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Oxygen

William Locke Hauser

    The infection had finally been cured, the doctor said. “Your lungs will never be strong, Mrs. Maxwell, but there’s no reason you can’t live to a ripe old age.”
    “But if the disease comes back?” she asked. Mitch shuddered — how long he had endured that self-pitying whimper! Early in her illness, when a trace of his youthful love yet remained, he had been reconciled to eventual loss. Then, as years wore on, he’d come to relish the thought of her death, which would free him from a marriage unsuitable from its start. (He should have listened to his mother.) And now . . .
    “That shouldn’t happen, not after the success of this latest drug therapy, and the regimen of bed rest I’ve prescribed.”
    “But I still need oxygen to sleep.”
    “A large amount of lung tissue had to be excised, so it’s not surprising you have trouble breathing.” The doctor removed his glasses and wiped them studiously. “Keep using the oxygen, if it makes you more comfortable. Proper sleep is essential.”
    “We’re terribly grateful,” she said, “aren’t we, Mitchell?” Her wan face almost glowed.
    “Indeed we are, my dearest. Terribly grateful, doctor.”
    He took her home to their apartment in the Osborne, helped her lie down — the cab ride had overwhelmed her reserves — and then, ignoring her protests, fled to the sanctuary of his office.
    There he placed a call. “Mr. John Landon, please. . . . No, I am not a client of his. We are personal friends. Please say that it is Mitchell Maxwell calling.”
    “Hey, Mitch. Where you been keeping yourself?”
    “Busy, my dear friend, terribly busy. But now I wish to make up for my neglect of our association. I thought we might meet for a drink next Tuesday at, say, the Algonquin?”
    “What’s the deal?”
    “I need your legal counsel on a personal matter. My wife has been ill for a long time, and the duration of her infirmity has had unfortunate consequences.”
    “A drug problem?”
    “You are so perspicacious. I wish to consult with you as to whether one might assume certain authority . . .”
    “Not if she’s compos mentis, Mitch, if I get your drift. But we can go into details when I see you. What time?”
    “Shall we agree on five-thirty?”
    “Tuesday—it’s on my calendar.”
    He had many preparations to make, sufficient to exceed the resourcefulness of any lesser man. “Melissa!”
    “Yes, Mr. Maxwell?” His secretary appeared at the door.
    “Cancel any further appointments for the day. I shall be away for the balance of the afternoon and then the weekend. In an emergency, I can be reached at my apartment.”
    “Yes, Mr. Maxwell. And I’m glad to see Mrs. Maxwell is so much better.”
    “And whither draw you that conclusion?”
    “This morning, when she came by in the taxi and picked you up, I was just getting back from my coffee break.”
    “In fact, Melissa, Mrs. Maxwell is still gravely ill. A temporary remission allowed her to travel to the doctor’s office for tests. Now, excuse me. I must make a call before I leave.”
    “Want me to get someone on the line for you?”
    “No, and close the door behind you!” He pulled a tattered card from his pocket, read a number, and dialed.
    “JB&A Auto Leasing.”
    Mitch spoke softly. “This is Max Muller. Is my car ready?”
    “Ready for an hour now. Where y’ been?”
    “I shall be there in ten minutes.”
    From under his desk, he hauled out the carton he’d put there that morning. He carried it out with him.
    “That looks heavy, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Thank you for your concern, Melissa, but it is mostly air.”
    The rental office — sideline of a Midtown parking garage — was grimy and littered, smelling of stale soda and cigarettes, the sort of place where he would normally scorn to do business.
    “See your driver’s license, Mr. Muller?”
    “Here you are.”
    The man studied the photograph. A good likeness, Mitch thought, of his present appearance — mustache and eyebrows darkened in a café restroom, and the brown wig concealing his blond hair.
    “Okay,” the man said. “Now how ‘boutcher credit card?”
    “Do you not take coin of the realm?”
    “Huh?”
    “Cash, my good man. As you might put it, the green stuff.”
    “We ain’t allowed . . .” The man’s eyes widened at the size of the proffered bankroll. “How much is that?”
    “How much is the rental?”
    “Sixty bucks, if you have it back by midnight. And I’ll need secur’ty.”
    Mitch peeled off a pair of bills. “Here are two hundred, of which you may keep half, if after my return you show the same discretion as you are exhibiting at this moment.”
    “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing.” The man stuffed the money in the pocket of his greasy coveralls. There were tattoos on both his arms. The nature of the decorations, maudlin or obscene, was indiscernible in the light from a single bulb in the ceiling of his tiny cubicle.
    Over the Queensborough Bridge and into the borough from which it draws its name. The streets of Long Island City are a warren of factories and industrial storage facilities. There should be, he thought, a tennis club at the next cross street, one of those inflatable creations like a giant caterpillar, or a blimp come to rest amid the towers of masonry.
    Driving a block past the club, Mitch found the warehouse he was seeking, a corrugated-metal structure surrounded by a chain-link fence with bits of trash caught in the interstices. He parked and walked through the open gate.
    “Do you recharge canisters here?”
    “Yeah,” the fat man said, idly scratching a crescent of hairy belly pushing from under his tee-shirt. The garment, silk-screened “Thunderbird Spa — Where the Gorgeous Go,” was stiff with dirt. “Whatcha wanta chahge wit’?”
    “Carbon dioxide.” Mitch opened the carton and pulled out a small tank of burnished metal.
    “Says oxygen.” The man shifted an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “An’ it’s still got a little bit in it. Good t’ing I ain’t got dis stogie fired up.”
    “Oxygen is what it originally contained,” Mitch said, “but our model car club, in . . . Hicksville . . . has been using it for CO2 for some time now. I really must have it filled. We have a meet this evening. Were we to run out, that would be discommoding, do you not know.”
    “Yeah, don’t I not know. Well, dis heah tank’s rated for oxy, see, an’ weah not s’posed to fill it with cahbon di. I s’pose I could do it up to maybe eighty p’cent, but I’d wanta be comp’sated for d’ risk.”
    “I think our club budget can afford extra for insurance. How much did you have in mind?”
    “Twenny? One top of the fi’teen for refillin’, dat is.”
    “Done. Hurry it up, will you? I should like to be on my way before rush hour.”
    As Mitch walked into the Osborne, Pawlowski the doorman rushed to help. “That package looks pretty heavy, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Mostly air, Pawlowski. Be so kind as to ring the elevator.”
    In the apartment, he stowed the carton not in the pantry with seemingly identical others, but in his study. He looked at his watch, then dialed the telephone.
    “Hola.”
    “Feliciana, this is Mister Maxwell. Do you still have next Tuesday open?”
    “Si, just like I promise you.”
    “Be here at five o’clock. You have the key I sent you?”
    “Si.”
    “Mrs. Maxwell will be napping. Fix her dinner, and waken her at six. I shall be late, but you can plan on leaving about ten. Should you need to, you can reach me at the Algonquin Hotel. I shall leave the number by the telephone. Do you understand?”
    “Si, I read the number.”
    He came out of his study whistling the final duet from Faust. “Anne, my dear,” he called. “The sun is over the yardarm and I am about to mix a martini. Will you join me?”

* * *

    On Tuesday, he returned to his office after an excellent lunch. “Any calls, Melissa?”
    “On your spike, Mr. Maxwell. The one on top is a Mr. Goodring, who’d like to see you at four o’clock.”
    “Call him and make it four-fifteen. I must be away from three until a bit past four, at my dentist.”
    “The one I have the number for?”
    “A new fellow, recommended by a business associate. I shall give you his number when I return.”
    At ten of three, he left the office and walked to the Osborne. He let himself in the service entrance with a key not normally available to tenants, making sure — easily, given Pawlowski’s inattention — that by crouching and covering head and hands with his dark jacket, he could prevent the doorman’s seeing him on the monitor. If the fellow caught a glimpse of movement, he would be too lazy to react, and—Mitch had checked—the fool would go off at six. By the time anyone might ask him, he would have forgotten.
    “Mitchell!” Anne looked up from arranging a bowl of flowers in the entryway. “I never expected you home in the afternoon.” The woman was putting on weight, and looking better every day.
    “I had a meeting cancelled, my dear, and grasped this opportunity to tuck you in for your nap. You have not had your warm milk yet, have you?”
    “I was about to prepare it.”
    “That will be my pleasure.”
    He walked down the hall toward the kitchen, humming a hauntingly lovely passage from Swan Lake.
    A step into his study, where he took the tank from its carton. He carried it with him, and placed it next to the others in the pantry.
    He took milk from the refrigerator, poured it into a mug, and added a tablespoon of sugar and a dash of vanilla. From the cabinet he reached for a heavy crockery plate and from the utensil drawer a stainless steel serving spoon. Extracting a vial of sleeping pills from his pocket, he shook out three of the small blue tablets. Were three enough? Too many might be regurgitated. Perhaps four. He shook out another onto the plate and re-counted — one, two, three, four.
    They crushed, but with difficulty. Hard and slippery little rascals.
    “Mitchell?” Her voice came from the distance. “May I help?”
    “You stay there, my pet. I could not locate the vanilla, but now I have it.” However well-to-do her commercial family, she had been a common little baggage, the misplaced infatuation of his youth, one that was now about to be corrected. He scraped the blue powder into the mug, stirred vigorously, and placed it in the microwave. While it was heating, he washed both plate and spoon.
    After an initial sip, she made a face. “It’s bitter, Mitchell.”
    “Let me add more sugar.”
    “No, it’s not so bad, after the first swallow.”
    “Down to the teddy-bear,” he said, inspecting the bottom.
    “Oh, you are so funny!”
    “Now let us tuck you in, my precious dove, before the potion takes effect. Did you know there is scientific evidence that milk really does induce sleep?”
    He helped pull her dress over her head, and stood by as she sat to remove her shoes.
    “Would you like to cuddle awhile, Mitchell? You don’t have to go back to the office right away, do you?”
    “I have a meeting, my dear, or there is nothing I would like better. But when I return . . .” He waved coquettishly, with the tips of his fingers, from the doorway. He hesitated. “Before I leave, let me check that oxygen tank.”
    He pretended to look at the dial. “Almost empty, as I feared. This will take but a moment.”
    “I can try napping without it. I’m getting better so fast.”
    “My dear, I hope that your improvement will soon so warrant. But for now I insist you wear the mask while sleeping. Your lungs will heal faster if you avoid straining them.”
    “It’s so good to have someone care about me the way you do!”
    He exchanged tanks in the pantry and returned. There was a hiss and then silence as he hooked the new tank to the line. “I must be on my way.” He bent over her. “A last kiss.”
    As he stepped back, she smiled drowsily and reached for the mask. His last view of her was one of peaceful rest.
    He was back at ten past four. “Goodring here yet?”
    “Not yet. Did you bring me that number from the dentist?”
    “No need. I found the fellow’s work unsatisfactory, so am returning to my former.”
    “Can I leave at five o’clock, if you’re still in your office with Mr. Goodring?”
    “No, I may have a memo to dictate, but I shall be departing on the dot of five-fifteen. Is five-fifteen soon enough?”
    “I guess so.”
    “I shall pay you overtime, Melissa. In fact, you may write on your calendar, as a reminder, the time five-fifteen.”
    “Gee, Mr. Maxwell, that isn’t . . .”
    “Do as I say!” He waited while she complied.
    Later, as his guest was leaving, he asked her, “What time is it, Melissa?”
    “Five . . . five-twenty, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Correct the calendar entry.” She entered the information, this time without argument. He walked out the door.
    It took him ten minutes to get to the Algonquin. He walked through the lobby, checking to see if the telephone cubicle was unoccupied. John Landon was already seated in the bar, a glass of whiskey in front of him.
    “Dear fellow, forgive me for being late.”
    “No sweat, Mitch.” The lawyer unfolded his skinny body from the chair, stood, and clasped Mitch’s hand.
    “Ah, but it is sweat, as you put it. I am five minutes late — or is my watch correct? What does yours say?”
    “Five-thirty-one.”
    “Is that not a bit fast?”
    “Maybe a minute.”
    “Then mine is correct — five-thirty. Bartender!”
    A waitress came. “Bombay gin martini, my good woman, straight up. Chill the glass in the freezer, please. I am willing to wait.”
    “How you coming, sir?” she asked John.
    “One mo’ time,” John half-sang, winking at Mitch. The waitress took the glass, looking puzzled.
    Mitch chuckled deliberately at his friend’s humorous reference. “Now let us talk seriously,” he said. “I have a sad reason for this meeting.”
    “What drugs is your wife on?”
    “It is a barbiturate, I believe, called Ambien.”
    “That’s the one been involved in a lot of suits. People’ve said it makes ‘em raid the fridge in their sleep. Can you believe it!”
    “It is not a question of litigation.”
    “Prescribed by a doctor?”
    “Yes, and he has been cautious in limiting quantities. But she saves them up, and then . . .”
    “How many? At a time?”
    “Two, perhaps three.”
    “Jesus, Mitch, I’d call the sawbones if I were you. What does it do to her?”
    “She falls into a deep sleep, and one is unable to wake her until the next morning.”
    “How can she do that and manage to breathe? Wasn’t she was on oxygen for a long time?”
    “She ties the mask to her face with a harness, so that it cannot fall off. And I am there.”
    “What if you had to travel?”
    Mitch managed not to show delight. “Fortunately, my friend, I am lately able to spend all my nights with the dear lady. During the day, however, I sometimes get a woman to stay with her while she naps. In fact, that is the situation this very afternoon. Feliciana has instructions to call me, wherever I am, at the slightest sign of difficulty.”
    “She’s not competent?”
    Mitch made himself smile. “She has a tendency to be rough, whereas I know the right amount of gentle patting to loosen the phlegm in my darling’s chest.”
    “Sounds like you got the bases covered. Still, I’d get your wife back to the doctor for a talking-to. People get tempted to increase dosage, and then they get hooked.”
    Mitch heard a cough, and looked up to find the waitress standing by their table. “Mr. Maxwell,” she whispered, “you have a call in the lobby.”
    “Thank you, my good woman. What time do you have, John?”
    “It’s five-forty, Mitch. Why do you ask?”
    “I must leave soon, but first I shall see why someone is importuning me at this hour.”
    He walked to the lobby and stepped into the cubicle.
    “Mister, this Feliciana. The missus, I no can wake her!”
    “She sometimes sleeps deeply, Feliciana.”
    “She no breathing. You come pronto?”
    “Of course. Have you called the doctor? His number is on the pad where I wrote this one.”
    “I see. I call.”
    After mussing his carefully combed hair and pulling his tie down from his collar, he walked quickly back into the bar.
    “Jeez,” John said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “My wife.” Mitch tightened his throat, making his voice crack. “Come with me, fast!”
    They started together for the door. Mitch stopped. “Hail a taxi, John.” He walked back and threw bills on the table. It would not do to have his standing harmed in elegant places.
    When they reached the Osborne, Mitch jumped from the taxi and ran inside, John catching up as he was stepping onto the elevator. The door closed behind them.
    “She’ll be all right, Mitch, you’ll see.”
    At their floor, the door opened, and Mitch raced down the hall. John followed, surely (surely!) impressed by his companion’s uncharacteristic panic. In the middle of the living room, talking with Feliciana, stood a policeman.
    “You’re not the doctor!” Mitch exclaimed.
    “Is this your home?” the officer asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you Michael Maxwell?”
    “Mitchell Maxwell.”
    “The doctor’s not here, but a patrolman trained in CPR is trying to revive your wife.”
    “How is it that you happen to be here? Has there been some . . . crime committed, officer?”
    “No sir. I was riding patrol with one of my teams—I’m squad lieutenant—when the doorman hailed us. Now come with me, gentlemen.” The lieutenant strode toward the bedroom, pulling the two in his wake.
    A blue-uniformed patrolman was kneeling on the floor, breathing into Anne’s mouth. Her legs stuck out from her slip — soft, white, blue-veined. Mitch felt a surge of pity.
    The young cop looked up, thick blond mustache and full cheeks. “No response, Loot.” He gave her chest five sharp pushes with the heel of his hand, then resumed the breathing.
    “Doctor he is here,” Feliciana announced.
    A gray-haired man came into the room, followed by a couple of attendants bearing a folded gurney. “All leave, please. Watch the door, officer.”
    As they waited, Mitch whispered to John: “She must not die. Not after all we have been through!” And then: “I do not know how I shall live without her.” And again: “The grief will be more than I can bear.” He was running out of words.
    The doctor emerged. “Which is the spouse of the decedent?”
    “I am he,” Mitch answered with suitable gravity. He moved to one side as the attendants bore a sheet-covered body through the living room and out the door.
    “I’m very sorry,” the doctor said. “There was nothing to be done. She had been in a severe state of anoxia.”
    “But she had oxygen!” Mitch exclaimed.
    “She seems to have taken a depressant, and may have suffered cardiac arrest. We’ll know after the autopsy.”
    “Will you go with them to the hospital, John?” Mitch asked. “I’ll follow as soon as I’ve tidied up the apartment.”

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