Love Invents Us - Amy Bloom [59]
The doctor finished examining Max and making notes. He nodded to Huddie, patted Max on the shoulder. He walked out with a small, stiff-wristed wave, like the Queen of England.
The nurse stayed behind for cleanup. “Any pain, any complaints, call. Otherwise, sweet dreams, Mr. Stone. And—”
“Jack Robinson. Son-in-law.”
Max smiled. “We’re just waiting for my daughter to get here. Are two visitors okay?”
“Until eight o’clock, two is fine. Take it easy.”
* * *
“The lights on the mirror,” Max said, “it’s like one of Liberace’s capes.”
“I never saw him.”
“He’s on TV all the time. Campy crap. You never saw him? The rhinestones? The candelabra?” Why was he talking about this? “Like Little Richard without the falsetto. And Polish.”
“What’s the goddamned point of that?”
“All right. You don’t have to stay. Is Elizabeth here?”
“Max, if she were here, you’d be seeing her. She’ll be here soon.”
“All right.”
Huddie took Max’s hand and Max let him, then pushed his hand further into Huddie’s. If he’s dying, he will die holding a hand that loves.
When Elizabeth came, Max was asleep, still holding Huddie’s hand.
“My Christ, Huddie. I’m so sorry. You had to bring him here? Oh my fucking Christ, that must have been something. Go back to the store, go home.” She was practically pushing him out the door, knowing what this could cost him. If he’s late at the store, his assistant, a well-meaning girl who thinks Huddie walks on water, will begin calling around. Eventually, someone will call June and Huddie will have to say something credible that in no way contradicts anything that anyone might have already said. He kissed her. “Take care of him, baby.”
“Don’t worry. Get out of here.”
Huddie waved to her and was gone. Elizabeth didn’t want Huddie showing concern and affection for Max. They weren’t even supposed to exist in the same universe. She looked at Max, drawing slow, bubbling breaths through his various tubes. He didn’t look that much worse than usual. All right, God, whatever you want. I don’t give a shit if Max lives, actually. You want him, take him. I am not trying to keep him here. It’s enough. He’s not getting better, he’s a self-absorbed pain in the ass. That smell, old socks, and lesions. He takes his meds whenever, he lies to me about it. Whatever this is, it’s enough. He was a good father, God, he taught me to drive a stick-shift, he taught me whole chunks of Auden, he made me listen to every kind of music. If you could give us a little more time, we could get all this straightened out. What’s it to you? You didn’t take him then, when it might have seemed like a good idea, for my sake, you certainly don’t need to take him now. Ignore us.
Max coughed in his sleep and Elizabeth leaned over him, holding the plastic cup and the bending straw.
“You’re here,” Max said.
“Don’t worry, I’m here.”
“I met the guy you’re fucking. Very nice guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad he’s married.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you could break up his marriage, too.”
“Get some rest, Max.” She smoothed the sheet around his shoulders.
“Okay, Elizabeth.” It is funny, the way he says it. They rarely call each other by name. Sweetheart, honey, darling, baby girl, milacku is what he calls her. She calls him Pops or Grumpy or Buster.
She sat by his bed, flipping through a magazine left behind by the previous occupant.
“Baby girl. Go home.”
“I’ll stay, it’s okay.”
“Go home. I’d rather