The Collected Stories

people prefer to live in a tent, he thought. He assumed that his broodings would keep him from sleeping, but he quickly nodded off. He awoke with pressure on his chest. What time was it? The luminous dial on his wristwatch showed that he had slept two hours and a quarter. He had dreamed, but he couldn’t remember what. He retained only the impression of nocturnal horrors. He raised his head. Was she asleep or awake? He couldn’t hear even a rustle from her apartment.
    He slept again and was awakened this time by the sound of many people talking, doors slamming, footsteps in the corridor, and running. He had always been afraid of a fire. He read newspaper accounts of old people burning to death in old-age homes, hospitals, hotels. He got out of bed, put on his slippers and robe, and opened the door to the hall. There was no one there. Had he imagined it? He closed the door and went out onto the balcony. No, not a trace of firemen below. Only people coming home late, going out to nightclubs, making drunken noise. Some of the condominium tenants sublet their apartments in the summer to South Americans. Harry went back to bed. It was quiet for a few minutes; then he again heard a din in the corridor and the sound of men’s and women’s voices. Something had happened, but what? He had an urge to get up and take another look, but he didn’t. He lay there tense. Suddenly he heard a buzzing from the house phone in the kitchen. When he lifted the receiver, a man’s voice said, “Wrong number.” Harry had turned on the fluorescent light in the kitchen and the glare dazzled him. He opened the refrigerator, took out a jug of sweetened tea, and poured himself half a glass, not knowing whether he did this because he was thirsty or to buoy his spirits. Soon afterward he had to urinate, and he went to the bathroom.
    At that moment, his doorbell rang, and the sound curtailed his urge. Maybe robbers had broken into the building? The night watchman was an old man and hardly a match for intruders. Harry couldn’t decide whether to go to the door or not. He stood over the toilet bowl trembling.
These might be my final moments on earth
flashed through his mind. “God Almighty, take pity on me,” he murmured. Only now did he remember that he had a peephole in the door through which he could see the hall outside. How could I have forgotten about it? he wondered. I must be getting senile.
    He walked silently to the door, raised the cover of the peephole, and looked out. He saw a white-haired woman in a robe. He recognized her; it was his neighbor on the right. In a second everything became clear to him. She had a paralyzed husband and something had happened to him. He opened the door. The old woman held out an unstamped envelope.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Bendiner, the woman next door left this envelope by your door. Your name is on it.”
    “What woman?”
    “On the left. She committed suicide.”
    Harry Bendiner felt his guts constrict, and within seconds his belly grew as tight as a drum.
    “The blond woman?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did she do?”
    “Threw herself out the window.”
    Harry held out his hand and the old woman gave him the envelope.
    “Where is she?” he asked.
    “They took her away.”
    “Dead?”
    “Yes, dead.”
    “My God!”
    “It’s already the third such incident here. People lose their minds in America.”
    Harry’s hand shook, and the envelope fluttered as if caught in a wind. He thanked the woman and closed the door. He went to look for his glasses, which he had put on his night table. “I dare not fall,” he cautioned himself. “All I need now is a broken hip.” He staggered over to his bed and lit the night lamp. Yes, the eyeglasses were lying where he had left them. He felt dizzy. The walls, the curtains, the dresser, the envelope all jerked and whirled like a blurry image on television. Am I going blind or what? he wondered. He sat and waited for the dizziness to pass. He barely had the strength to open the envelope. The note was written in pencil, the lines were crooked, and the Yiddish words badly spelled. It read:

Dear Harry, forgive me. I must go where my husband is. If it’s not too much trouble, say Kaddish for me. I’ll intercede for you where I’m going.
    Ethel
    He put the sheet of paper and his glasses down on the night table and switched off the lamp. He lay belching and hiccuping. His body twitched, and the bedsprings vibrated. Well, from now on I won’t hope for anything, he