in open cars with strange men, what?”

“Dancing, Henry. Taking dance lessons. Sculpting. Painting.”

“Always wanted to do that, never could. Concert schedules, cocktail parties for possible sponsors, recitals, lectures, travel. She always said someday.”

“Someday is here, Henry.”

“Took me by surprise, is all. Dancing, you say? Sculpting? Is she any good?”

“A fair dancer. A very fine sculptor.”

“Bravo. Or is it brava? Yes. Brava. I think I’m glad for that. Yes, I am glad. Fills the time. And what do I do? Crosswords.”

“Crosswords?”

“Dammit, what else is there, considering my circumstances? Fortunately, I recall every single good and bad puzzle ever printed in the New York Times or the Saturday Review. Crossword. Short nickname, three letters, for Tutankhamen. Tut! Four letters, one of the Great Lakes. Erie! Easy, that one. Fourteen letters, old Mediterranean capital. Hell. Constantinople!”

“Five letters. Word for best pal, good friend, fine husband, brilliant violinist.”

“Henry?”

“Henry. You.” Steve Ralphs smiled, lifted his glass, drank.

“That’s my cue to grab my hat and leave. Oh, I didn’t bring a hat. Well, well.”

Steve Ralphs suddenly swallowed very hard.

“What’s this?” said Henry, leaning forward, listening.

“A repressed sob, Henry.”

“Good! That’s better. Warms the old heart, that does. I don’t suppose you could—”

“Suppress a few more sobs, once or twice a week for the next year?”

“I hesitate to ask—”

“I’ll try, Henry.” Another mysterious sound moved up Steve Ralph’s throat. He hastened to lid it with whiskey. “Tell you what. I’ll call Evelyn, say I’m writing a book about you, need some of your personal books, notes, golf clubs, spectacles, the lot, bring them here, and, well, once a week, anyway, look them over, feel sad. How’s that sound?”

“That’s the ticket, or what are friends for?” Henry Grossbock beamed. There was color in his cheeks. He drank and stood up.

At the door, Henry turned and peered into Steve Ralph’s face.

“Dear me, dear me, are those tears?”

“I think so, Henry.”

“Well now, that’s more like it. Not Evelyn’s of course, and you’re not heaving great sobs. But it’ll do. Much thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Henry.”

“Well.” Henry opened the door. “See you around.”

“Not too soon, Henry.”

“Eh? No, of course not. No hurry. Good-bye, friend.”

“Oh, good-bye, Henry.” Yet another mysterious gulp arose in the younger man’s throat.

“Yes, yes.” Henry smiled. “Keep that up until I’m down the hall. Well, as Groucho Marx said—”

And he was gone. The door shut.

Turning, slowly, Steve Ralphs walked to the telephone, sat down, and dialed.

After a moment the receiver on the other end clicked and a voice spoke.

Steve Ralphs wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and at last said: