The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [140]
The phone rang. She picked it up, said, “Good evening, Lemon Tree.”
“Linda?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Olive, Linda.”
“Oh, I didn’t recognize your voice.” There was a pause, and she said, “Is everything all right?”
“No, everything’s not.” A pause. “It’s Clem. I’m calling from Doylestown General. The hospital.”
“He’s not—”
“No, he’s not.” Another pause, and a sigh. “He started hemorrhaging a little after eleven this morning. It’s his liver, of course. He’s all right now. He’s had transfusions all day, God knows how many pints of blood. He’s unconscious and he looks like pure hell but he’s going to make it.”
“Thank God.”
“I’ve been alternately thanking and cursing Him all afternoon. Clem will be staying in the hospital for at least another week, possibly as much as two weeks. They’re putting a second bed in his room and I’m staying with him.” She snorted. “They tried to tell me that would be against the rules. It’s nothing short of amazing the variety of horse manure people think they can get away with. I told them just what I would do and who I would call and they went into a huddle and decided the rule never existed in the first place. They told me they would have to charge me the same rates as if I were a patient. I said that was perfectly all right, that I would simply deduct the sum from my annual contribution. And I suggested they might like to look up my annual contribution just to put things in perspective. They’ve been so sweet ever since that I may vomit. Well, let me get to the point. I obviously won’t be around for at least a week. Just put all the mail somewhere in the back and ignore it. If anything comes up that needs handling, use your own judgment. It’s sure to be more reliable than mine for the time being. Work whatever hours you want, your regular hours and as much of mine as you feel like. Just keep a record so that you’ll know how much money you have coming to you. Are you short on money?”
“No.”
“You may be by the time I get around to writing you a check. If that happens, just pay yourself out of the cash drawer and leave a memo of what you took. I’ll be in touch when I can. I don’t have your home phone number with me—could you let me have it?”
She gave her number.
“Fine. Don’t feel you have to put in more hours than you want, Linda. I really don’t give an earthly damn how business goes just now. Arrange your hours to suit yourself. I meant to call you earlier today. I hope I didn’t keep you from an appointment?”
“Oh, no.”
“You can close up now if you want.”
“No, I think I’ll stay around for an hour or so.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Olive? I hope everything’s all right.”
“Well, George Perlmutter’s been around and says he’s out of the woods now. The other clowns say the same thing, but I wouldn’t trust them for a minute. I know George too well for him to lie to me. All Clem has to do is stop drinking for the rest of his life and he’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“And all I have to do is grow wings and I can fly like an eagle. I have to go now, Linda. ’Bye.”
For the fifteen minutes following Olive’s call she sat in the little shop and thought about death. The hour from six to seven was always quiet. Most of the shops on the mall closed for dinner, so even if one stayed open, passersby were not likely to drop in. Olive normally devoted that hour to paper work and dusting. There was no paper work for Linda to do but there was always dusting. Instead she stayed seated and thought of death.
Clem would die. That seemed to be what Olive had been saying at the end. He had nothing to worry about if he stopped drinking for the rest of his life, but Olive