Atonement for Iwo. Lester S. Taube

severe. It could come tomorrow, or in ten years.”

      “Will he be able to return to work, or would you consider it a permanent disability?”

      The doctor pursed his lips. “As an educated guess, I think he should be up and around in three or four months. But if he should do any kind of work except, light, part time duties, he will be back rather quickly.”

      “Then we may conclude that he is permanently disabled?”

      “If he were on my staff, I would order him to remain at home for a year and search for a hobby.”

      The insurance manager nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” He left the hospital and drove directly back to his office. There he picked up the phone and dialed a number taken from an information card.

      A woman’s voice answered.

      “Hello, Gloria. This is George Brighton.”

      “Why, hello, Mr. Brighton. This is quite unexpected.”

      Brighton did not hesitate. “Gloria, Keith is ill.”

      There was a moment of silence. “Oh?”

      “It’s quite serious. A heart attack. He’s in City Hospital.”

      There was a longer period of silence, then a sigh. “Why don’t you call Keith’s whore, Mr. Brighton? I’m no longer related to him. I even have a divorce certificate to prove it.”

      “Take it easy, Gloria. You know they broke up five years ago. I thought perhaps that Bert should know.”

      The woman’s voice was suddenly angry. “Look, Keith walked out on us seven years ago. Bert was only eleven years old then, and he’s grown up fully convinced that his father is nothing better than a worthless bastard. Furthermore, I’m remarried, and my husband and Bert are great friends. Frankly, we don’t care if we ever see Keith Masters again.” She hung up.

      A choir was singing Silent Night on the television set when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” called Masters.

      The door opened and George Brighton entered. He adjusted his eyes to the dimness of the room. “Hello, Keith. I was just driving by and thought I’d drop in to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

      Masters grinned. “I bet you were just driving by, George. How far out of the way was it? A couple of miles?”

      Brighton grinned back. He took a seat facing Masters, huddled in his chair with a shawl around his shoulders. “You’ve put on some weight,” he observed.

      “I’m up to one hundred and thirty now. Still twenty pounds under.”

      “Well, you don’t look too bad for a guy on full pension. How are you making out?”

      “I should have gotten sick sooner. It’s the first time I ever caught up with my bills.” He studied the gray haired man. “George, did you call Gloria when I became ill?”

      Brighton nodded. “She was still pretty angry.”

      Masters pursed his lips, his face still slate looking. “Just like her. She’ll carry the grudge right to the grave, fighting like a son of a bitch to drag everyone else along. How about Bert?”

      “She said he didn’t want to see you. Bert didn’t say it. She did.”

      “Then you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s true. He was a fine little fellow until she got on his ear. I hope he never realizes what kind of a mother he has. Hating his father is bad enough.”

      “What ever happened between you two? You and Gloria were a real handsome couple.”

      Masters leaned back into his chair. “I honestly don’t know, George. Gloria is a damned good looking woman, and I thought we had it made. Then, all of a sudden, about two or three years after Bert was born, she changed. At first I thought it was the mother versus father grab for the kid’s affection, but it wasn’t that. Right off the bat she started acting as if she was the greatest piece of ass in the world, like she could lay back and eat an apple while you were knocking it off, and that you should rave about it for a week afterwards. Then the great withdrawal act, the suffering heroine putting up with all the crap in the world and keeping a stiff upper lip even though she had a bastard for a husband.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t figure it out. I thought maybe I wasn’t cutting the mustard in bed. Half the troubles of the world start there. But when this thing came up, I was hitting on all eight cylinders and she was jumping around and yelling like it was the greatest thing she ever knew.”

      He drew the shawl tighter around his shoulders. “Maybe it was because I wasn’t earning all the money in the world. Gloria considered herself a pretty high class article.”

      Brighton took out a pack of cigarettes, then self consciously shoved it back into a pocket.

      “Go ahead, smoke,” said Masters. “I get the willies as bad whether you smoke or not.”

      Brighton lit one up. “I was never able to understand,” he said, blowing smoke away from Masters, “why you were content to stay on a debit for so many years before I could persuade you to take an assistant manager’s job.”

      Masters picked up a piece of hard rock candy and popped it into his mouth. “Maybe not all of us are big, determined men. I just never had the gumption to do anything but ride around and collect the three bucks each month. I was content. The only reason I took the assistancy was to get a few more dollars. I’ll tell you straight, George, there were a couple of hundred times I wanted to shove it right back. It was worse than digging ditches.”

      Brighton stood up. “Well, I’ve got to be going. Glad to see you’re back to normal. How about coming in and having lunch with me when you’re able to?”

      Once the door closed behind the gray haired man, Masters rose from the chair, switched off the group still singing Christmas carols, drew back the covers on the sofa, and lay down.

      He folded his hands behind his head and thought back. I’m forty five-years-old now. At age zero, I am a red ball of meat in a skinny woman’s belly. The fellow that put me there was a railroad conductor. He had also started my brother two years before. Then he walked smack in front of a beer delivery truck and exit a father. At five years old, I have a step father, a barber. It wasn’t too bad until he blew the claim money my mother got from the beer company, then he started cutting hair elsewhere. At age ten, my brother, Ed, and I are out peddling papers on the streets of windy Chicago, and my mother is working in a shirt factory. At age fifteen, I screw what the hell was her name? Margot? Margaret? Well, it doesn’t make much difference, except that I got scared afterwards thinking I might have caught the clap, so I put alcohol on my pecker. It hurt worse than the clap I think. At twenty, I have already buried my mother, who is dead from a crummy pair of lungs. The skinny woman. I guess that’s what saints must have looked like, for she certainly was one. At twenty five, I have killed maybe fifteen or twenty men, all legally, and they even gave me medals for it. I also received the medal they awarded posthumously to my brother, Ed, who was scattered somewhere over the French countryside. At thirty, it is Gloria, and my son, Bert. At thirty five, I have been recalled by the army for duty in Korea, am back out of the service, and Gloria has her tail up in the air. At forty, it is...

      “Keith,” said Cathy. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t get married.”

      “For Christ’s sake,” he replied, putting down the newspaper. “Are we going to go all over that again? I’m paying every dime I earn for alimony to Gloria. I haven’t bought a goddamn shirt in two years. How the hell can we get married?”

      “It doesn’t make any difference. We’re getting along now, aren’t we? If we can get along now, we can get along the same if we’re married.”

      He eyed her with irritation. “Do you know something? You’re probably the best piece of ass in Chicago and most certainly the dumbest. I don’t know how the fuck I’ve put up with you for two years.” He mimicked her. “If we can get along now we can