“Holy crap! What time is it?”
“Eleven. What are you still doing at home, for God’s sake?” Gladys was aware that her tone was angry, overriding her relief that Mike hadn’t got himself into trouble.
“I’m sorry. I thought a short nap would clear my head. I forgot to set the alarm. Now I might as well let it go till morning. No sense waking everyone up in the middle of the night. How about I meet you all for breakfast? I’ll set the alarm for five, and I’ll be there by eight. OK?”
Gladys didn’t know what to say. Realistically she should not blame Mike for wanting to wait until next morning, since he had not been told of Con’s death, only that he had not yet woken from anesthesia. Still, she didn’t think it was right to withhold the truth from him for another eight hours. But how would she break the awful news to him?
“Don’t go back to sleep yet. I’ll call you right back.” She hung up.
Turning to Debbie, she asked “What should I tell him?”
Debbie frowned. “You know, to say less than the whole truth would be to lie without admitting that you’re lying. I think you should tell him.”
Gladys was shaking her head. “Here we are, grieving over my dead son and your dead husband, and we’re holding a philosophical debate. What’s wrong with us?” And she reached for the phone.
“Mike, I really want you to come tonight. Con still hasn’t woken up, and I’m scared.”
There was a sigh at the other end. “OK. Be there in a couple of hours.”
❖❖❖❖❖
One hour and fifty minutes later Mike burst into the motel and found the women seated in the reception area with their heads down.
“So,” he said, “I’m all rested. How may I be of help?”
His flippancy went over their heads. Debbie was the first to answer. “Con is dead.”
Mike’s expression froze. “Is that meant to be funny?”
“No, he was pronounced dead this afternoon.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Mike’s tone was challenging, suggesting that he’d been wronged, not by Con’s death but by the women’s failure to tell him.
Gladys was in tears. “I just couldn’t bring myself to say it. I just wanted you here. I needed you here.”
This softened Mike a little. “All right, all right,” he conceded, “so where is he?”
“I really don’t know,” Gladys said. “Doctor Kravitz said you could call him. Here’s his number.”
“At this time of night?”
“He said to call any time. He figured you might have any number of questions.”
“The only question I have for this Doctor Kravitz is, why did he kill my son?”
“Mike,” Debbie spoke for the first time, “Doctor Kravitz did all he could to save Con. You know that. Most of the time that kind of injury is fatal no matter what the surgeon does.”
“Well, he was alive when this surgeon got to him. Why didn’t he sew him up right the first time? Jackie Robinson could have done a better job, and he didn’t even go to medical school.”
“Oh, how cruel!” Debbie whispered between heaving sobs. Gladys grabbed Mike by the sleeve and steered him out into the hallway. “How could you?” she hissed.
Mike seemed oblivious of his own antisemitism. For him it was a given that a surgeon with a Jewish-sounding name could not be entrusted with the life of a non-Jewish patient. “That happens to be my son as well as yours. I have a right to be angry. If he hadn’t married that woman he’d never have ended up in this place — dead.”
Gladys glared at him and held her breath for a second. “And we’re not the only bereaved ones. He had a wife — whom you’ve never treated with the respect she deserves — and two sons.”
“Sure, two sons, of whom one is handicapped, thanks to her.”
Gladys had had enough. She slapped him across the face and went back to where Debbie, now calm, was waiting.
Unashamed, Gladys said to the receptionist: “Give him our room if he wants it. And charge him. We’re leaving.” She turned to Debbie: “Can I go home with you?”
“Of course. Come on.”
Mike approached the women as they were leaving. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To Debbie’s,” Gladys answered over her shoulder and kept walking.
“What about me?”
“You can have our room here if you want to stay the night.”
The receptionist smiled at him invitingly. “Do you wish to stay, Mr. Flynn?”
He would have preferred to find another motel, but he was in no mood to wander unfamiliar streets at that time of night. So, gingerly feeling his left cheek, he said, as casually as he could, “Might as well.” With luck, a different receptionist would be on duty in the morning, unaware of the scene just played out, without a smirk on her or his face.