His money running out, he took a job as a dishwasher. He telephoned his mother every Sunday morning, when the rates were cheaper. She told Toby about the furor caused by his running away.
“You should see them,” his mother said. “The policeman comes over here in his squad car every night. The way he carries on, you would think we were all gangsters. He keeps asking where you are.”
“What do you tell him?” Toby asked anxiously.
“The truth. That you slunk away like a thief in the night, and that if I ever got my hands on you I would personally wring your neck.”
Toby laughed aloud.
During the summer, Toby managed to get a job as an assistant to a magician, a beady-eyed, untalented mountebank who performed under the name of the Great Merlin. They played a series of second-rate hotels in the Catskills, and Toby’s primary job was to haul the heavy paraphernalia in and out of Merlin’s station wagon, and to guard the props, which consisted of six white rabbits, three canaries and two hamsters. Because of Merlin’s fears that the props would “get eaten,” Toby was forced to live with them in rooms the size of broom closets, and it seemed to Toby that the whole summer consisted of one overpowering stench. He was in a state of physical exhaustion from carrying the heavy cabinets with trick sides and bottoms and running after props that were constantly escaping. He was lonely and disappointed. He sat staring at the dingy, little rooms, wondering what he was doing here and how this was going to get him started in show business. He practiced his imitations in front of the mirror, and his audience consisted of Merlin’s smelly little animals.
One Sunday as the summer was drawing to a close, Toby made his weekly telephone call home. This time it was his father who answered.
“It’s Toby, Pop. How are you?”
There was a silence.
“Hello! Are you there?”
“I’m here, Toby.” Something in his father’s voice chilled Toby.
“Where’s Mom?”
“They took her to the hospital last night.”
Toby clutched the receiver so hard that it almost broke in his fist. “What happened to her?”
“The doctor said it was a heart attack.”
No! Not his mother! “She’s going to be all right,” Toby demanded. “Isn’t she?” He was screaming into the mouthpiece. “Tell me she’s going to be all right, goddam you!”
From a million miles away he could hear his father crying. “She—she died a few hours ago.”
The words washed over Toby like white-hot lava, burning him, scalding him, until his body felt as though it were on fire. His father was lying. She couldn’t be dead. They had a pact. Toby was going to be famous and his mother was going to be at his side. There was a beautiful penthouse waiting for her, and a limousine and chauffeur and furs and diamonds…. He was sobbing so hard he could not breathe. He heard the distant voice saying, “Toby! Toby!”
“I’m on my way home. When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow,” his father said. “But you mustn’t come here. They’ll be expecting you, Toby. Eileen is going to have her baby soon. Her father wants to kill you. They’ll be looking for you at the funeral.”
So he could not even say goodbye to the only person in the world he loved. Toby lay in his bed all that day, remembering. The images of his mother were so vivid and alive. She was in the kitchen, cooking, telling him what an important man he was going to be, and at the theater, sitting in the front row and calling out, “Mein Himmel! What a talented boy!”
And laughing at his imitations and jokes. And packing his suitcase. When you’re a famous star, you’ll send for me. He lay there, numbed with grief, thinking, I’ll never forget this day. Not as long as I live. August the fourteenth, 1939. This is the most important day of my life.
He was right. Not because of the death of his mother but because of an event that was taking place in Odessa, Texas, fifteen hundred miles away.
The hospital was an anonymous four-story building, the color of charity. Inside was a rabbit warren of cubicles designed to diagnose sickness, alleviate it, cure it or sometimes bury it. It was a medical supermarket, and there was something there for everyone.
It was four A.M., the hour of quiet death or fitful sleep. A time for the hospital staff to have a respite before girding for the battles of another day.
The obstetrical team in Operating Room 4 was in trouble. What had started out as a routine delivery had suddenly turned into an emergency. Up until the actual delivery of the baby of Mrs. Karl Czinski, everything had been normal. Mrs. Czinski was a healthy woman in her prime, with wide peasant hips that were an obstetrician’s dream. Accelerated contractions had begun, and things were moving along according to schedule.
“Breech delivery,” Dr. Wilson, the obstetrician, announced. The words caused no alarm. Although only three percent of births are breech deliveries—the lower part of the infant emerging first—they are usually handled with ease. There are three types of breech deliveries: spontaneous, where no help is required; assisted, where the obstetrician lends nature a hand; and a complete “breakup,” where the baby is wedged in the mother’s womb.
Dr. Wilson noted with satisfaction that this was going to be a spontaneous delivery, the simplest kind. He watched the baby’s feet emerge, followed by two small legs. There was another contraction from the mother, and the baby’s thighs appeared.
“We’re almost there,” Dr. Wilson said encouragingly. “Bear down once more.”