"Look at you all gussied up, Myron!" Abigail said over her knitting. "Visitors?"
Myron Rubinstein teased the bow tie lying under his drooping neck. "Callie is coming to show off her new friend. I want to make a good first impression."
"You want to make a good first impression on him?" Abigail laughed.
"How's he gonna know to respect me if I don't dress respectful myself?" Myron straightened his coat and smoothed his near-extinct hair over his liver-spotted scalp. The mirror in the hall of the retirement home showed him a well-aged Jewish gentleman who, despite needing a walker to get around with any safety, still had plenty of pop left in his hips. He let out a small sigh, sometimes wishing to see the young man with war medals on his chest and a full head of hair when he looked in the mirror. He shook the apparition away and took his seat on the couch, relaxing until he heard Callie's car pull into a parking spot.
Soon he was seated at one of the dining tables across from the young woman and a man she had introduced as Greg Billings, after getting a kiss on the head from Callie. The man had an impressive smile, and an enviable handshake and, most importantly, Myron could tell he wasn't looking to intimidate.
"Greg works as an anesthesiologist at St. Agatha hospital," Callie explained. She flashed the man a brilliant grin, the kind that looks lit with fluorescent bulbs. "We met during a fundraiser."
"I managed not to put her to sleep long enough to ask her out," Greg said. Myron wheezed out laughter. "How do you two know each other, again?"
Callie opened her mouth, but Myron jumped in instead. "Well, my wife was fortunate enough to spend her last few hours at St. Agatha's. That was a few years ago, and it's a smidge lonely here. Callie was dear enough to come and visit with some of us old chimneys every few weeks back then. You know-" Myron waved his hand "-checkers and reading to those without eyesight. We came to be good friends." Callie smiled. "At the time, she'd been seeing a man with a bit of a mysterious side. Whawasit? Mitch." Myron cleared his throat. "I may not look it, but I used to be in the army. I was part of the CID--that's Criminal Investigation Command--and I was in charge of a good number of crime scenes. Spent time over in Vietnam, making sure things stayed clean, even in that tsuris. Not an easy job, but I like to think I did my best."
"You must have some stories."
"Oh do I. Anyway, I'd been out of the army for some time but I'm still sharp as a tack, so I had her bring him around so I could apply a little bit of pressure. Turns out he was seeing someone else on the side!" Myron made a gesture. "Feh! Well I told her straight away, even though I didn't have any evidence to back it up--I could just tell!"
Greg seemed to pale.
"Ever since, I've offered to give her new friends a once-over, just to make sure they're on the level. She's mishpocheh to me." Myron looked at Callie. "Family." Callie patted his hand. He turned to Greg. "You don't need to be nervous, son. I don't need to know all of your darkest secrets; I don't have final say in anything. There's been more than once I've thought one of her boyfriends a fine and upstanding young man, and things end up not working out for one reason or another. Sometimes I think he's hiding something, and turns out he just has that kind of face."
"It's good to check, though," Callie interjected. "Once he told me to--what did you saw about Derrick?"
"To drop him like the meshugener he is."
"Yes, that. Turns out he had spent time in prison for-"
"He was a shmuck, that's all you need to know. But you," Myron said, pointing at Greg. "You're no shmuck, I can tell. Good profession, good expressions. Good handshake, too, but that's more of a personal preference. Why don't you go on and tell me about yourself."
Myron listened as Greg talked about himself, filing everything he said away in a corner of his head. Callie joined in, and they talked about their first and subsequent dates. Walks in the park, coffee, watching the sunset and sunrise together. Myron nodded through all of it.
"A storybook romance for the ages, it sounds like," he said when they had finished. "Tell me Greg, what are you going to do once we're finished up here?"
Greg glanced at Callie, who gestured to continue. "First it's dinner at Maxime Cibum, a place where not only is sending the wine back acceptable, it's encouraged. After that, we're going to go to an art opening in the city. One of my friends has a piece in it."
"Sounds like a fine time," Myron said. "And what's after that?"
Greg shrugged. "Drinks, perhaps. Maybe a walk."
Myron nodded, lips pressed together approvingly. "You aren't going in those clothes, are you?" He motioned toward the couple's jeans and easy-going shirts. "They sound like fancy places!"
"Maxime Cibum has a dress code," Greg said. "I'm sure a suit coat will be fine."
Before Greg knew what had happened, Myron had him in his small bedroom. Despite his walker, Myron could apparently move with great speed. "Fine doesn't win any young ladies' hearts, son." Myron patted his arm. "Let's take a look. I was fashionable, once, and these things go in circles. I wouldn't be surprised if some of these things are in vogue again. We're almost the same size, but you've got broader shoulders. You have tan slacks?" Greg nodded. "Good, good. Here, see if this fits. Nice sharp blue jacket works well with tan slacks. A bit tight on you, but...there, just keep it unbuttoned. Plenty of ties work with those colors so I'm sure you can find something that looks good."
"Thanks Mr. Rubinstein."
"Oh, go on and call me Myron. I haven't worn that in a while so you should take a lint roller to it, and make sure to lay it out so it doesn't ruffle. You'll look like a million dollars. Bring it back tomorrow."
Callie was waiting for them in the lobby of the retirement home when they emerged. "Ooh, I like it. Very fetching. Didn't I tell you Myron had good taste?"
"He certainly seems to," Greg said. "I promise to bring it back in good condition, Myron. Thank you again."
"Go on then," Myron said. Callie hugged him around the middle, squeezing out a few laughs. "I'll see you tomorrow." He waved goodbye to them as they exited into the sunny late afternoon.
Myron dressed down and settled himself in for a crossword puzzle in the common room, humming to himself. His pen tapped the page of the newspaper in a steady rhythm as he thought to himself. The blank squares in the crossword puzzle seemed to almost fill themselves him as he ruminated on the man Callie had brought to him. Of course, the face-to-face meeting was only the first test. The next would be tomorrow. He could hardly wait until nightfall, when Callie would call after her date was finished with a play-by-play of her experience with Greg. As the crossword completed itself, Myron imagined himself leading investigations during his heyday. Facts, clues, proper procedure. They filled him with vigor, though he could barely lift himself from the chair he sat in without help.
"I'm ready," Myron said, sitting in his bedroom's easy chair with a pad of paper on his knee. "Go ahead."
"He was the perfect gentleman," Callie began, talking to Myron over the phone. "Held my door open, made sure my dress was all the way in, tipped the valet, treated the waitress right, did everything just right at the restaurant. He had ziti and I had braciola. He paid for it all. It really was wonderful."
Myron nodded, writing down everything she said. "He was so charming, too! Smiling the whole time, laughing and joking...I think our waitress was jealous of me!" Callie paused. "Neither of us are very knowledgeable about art, but when we got to the art gallery he seemed to just...pull stuff out of thin air! Like he was suddenly mentioning details of Van Gogh's life that influenced his art, and chiaroscuro, and all this other stuff that I didn't have any idea about."
Myron continued writing as she went on. "I knew he was going to be fine, of course. When I met him at the hospital fundraiser he was handling himself admirably. He wasn't clingy, but he didn't leave me all to my own, either."
Myron waited until she finished. "Sounds like he gets full marks to me," he said. "Anything else?"
"Hmm..." Callie trailed off. "No, I really can't think of anything. Everything went fine. He said he'll stop by tomorrow to drop your coat off. It looked great on him by the way."
"I look forward to it," Myron said, putting the pad of paper into a drawer. "Have a good night dear."
"Come in, come in!" Myron said to Greg before the door had opened fully. "Have a seat, have some coffee! This is Abigail, Abigail, this is Greg, Callie's friend. Let's have a look at the coat--everything looks fine. Now go on, tell me how last night was. How was the restaurant? It sounded like it had some very good food to offer."
"It was fine. I had a ziti dish and she had some thin cuts of meat. It tasted very good."
"Good, good. You treated the staff right? Nothing ends a relationship quicker than seeing how you treat people helping you."
"Of course, of course!" Greg shifted forward on the couch, frowning. "I'd never yell at anyone doing that sort of thing. But, for some reason, I feel like the waitress had a problem with Callie. She was much more focused on me than on her."
Myron nodded, putting on an expression as if it was a mystery to be pondered. "And I couldn't tell you how nervous and awkward I felt at the art show. I barely had anything to say. I don't know anything about art, it just isn't something I'd ever gotten in to. I felt like I was following Callie around the whole night."
Myron, having committed Callie's version of events to memory the night before, tilted his head. "Did she say anything about it?"
Greg shook his head, inspecting the weave in the carpet. "Not a word. Maybe she didn't notice or maybe it didn't bother her." He looked up. "I admit I felt pretty nervous the whole night. My head was practically swimming and I only had one glass of wine."
"You said you had a friend with a painting in the art opening?"
"A drawing, but yes. Selena, a friend from med school. How she manages to work as a nurse and put that much effort into her art is fairly impressive."
"Where was the opening?"
"Oh, uh, a place called...what was it? A place called The Dim Light in a Bright World. One of those minimalistic, sort of pretentious places, which is why I felt so nervous about knowing so little of art. I figured they would be able to spot a phony before he even walked in the door."
"Sometimes they can. But I'm sure they get plenty of people who are looking to impress with a shallow knowledge. You can find those sorts of people any old place. I bet you've gotten them at the hospital." Myron shifted and adjusted his sweater. "I've certainly encountered my share of phonies. But there's an important difference between someone who puts on airs and someone who just wants to fit in. Sometimes people just try to fake it until they can make it! If you kept going to art galleries, eventually you would become a bit of an expert, I think."
"Well, maybe."
"You can trust me on this one, young man. Fake it until you make it. It works in a lot of places."
An hour after dinner, Myron sat in his easy chair and looked over the notes from Callie's call. At first glance, she and Greg went on the same date--first to a fancy Italian restaurant, then to an art show. Dig just the barest breath deeper, and the two's depiction of events had fierce differences.
Greg had said he felt nervous the whole night, while Callie had thought him laid-back and confident. In Callie's version, the waitress was jealous of her, and in Greg's the woman simply ignored her. At the art gallery, Greg blundered his way through conversations, and kept himself attached to Callie's hip. To her, he spoke like an art maven, and seemed to allow her space.
He smoothed the wrinkled skin on his chin. Normally, Myron would ring up Callie and tell her Greg's version of the night, or leave a message if she couldn't reach her phone.
His eyes went to the window. It was a warm spring day, trending up toward summer. He tapped the heels of his feet against the ground, and kicked off his slippers. He stood, and pushed his walker away. The cane in his closet would have to do; he was sure it would suit him. He shucked his sweater and put on a button-down shirt, and packed away his pills just in case. Next, it was a quick visit to the computer lab for a bit of research. "Abigail, I'm heading out," he said to woman working on her knitting. "I have a couple of errands in the city. I have my pills and phone, and I promise to be back by...ten."
The woman shrugged. "Figured I should tell someone so's the nurses don't go meshuggah." Myron jammed on his coppola, opened the front door to the home, and drew in a fresh breath of air.
Forty-five minutes later, breathing the less-fresh air of the city, Myron found himself standing a few blocks from Maxime Cibum. The people edged around him, ignoring him as they ignored everything else. Rush hour was winding down, but here, flanked by skyscrapers and listening to sirens echo through the man-made caverns, Myron felt his energy returning instead of draining away. He hadn't been this far into the city in years.
With the help of his cane he forged through the young professionals and workers, a grin spreading across his face. Should fate align itself to catch someone's eye, he could not but smile and wave, and manage to pass a bit of the energy he had to them; too quickly he found the restaurant, already filling with cars and well-dressed patrons, before him. He had two with which to talk.
Weaving through the parking lot, he spotted the valet service and made his way there. The man working it, wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, gray vest, and positively cooking in the sun, looked up at him with surprise.
"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes, I believe you can. Would you have happened to be working here last night?"
"Why do you ask, sir?"
"My niece." Myron worked to fish Callie's picture out of his pants pocket, having decided 'niece' was a better explanation than either granddaughter or unrelated friend. He showed the picture. "She was here last night, with her boyfriend. I'm afraid she may have lost something while she was here. A bracelet."
"I wasn't, but Michael was."
A few minutes later Michael stood in front of Myron, a young black man with a short moustache. Myron went over the explanation again. "I remember them," Michael said. "I took care of his car."
"She lost a bracelet some time during the night. I thought I'd do her a favor and go looking. Now, it's a gold bracelet, very thin, with a blue detail circling around it." Myron created a fake piece for simplicity. "It's one of her favorites. Perhaps you have a lost and found box?"
"We have one, but it's rarely used. The chance of losing something here is pretty low." Michael waved him along, taking him to a door around the corner.
"But, you remember them? Any particular reason?"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "No, just any other couple." He thought for a moment. "The boyfriend tipped pretty well. Looked like he was trying to impress. It was a little strange, though."
Myron leaned forward, resting on his cane. He tried to look only mildly interested. "Whuzzat?"
"I said it was a little strange. He seemed to want to impress her, but he also kept looking around, and was staring off into space a lot. I mean, I only saw them a little bit, but I noticed it both times. Here's the box. Doesn't look like it's in here."
"No, I don't see it either." Myron made a show of looking into the paltry contents of the lost and found box while mulling over what the valet had said. "Do you think it would be all right if I went inside and asked the staff?"
"I don't think they'd mind. It's...kind of a fancy place, though. People usually need a coat and tie."
"Well, I'm sure they'll make an exception. I'm not there to eat after all!" Myron put his hand out. "Thank you Michael."
"No problem," Michael said, shaking it. He led Myron back to the front, and Myron entered the restaurant, taking in the soft lighting from wall sconces, pleasant aroma of fish and chicken, and the soft murmur of guests and clink of silverware. After waiting for the host to return, Myron stepped up, again explaining the fabricated situation and offering the picture. The host took a long look.
"I recognize her, yes. A bracelet?"
"Thin, and gold, and with blue on it. One of her favorites. My mother, her grandmother, gave it to her."
"So not 'billik,' then?" the host said, smiling.
"Not billik at all!"
"I suppose I could inquire-"
"My niece mentioned a waitress. Perhaps she spotted something?"
"I suppose I could ask-"
"I would have been just the two of them, in a nice romantic spot. Somewhere out of the way, where they can have as much privacy as a place like this can give them."
"There are a number of places-"
"He was wearing a blue jacket with tan slacks. I remember that because he borrowed my jacket, see, I loaned it to him special."
"Sir." The host jumped in when Myron paused. "If you allow me a moment, I will see if any of the waitresses worked here last night."
Myron stared into space, sitting in the waiting area, cane upright between his feet, until the host called him over. "Spritzy remembered serving them. She's on break right now. If you'll follow me..."
The man lent Myron an arm and took him through the dining area. Myron held his head high and stretched his smile from one corner of his face to the other, legs shuffling to keep up with the taller man. Pushing through a door into a small, dingy room, the host allowed him to sit across from a young woman with frizzy, curling brown hair, nearly turning her head into a pyramid shape. "You're...Spritzy? Interesting name, I must say."
"Uh huh. It's a nickname for Speranza."
"Another name I haven't heard. But that's not why I'm here," Myron said, waving his hand. "Do you recognize her?" He offered the picture of Callie.
Spritzy looked close, frowning. She squinted, and tilted her head, and then nodded, hair bobbing around her like an opulent headdress. "I don't remember her that much, but I remember the man she was with. God he was gorgeous."
Myron lifted an eyebrow. The woman continued. "He was so friendly. You'd think it wouldn't be so shocking to have someone be friendly with you but in this business it's so rare. He tipped well, too. He did everything with this sort of...flow, you know?" She didn't wait to see if Myron did, in fact, know. "Like he was in really good control of his entire body." She tapped her chin. "I bet he's a painter. Is he a painter?"
"An anesthesiologist."
"Oh, a doctor! Even better!" Spritzy cast her glazed eyes at the lights in the ceiling for a moment, then realized Myron was still sitting across from her. "Sorry, what did you need to talk about?"
"You see my niece...the woman who accompanied the doctor?...she lost a bracelet sometime last night. I'm on the search for it. It's possible she may have dropped it while dining, and I wondered if you saw anything like it." He gave his description of the bracelet. "It's one of her favorites."
"I don't remember seeing anything like that," Spritzy said. Myron suspected even if the bracelet was real instead of a fabrication the waitress wouldn't have remembered it. "Though I couldn't say for sure."
Spritzy rose from the table and strode around the small room. Myron watched her motions like a chicken making sure the fox didn't get too near. "I cleaned off their table after they left. I'm sure I would have found something like a bracelet if she'd left it behind."
"I'm sure."
"I don't remember anything like it, though. Could it have fallen on the floor?"
Myron thought a second. "Why don't you tell me what you do remember?"
Spritzy gave him a look asking him if he was serious. "I remember a lot of things."
"I mean just from last night, about my niece and the doctor."
"The doctor, yes. Well, he had a blue coat and tan pants, and a white shirt with little gray stripes on it, and a blue-patterned tie that looked good with the coat."
"Lots of ties go well with a blue coat, you know."
"He ordered ziti bucatini, and I remember he was very clean about it. It's kind of a messy dish but he didn't make any mess." Myron considered glancing at his watch, but figured it was the one thing she would notice. "He had a great smile, and I remember him looking me right in the eye any time I'd talk to him. He was very interested in talking to me, and calling me over for things like more water or bread. Do you have his number?"
"I'm afraid I don't." Myron used his cane to push himself up. He had everything of use he was going to get. "I should be on my way, and you had better get back out there." He put out his hand and gave her a smile. Despite her single-track mind, she had helped him. "Thank you for your help Spritzy. Too bad you didn't find it."
"Find what?" Spritzy asked, grasping his fingers with her hand. "Oh, the bracelet! Yes, good luck finding it!"
A minute later he was back in the light as the sun turned the buildings red and orange. Rush hour had abated but the streets were still plenty busy. He had just one more place to check, and already plenty of interesting information to think over. He brought a slip of paper close to his face and adjusted his glasses, inspecting the directions he had written before leaving the home. Clearing his throat, slipping the piece of paper away, he went a few blocks and sat for a bus.
The city was an interesting place to him, someone who was more used to the quiet of the retirement home, punctuated only by coughs and light conversation and Abigail's needles. Here there was people going past in both directions: children leaving high school or college, adults well-dressed or shabby, all colors, all creeds, all kinds, all minds. He was sitting next to a young woman with dusky skin. She had a book open in her hands, but her eyes weren't moving. He leaned toward her an inch.
"What's that you're reading?"
The woman looked up, surprised. She glanced at him, at her book for a moment, then at him again.
"It's called When the Winter Ends." A smile still on his face, Myron asked what it was about. "A family living in Canada who fear Spring because it always brings floods and avalanches."
"It sounds quite dramatic." The woman looked at the open pages in front of her, hesitated, then nodded. "Is it very good?"
"I'm not sure yet," the woman said. "I'm only a little bit in."
"How's this question then: do you like it?" The woman closed the book and shook her head. "and why not? It sounds terribly exciting."
"I suppose it's because I can't really concentrate on it."
"Do you want to finish it?" Myron was aware the question came out of left field for the woman, but waited for her to answer anyway.
"I guess I do." She looked around for a second. "I've always liked reading. I don't have much time for it anymore."
"I suggest you keep trying." The woman looked at him with an upraised eyebrow. "Just a bit of simple advice from an old man, but you'd be surprised how well it can help in a number of situations. If you really want to read it, just keep reading. Eventually, you may end up liking it. Even if you don't you'll reach the end at some point." He shrugged. "It's always worked for me, and look at me now!"
"You're saying if I keep reading this book eventually I'll turn into an old Jewish man?"
Myron looked at her, shocked, then released wheezing laughter, hand on his knee. The woman chuckled along with him. "You're an oytzer," Myron said, scooping away a tear brought on by the laughter. He took a breath.
"Here's my bus," the woman said, as the vehicle rumbled toward them. She put her book away.
"You'll keep reading, will you?" Myron asked.
"Yes, I'll...keep reading." She smiled at him. "Thank you..."
"Eh, Myron. Myron Rubinstein." They shook hands.
"My name's Lucy. Thank you again, Myron."
He held his hand up in a wave as she boarded the bus, and as it pulled away he saw a smile on her face. A few minutes later his bus pulled up and he helped himself on. It took him further downtown, toward a swankier section with concert halls and grills and art shows. The sun had nearly set when he exited the bus and stood upon the sidewalk. He felt good, but he had to admit all the moving about was murder on his back. He could have gone for his walker, but he would have to make do with his cane for the moment. As lights for shops and establishments made their place in the night, he looked around, determining the direction to go. His destination was the said to be pretentious art gallery Callie and Greg had visited. With any luck, after he had finished he would have enough information to piece together what he needed.
It got colder but not unpleasantly so. Myron was glad of his hat. A few blocks later, lit by large street lights and passing dozens of couples making their way from place to place, he found himself at The Dim Light in a Bright World. It was a small brick building with an adjacent parking lot, shared with a restaurant. He made his way in, glad to see his clothes would be no more out of place than at the home. He made a show of inspecting some of the pieces, which often seemed to be no more than just mashes of color swirled about without care--though a few caught his eye, and one or two even appeared striking.
He figured eventually someone in charge would enter into conversation with him, and indeed a man wearing a black sweater and half-moon glasses appeared by his side, joining Myron in appreciating a watercolor. "Interesting brush work, isn't it?" the man asked. "See how the flow changes from wide bristles to skinny as the height grows."
"It makes me feel like I'm looking up at something. Craning my neck back," Myron mentioned.
"An astute observation. Robert Osmund. Do you own much art?"
"Myron, Myron Rubinstein. No, I'm afraid not. Not a lot of space in my retirement home." Robert put on a face, which Myron ignored. "But that's not matter, I'm not really here for art anyway, fine as it is." He brought out the picture of Callie. "I don't suppose you recognize this woman? My niece. She was here last night, and she seems to have lost a bracelet. I've already checked the restaurant she was at. She was here with her boyfriend."
The owner eyed him. "Why couldn't she look for it herself?"
"I'm doing her a favor," Myron protested, allowing a drop more Jewish lilt into his speech than normal. "I can't do a favor for my favorite niece? Just think how happy she'll be if I find it for her!" Robert rolled his eyes; Myron rolled past it. "The bracelet is a thin gold thing with blue around it. Do you remember them at all? As you can see she's very pretty, and her boyfriend was wearing a blue jacket. I know that because he borrowed it from me."
"I get many people in here every day, sir."
Myron glanced around. Aside from an old couple in the corner, he was the only one in the room. "Are you sure you don't recall anything?"
"Well..." The owner put his hand on his forehead. "I think I do remember her. I certainly didn't find anything, but I can check the back. Give me a moment?"
Myron nodded, and the owner disappeared. It gave Myron enough time to think of what to say when the owner returned empty-handed. Thus, when the owner stepped up next to him, a smile on his face and a gold bracelet in his hand, Myron was left temporarily dumbstruck. "I have to say, it's rather lucky." Robert allowed Myron to take it. "Even if she had dropped it here, there's no promise it wouldn't have been snatched up by someone else."
Myron's mind cranked at full speed, coming up with and then discarding responses. He finally settled on: "Well, I'll be a shlimazel!" He turned the bracelet in front of his eyes. "This is it all right. Boy, isn't that lucky!"
"I'm so glad I could help," Robert said, bowing a bit at the waist. "Now if you'll excuse me-"
"Eh, wait a minute please." Myron took a more-direct route. "There's...one other thing I have to ask. My niece, she...well she's worried about her boyfriend. She might think he has it for another girl. I don't want to take up too much of your time, but did he seem like he had his mind somewhere else?"
"I recall a bit of something," the owner said, resting a hand on his chin. "I was running around all over the place last night of course, but I do remember noticing something. Whenever your niece's boyfriend was next to her, he was looking somewhere else, but when they had separated to look at different things he was usually looking in her direction." He shrugged. "That's all I can remember."
Myron thought for a moment, nodding. "It's helpful, it's helpful. Thank you Robert, you've been..." he looked at the bracelet in his hands. "More helpful than I expected, if I can be perfectly honest."
"Of course. It's no problem at all."
On the bus to his last destination, Myron inspected the bracelet. It wasn't exactly as he had pictured it, but it fit the description he gave to a tee. Thin, gold, and with blue specks around the outside, almost like small sapphires. He looked out the window for a moment then returned to it. It was large enough to fit around his wrist, and he imagined it would be too big to stay on Callie's. Still, maybe she could get some use out of it. And if not, there was still someone who had legitimately lost the bracelet. Myron didn't know how likely it was of finding the person, but technology could do a lot of things these days.
The bus ride to his final destination was a longer one than the two before. He spent his time watching the people getting on and off the bus. The passengers were sparse, and as the bus bounced Myron watched with some humor the identical rhythms of the heads in front of him until the bus pulled to a stop outside St. Agatha hospital. The sprawling complex was lit up from all sides, with room lights, outdoor lights, and cars providing illumination from all directions. After Myron stepped off, he readjusted his cap and moved toward the lobby.
It was bright and loud and full of bodies within, so he took a seat and picked up a newspaper until it had cleared out a bit, at which point he went up to the front desk and met the eye of the harried woman behind the desk.
"Can I help you?" she asked, looking him over for injuries.
"I'm not hurt, and I'm not sick," Myron put forth, despite the fact he was rather tired, and couldn't wait to get home. "I'm looking for an an-es-the-si-ologist by the name of Greg, Greg Billings. Know him? Young fella, good smile."
"Is this an emergency?"
"No, no it isn't."
"I can page him, but there's no guarantee he'll be available." She picked up the phone.
"That's quite all right. I have plenty of time." This was technically a lie, it was getting close to the curfew he had applied to himself, but she didn't need to know.
The woman dialed a number and set the receiver back down. A few minutes later it rang again, and the woman looked at Myron. "What's your name, sir?"
"Myron, Myron Rubinstein."
She picked up the phone. "Hello? Yes, Mr. Billings there's a man named Myron Rubinstein here to see you at the front?" She listened. "No, he's by himself. All right, I'll tell him." She hung up. "He'll be down in about ten minutes. You're free to wait here. There's a coffee machine around the corner if you'd like some."
"I would! Thank you very much ma'am."
Ten minutes later Greg came down the hallway leading to the heart of the hospital wearing dark blue scrubs. Myron lifted his empty coffee cup and smiled in greeting.
"Myron, this is a surprise," Greg said. Myron put his cane down and stood up.
"I hope I'm not bothering you. I had something I wanted to discuss."
Greg looked around. "We don't have to do it here. Let's go into the cafeteria. Carrot cake's on me, and we can get you some real coffee instead of whatever that machine puts out."
"After you then, Mr. Big Fancy Doctor," Myron said with a smile on his face.
"I don't know what kind of madman first decided to put raisins in carrot cake," Myron said a few minutes later. "I'm tempted to say Hitler, but only if there aren't any other Jews around." Myron cast a glance over his shoulder. "Looks like I'm safe." He took a bite.
"What was it you wanted to talk about, Myron?" Greg asked, his own cake by his elbow.
"Right. Eh..." Myron took the bracelet out of his pocket. "Here, this is for you to either give to Callie or find the person it actually belongs to." He held the bracelet for Greg, who took it with a crinkled face. "It's a long story. If you want my advice I don't think she'd like it that much."
Greg continued to stare at the bracelet, confused, as Myron went on.
"There's something I want to ask you. As a friend. You know Callie's very dear to me, and I don't want to see her get hurt. So I'm asking you this question and giving you the knowledge you can be entirely truthful. I won't get angry. Disappointed, maybe, but you aren't my child so I can't tell you what to do. Now: Are you seeing another woman on the side?"
"What?" Greg asked, rocking his head back. "Where did this come from?"
"Call it an old man's intuition. An old man who was a military investigator for some twenty-odd years. I notice you didn't answer the question."
"I...no, of course not. Cross my heart and hope to die. Why would you think something like that? Did Callie ask?"
"No, Callie has nothing to do with this. Well, that's not true I suppose, but she has no hand in my coming here. I thought it because I got the feeling something else was on your mind. Occupying the thoughts that should have been about Callie."
Greg glared at the tabletop between them, eyebrows pushed together. He relaxed, and the indignant expression became one of trepidation. He pulled his carrot cake toward him and dug in, polishing it off in under a minute. Myron watched with surprise. When Greg finished, he pushed the empty plate away. "I don't love Callie."
"Eh?"
"I don't love Callie. She's wonderful. She's kind, she's gracious, she's beautiful. I don't love her."
Myron narrowed his eyes. "The reason I've been thinking about other stuff, as you put it, is because I'm trying to figure out where the relationship will go. I'm trying to imagine if she loves me, or if she feels the same way I do."
"Hold on just a minute. You've been seeing each other what, a month?"
"About."
"What, you think love is just something you find lying on the ground, wrapped up with a little bow?" Myron shook his head. "I knew my wife for three years before we even dated. And I know things have changed in the world and in men and women and in relationships and marriage since then, but we weren't in love when we started dating either. We weren't in love for maybe a year. You think a little sign pops up in front of you and tells you you're in love with a person?"
"It isn't right to waste her time."
"Waste her time with what? She likes you! She may not be in love with you, but I think she'd rather spend time with you than without! If she enjoys being with you, her time isn't being wasted."
"So you'd have me just...continue with a deception until she figures it out?"
"Oy, no! You, with this cockamamie stuff!" Myron waved his hands in the air. "You gotta think on it. A month isn't enough time to be in love with someone, even though they say sometimes love comes with just a glance! I'm gonna get real sappy on you and say this: the slow tree grows the tallest."
Greg, across from Myron, appeared to have become younger as the older man talked. Instead of the competent anesthesiologist, his face betrayed him as a teen hesitant to ask a girl to prom.
"I'm-I'm no expert," Myron said. "If I was, I wouldn't be in a retirement home, I'd be on Maui in my mansion. But I know you can't be too hasty with this." He pushed the bracelet toward Greg. "Here. It's yours to do what you will. We should keep this between us for the time being." Myron stood. "If you'll excuse me, my easy chair misses me. At the very least, I'm glad to know you're aren't a fonfer."
"Go on in, he's comfortable right now."
"Thank you," Callie said. She looked at Greg. "Can you hold him?"
From his bed, Myron watched the door open again. Callie's head, older and more mature, peeked inside, and gave him her brilliant smile.
"Hi Myron. How do you feel?"
"Like my insides have been all kicked up." Myron had trouble focusing as she came closer.
"We have someone we'd like you to meet," she whispered. Greg, standing behind her, offered the bundle he held. "This is Myron."
Though his face felt heavy and dull, a smile grew. The old man, tired from his unsuccessful surgery, took his namesake in stiff arms. "Myron," he said. He looked at the little child's closed eyes. "Mechayeh," he said. Looking at the couple, he handed the baby back, and whispered "mazel tov." He felt Callie's lips press against his head, and felt Greg grip his hand, just as he had the first time they met.
Myron Rubinstein teased the bow tie lying under his drooping neck. "Callie is coming to show off her new friend. I want to make a good first impression."
"You want to make a good first impression on him?" Abigail laughed.
"How's he gonna know to respect me if I don't dress respectful myself?" Myron straightened his coat and smoothed his near-extinct hair over his liver-spotted scalp. The mirror in the hall of the retirement home showed him a well-aged Jewish gentleman who, despite needing a walker to get around with any safety, still had plenty of pop left in his hips. He let out a small sigh, sometimes wishing to see the young man with war medals on his chest and a full head of hair when he looked in the mirror. He shook the apparition away and took his seat on the couch, relaxing until he heard Callie's car pull into a parking spot.
Soon he was seated at one of the dining tables across from the young woman and a man she had introduced as Greg Billings, after getting a kiss on the head from Callie. The man had an impressive smile, and an enviable handshake and, most importantly, Myron could tell he wasn't looking to intimidate.
"Greg works as an anesthesiologist at St. Agatha hospital," Callie explained. She flashed the man a brilliant grin, the kind that looks lit with fluorescent bulbs. "We met during a fundraiser."
"I managed not to put her to sleep long enough to ask her out," Greg said. Myron wheezed out laughter. "How do you two know each other, again?"
Callie opened her mouth, but Myron jumped in instead. "Well, my wife was fortunate enough to spend her last few hours at St. Agatha's. That was a few years ago, and it's a smidge lonely here. Callie was dear enough to come and visit with some of us old chimneys every few weeks back then. You know-" Myron waved his hand "-checkers and reading to those without eyesight. We came to be good friends." Callie smiled. "At the time, she'd been seeing a man with a bit of a mysterious side. Whawasit? Mitch." Myron cleared his throat. "I may not look it, but I used to be in the army. I was part of the CID--that's Criminal Investigation Command--and I was in charge of a good number of crime scenes. Spent time over in Vietnam, making sure things stayed clean, even in that tsuris. Not an easy job, but I like to think I did my best."
"You must have some stories."
"Oh do I. Anyway, I'd been out of the army for some time but I'm still sharp as a tack, so I had her bring him around so I could apply a little bit of pressure. Turns out he was seeing someone else on the side!" Myron made a gesture. "Feh! Well I told her straight away, even though I didn't have any evidence to back it up--I could just tell!"
Greg seemed to pale.
"Ever since, I've offered to give her new friends a once-over, just to make sure they're on the level. She's mishpocheh to me." Myron looked at Callie. "Family." Callie patted his hand. He turned to Greg. "You don't need to be nervous, son. I don't need to know all of your darkest secrets; I don't have final say in anything. There's been more than once I've thought one of her boyfriends a fine and upstanding young man, and things end up not working out for one reason or another. Sometimes I think he's hiding something, and turns out he just has that kind of face."
"It's good to check, though," Callie interjected. "Once he told me to--what did you saw about Derrick?"
"To drop him like the meshugener he is."
"Yes, that. Turns out he had spent time in prison for-"
"He was a shmuck, that's all you need to know. But you," Myron said, pointing at Greg. "You're no shmuck, I can tell. Good profession, good expressions. Good handshake, too, but that's more of a personal preference. Why don't you go on and tell me about yourself."
Myron listened as Greg talked about himself, filing everything he said away in a corner of his head. Callie joined in, and they talked about their first and subsequent dates. Walks in the park, coffee, watching the sunset and sunrise together. Myron nodded through all of it.
"A storybook romance for the ages, it sounds like," he said when they had finished. "Tell me Greg, what are you going to do once we're finished up here?"
Greg glanced at Callie, who gestured to continue. "First it's dinner at Maxime Cibum, a place where not only is sending the wine back acceptable, it's encouraged. After that, we're going to go to an art opening in the city. One of my friends has a piece in it."
"Sounds like a fine time," Myron said. "And what's after that?"
Greg shrugged. "Drinks, perhaps. Maybe a walk."
Myron nodded, lips pressed together approvingly. "You aren't going in those clothes, are you?" He motioned toward the couple's jeans and easy-going shirts. "They sound like fancy places!"
"Maxime Cibum has a dress code," Greg said. "I'm sure a suit coat will be fine."
Before Greg knew what had happened, Myron had him in his small bedroom. Despite his walker, Myron could apparently move with great speed. "Fine doesn't win any young ladies' hearts, son." Myron patted his arm. "Let's take a look. I was fashionable, once, and these things go in circles. I wouldn't be surprised if some of these things are in vogue again. We're almost the same size, but you've got broader shoulders. You have tan slacks?" Greg nodded. "Good, good. Here, see if this fits. Nice sharp blue jacket works well with tan slacks. A bit tight on you, but...there, just keep it unbuttoned. Plenty of ties work with those colors so I'm sure you can find something that looks good."
"Thanks Mr. Rubinstein."
"Oh, go on and call me Myron. I haven't worn that in a while so you should take a lint roller to it, and make sure to lay it out so it doesn't ruffle. You'll look like a million dollars. Bring it back tomorrow."
Callie was waiting for them in the lobby of the retirement home when they emerged. "Ooh, I like it. Very fetching. Didn't I tell you Myron had good taste?"
"He certainly seems to," Greg said. "I promise to bring it back in good condition, Myron. Thank you again."
"Go on then," Myron said. Callie hugged him around the middle, squeezing out a few laughs. "I'll see you tomorrow." He waved goodbye to them as they exited into the sunny late afternoon.
Myron dressed down and settled himself in for a crossword puzzle in the common room, humming to himself. His pen tapped the page of the newspaper in a steady rhythm as he thought to himself. The blank squares in the crossword puzzle seemed to almost fill themselves him as he ruminated on the man Callie had brought to him. Of course, the face-to-face meeting was only the first test. The next would be tomorrow. He could hardly wait until nightfall, when Callie would call after her date was finished with a play-by-play of her experience with Greg. As the crossword completed itself, Myron imagined himself leading investigations during his heyday. Facts, clues, proper procedure. They filled him with vigor, though he could barely lift himself from the chair he sat in without help.
"I'm ready," Myron said, sitting in his bedroom's easy chair with a pad of paper on his knee. "Go ahead."
"He was the perfect gentleman," Callie began, talking to Myron over the phone. "Held my door open, made sure my dress was all the way in, tipped the valet, treated the waitress right, did everything just right at the restaurant. He had ziti and I had braciola. He paid for it all. It really was wonderful."
Myron nodded, writing down everything she said. "He was so charming, too! Smiling the whole time, laughing and joking...I think our waitress was jealous of me!" Callie paused. "Neither of us are very knowledgeable about art, but when we got to the art gallery he seemed to just...pull stuff out of thin air! Like he was suddenly mentioning details of Van Gogh's life that influenced his art, and chiaroscuro, and all this other stuff that I didn't have any idea about."
Myron continued writing as she went on. "I knew he was going to be fine, of course. When I met him at the hospital fundraiser he was handling himself admirably. He wasn't clingy, but he didn't leave me all to my own, either."
Myron waited until she finished. "Sounds like he gets full marks to me," he said. "Anything else?"
"Hmm..." Callie trailed off. "No, I really can't think of anything. Everything went fine. He said he'll stop by tomorrow to drop your coat off. It looked great on him by the way."
"I look forward to it," Myron said, putting the pad of paper into a drawer. "Have a good night dear."
"Come in, come in!" Myron said to Greg before the door had opened fully. "Have a seat, have some coffee! This is Abigail, Abigail, this is Greg, Callie's friend. Let's have a look at the coat--everything looks fine. Now go on, tell me how last night was. How was the restaurant? It sounded like it had some very good food to offer."
"It was fine. I had a ziti dish and she had some thin cuts of meat. It tasted very good."
"Good, good. You treated the staff right? Nothing ends a relationship quicker than seeing how you treat people helping you."
"Of course, of course!" Greg shifted forward on the couch, frowning. "I'd never yell at anyone doing that sort of thing. But, for some reason, I feel like the waitress had a problem with Callie. She was much more focused on me than on her."
Myron nodded, putting on an expression as if it was a mystery to be pondered. "And I couldn't tell you how nervous and awkward I felt at the art show. I barely had anything to say. I don't know anything about art, it just isn't something I'd ever gotten in to. I felt like I was following Callie around the whole night."
Myron, having committed Callie's version of events to memory the night before, tilted his head. "Did she say anything about it?"
Greg shook his head, inspecting the weave in the carpet. "Not a word. Maybe she didn't notice or maybe it didn't bother her." He looked up. "I admit I felt pretty nervous the whole night. My head was practically swimming and I only had one glass of wine."
"You said you had a friend with a painting in the art opening?"
"A drawing, but yes. Selena, a friend from med school. How she manages to work as a nurse and put that much effort into her art is fairly impressive."
"Where was the opening?"
"Oh, uh, a place called...what was it? A place called The Dim Light in a Bright World. One of those minimalistic, sort of pretentious places, which is why I felt so nervous about knowing so little of art. I figured they would be able to spot a phony before he even walked in the door."
"Sometimes they can. But I'm sure they get plenty of people who are looking to impress with a shallow knowledge. You can find those sorts of people any old place. I bet you've gotten them at the hospital." Myron shifted and adjusted his sweater. "I've certainly encountered my share of phonies. But there's an important difference between someone who puts on airs and someone who just wants to fit in. Sometimes people just try to fake it until they can make it! If you kept going to art galleries, eventually you would become a bit of an expert, I think."
"Well, maybe."
"You can trust me on this one, young man. Fake it until you make it. It works in a lot of places."
An hour after dinner, Myron sat in his easy chair and looked over the notes from Callie's call. At first glance, she and Greg went on the same date--first to a fancy Italian restaurant, then to an art show. Dig just the barest breath deeper, and the two's depiction of events had fierce differences.
Greg had said he felt nervous the whole night, while Callie had thought him laid-back and confident. In Callie's version, the waitress was jealous of her, and in Greg's the woman simply ignored her. At the art gallery, Greg blundered his way through conversations, and kept himself attached to Callie's hip. To her, he spoke like an art maven, and seemed to allow her space.
He smoothed the wrinkled skin on his chin. Normally, Myron would ring up Callie and tell her Greg's version of the night, or leave a message if she couldn't reach her phone.
His eyes went to the window. It was a warm spring day, trending up toward summer. He tapped the heels of his feet against the ground, and kicked off his slippers. He stood, and pushed his walker away. The cane in his closet would have to do; he was sure it would suit him. He shucked his sweater and put on a button-down shirt, and packed away his pills just in case. Next, it was a quick visit to the computer lab for a bit of research. "Abigail, I'm heading out," he said to woman working on her knitting. "I have a couple of errands in the city. I have my pills and phone, and I promise to be back by...ten."
The woman shrugged. "Figured I should tell someone so's the nurses don't go meshuggah." Myron jammed on his coppola, opened the front door to the home, and drew in a fresh breath of air.
Forty-five minutes later, breathing the less-fresh air of the city, Myron found himself standing a few blocks from Maxime Cibum. The people edged around him, ignoring him as they ignored everything else. Rush hour was winding down, but here, flanked by skyscrapers and listening to sirens echo through the man-made caverns, Myron felt his energy returning instead of draining away. He hadn't been this far into the city in years.
With the help of his cane he forged through the young professionals and workers, a grin spreading across his face. Should fate align itself to catch someone's eye, he could not but smile and wave, and manage to pass a bit of the energy he had to them; too quickly he found the restaurant, already filling with cars and well-dressed patrons, before him. He had two with which to talk.
Weaving through the parking lot, he spotted the valet service and made his way there. The man working it, wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, gray vest, and positively cooking in the sun, looked up at him with surprise.
"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes, I believe you can. Would you have happened to be working here last night?"
"Why do you ask, sir?"
"My niece." Myron worked to fish Callie's picture out of his pants pocket, having decided 'niece' was a better explanation than either granddaughter or unrelated friend. He showed the picture. "She was here last night, with her boyfriend. I'm afraid she may have lost something while she was here. A bracelet."
"I wasn't, but Michael was."
A few minutes later Michael stood in front of Myron, a young black man with a short moustache. Myron went over the explanation again. "I remember them," Michael said. "I took care of his car."
"She lost a bracelet some time during the night. I thought I'd do her a favor and go looking. Now, it's a gold bracelet, very thin, with a blue detail circling around it." Myron created a fake piece for simplicity. "It's one of her favorites. Perhaps you have a lost and found box?"
"We have one, but it's rarely used. The chance of losing something here is pretty low." Michael waved him along, taking him to a door around the corner.
"But, you remember them? Any particular reason?"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "No, just any other couple." He thought for a moment. "The boyfriend tipped pretty well. Looked like he was trying to impress. It was a little strange, though."
Myron leaned forward, resting on his cane. He tried to look only mildly interested. "Whuzzat?"
"I said it was a little strange. He seemed to want to impress her, but he also kept looking around, and was staring off into space a lot. I mean, I only saw them a little bit, but I noticed it both times. Here's the box. Doesn't look like it's in here."
"No, I don't see it either." Myron made a show of looking into the paltry contents of the lost and found box while mulling over what the valet had said. "Do you think it would be all right if I went inside and asked the staff?"
"I don't think they'd mind. It's...kind of a fancy place, though. People usually need a coat and tie."
"Well, I'm sure they'll make an exception. I'm not there to eat after all!" Myron put his hand out. "Thank you Michael."
"No problem," Michael said, shaking it. He led Myron back to the front, and Myron entered the restaurant, taking in the soft lighting from wall sconces, pleasant aroma of fish and chicken, and the soft murmur of guests and clink of silverware. After waiting for the host to return, Myron stepped up, again explaining the fabricated situation and offering the picture. The host took a long look.
"I recognize her, yes. A bracelet?"
"Thin, and gold, and with blue on it. One of her favorites. My mother, her grandmother, gave it to her."
"So not 'billik,' then?" the host said, smiling.
"Not billik at all!"
"I suppose I could inquire-"
"My niece mentioned a waitress. Perhaps she spotted something?"
"I suppose I could ask-"
"I would have been just the two of them, in a nice romantic spot. Somewhere out of the way, where they can have as much privacy as a place like this can give them."
"There are a number of places-"
"He was wearing a blue jacket with tan slacks. I remember that because he borrowed my jacket, see, I loaned it to him special."
"Sir." The host jumped in when Myron paused. "If you allow me a moment, I will see if any of the waitresses worked here last night."
Myron stared into space, sitting in the waiting area, cane upright between his feet, until the host called him over. "Spritzy remembered serving them. She's on break right now. If you'll follow me..."
The man lent Myron an arm and took him through the dining area. Myron held his head high and stretched his smile from one corner of his face to the other, legs shuffling to keep up with the taller man. Pushing through a door into a small, dingy room, the host allowed him to sit across from a young woman with frizzy, curling brown hair, nearly turning her head into a pyramid shape. "You're...Spritzy? Interesting name, I must say."
"Uh huh. It's a nickname for Speranza."
"Another name I haven't heard. But that's not why I'm here," Myron said, waving his hand. "Do you recognize her?" He offered the picture of Callie.
Spritzy looked close, frowning. She squinted, and tilted her head, and then nodded, hair bobbing around her like an opulent headdress. "I don't remember her that much, but I remember the man she was with. God he was gorgeous."
Myron lifted an eyebrow. The woman continued. "He was so friendly. You'd think it wouldn't be so shocking to have someone be friendly with you but in this business it's so rare. He tipped well, too. He did everything with this sort of...flow, you know?" She didn't wait to see if Myron did, in fact, know. "Like he was in really good control of his entire body." She tapped her chin. "I bet he's a painter. Is he a painter?"
"An anesthesiologist."
"Oh, a doctor! Even better!" Spritzy cast her glazed eyes at the lights in the ceiling for a moment, then realized Myron was still sitting across from her. "Sorry, what did you need to talk about?"
"You see my niece...the woman who accompanied the doctor?...she lost a bracelet sometime last night. I'm on the search for it. It's possible she may have dropped it while dining, and I wondered if you saw anything like it." He gave his description of the bracelet. "It's one of her favorites."
"I don't remember seeing anything like that," Spritzy said. Myron suspected even if the bracelet was real instead of a fabrication the waitress wouldn't have remembered it. "Though I couldn't say for sure."
Spritzy rose from the table and strode around the small room. Myron watched her motions like a chicken making sure the fox didn't get too near. "I cleaned off their table after they left. I'm sure I would have found something like a bracelet if she'd left it behind."
"I'm sure."
"I don't remember anything like it, though. Could it have fallen on the floor?"
Myron thought a second. "Why don't you tell me what you do remember?"
Spritzy gave him a look asking him if he was serious. "I remember a lot of things."
"I mean just from last night, about my niece and the doctor."
"The doctor, yes. Well, he had a blue coat and tan pants, and a white shirt with little gray stripes on it, and a blue-patterned tie that looked good with the coat."
"Lots of ties go well with a blue coat, you know."
"He ordered ziti bucatini, and I remember he was very clean about it. It's kind of a messy dish but he didn't make any mess." Myron considered glancing at his watch, but figured it was the one thing she would notice. "He had a great smile, and I remember him looking me right in the eye any time I'd talk to him. He was very interested in talking to me, and calling me over for things like more water or bread. Do you have his number?"
"I'm afraid I don't." Myron used his cane to push himself up. He had everything of use he was going to get. "I should be on my way, and you had better get back out there." He put out his hand and gave her a smile. Despite her single-track mind, she had helped him. "Thank you for your help Spritzy. Too bad you didn't find it."
"Find what?" Spritzy asked, grasping his fingers with her hand. "Oh, the bracelet! Yes, good luck finding it!"
A minute later he was back in the light as the sun turned the buildings red and orange. Rush hour had abated but the streets were still plenty busy. He had just one more place to check, and already plenty of interesting information to think over. He brought a slip of paper close to his face and adjusted his glasses, inspecting the directions he had written before leaving the home. Clearing his throat, slipping the piece of paper away, he went a few blocks and sat for a bus.
The city was an interesting place to him, someone who was more used to the quiet of the retirement home, punctuated only by coughs and light conversation and Abigail's needles. Here there was people going past in both directions: children leaving high school or college, adults well-dressed or shabby, all colors, all creeds, all kinds, all minds. He was sitting next to a young woman with dusky skin. She had a book open in her hands, but her eyes weren't moving. He leaned toward her an inch.
"What's that you're reading?"
The woman looked up, surprised. She glanced at him, at her book for a moment, then at him again.
"It's called When the Winter Ends." A smile still on his face, Myron asked what it was about. "A family living in Canada who fear Spring because it always brings floods and avalanches."
"It sounds quite dramatic." The woman looked at the open pages in front of her, hesitated, then nodded. "Is it very good?"
"I'm not sure yet," the woman said. "I'm only a little bit in."
"How's this question then: do you like it?" The woman closed the book and shook her head. "and why not? It sounds terribly exciting."
"I suppose it's because I can't really concentrate on it."
"Do you want to finish it?" Myron was aware the question came out of left field for the woman, but waited for her to answer anyway.
"I guess I do." She looked around for a second. "I've always liked reading. I don't have much time for it anymore."
"I suggest you keep trying." The woman looked at him with an upraised eyebrow. "Just a bit of simple advice from an old man, but you'd be surprised how well it can help in a number of situations. If you really want to read it, just keep reading. Eventually, you may end up liking it. Even if you don't you'll reach the end at some point." He shrugged. "It's always worked for me, and look at me now!"
"You're saying if I keep reading this book eventually I'll turn into an old Jewish man?"
Myron looked at her, shocked, then released wheezing laughter, hand on his knee. The woman chuckled along with him. "You're an oytzer," Myron said, scooping away a tear brought on by the laughter. He took a breath.
"Here's my bus," the woman said, as the vehicle rumbled toward them. She put her book away.
"You'll keep reading, will you?" Myron asked.
"Yes, I'll...keep reading." She smiled at him. "Thank you..."
"Eh, Myron. Myron Rubinstein." They shook hands.
"My name's Lucy. Thank you again, Myron."
He held his hand up in a wave as she boarded the bus, and as it pulled away he saw a smile on her face. A few minutes later his bus pulled up and he helped himself on. It took him further downtown, toward a swankier section with concert halls and grills and art shows. The sun had nearly set when he exited the bus and stood upon the sidewalk. He felt good, but he had to admit all the moving about was murder on his back. He could have gone for his walker, but he would have to make do with his cane for the moment. As lights for shops and establishments made their place in the night, he looked around, determining the direction to go. His destination was the said to be pretentious art gallery Callie and Greg had visited. With any luck, after he had finished he would have enough information to piece together what he needed.
It got colder but not unpleasantly so. Myron was glad of his hat. A few blocks later, lit by large street lights and passing dozens of couples making their way from place to place, he found himself at The Dim Light in a Bright World. It was a small brick building with an adjacent parking lot, shared with a restaurant. He made his way in, glad to see his clothes would be no more out of place than at the home. He made a show of inspecting some of the pieces, which often seemed to be no more than just mashes of color swirled about without care--though a few caught his eye, and one or two even appeared striking.
He figured eventually someone in charge would enter into conversation with him, and indeed a man wearing a black sweater and half-moon glasses appeared by his side, joining Myron in appreciating a watercolor. "Interesting brush work, isn't it?" the man asked. "See how the flow changes from wide bristles to skinny as the height grows."
"It makes me feel like I'm looking up at something. Craning my neck back," Myron mentioned.
"An astute observation. Robert Osmund. Do you own much art?"
"Myron, Myron Rubinstein. No, I'm afraid not. Not a lot of space in my retirement home." Robert put on a face, which Myron ignored. "But that's not matter, I'm not really here for art anyway, fine as it is." He brought out the picture of Callie. "I don't suppose you recognize this woman? My niece. She was here last night, and she seems to have lost a bracelet. I've already checked the restaurant she was at. She was here with her boyfriend."
The owner eyed him. "Why couldn't she look for it herself?"
"I'm doing her a favor," Myron protested, allowing a drop more Jewish lilt into his speech than normal. "I can't do a favor for my favorite niece? Just think how happy she'll be if I find it for her!" Robert rolled his eyes; Myron rolled past it. "The bracelet is a thin gold thing with blue around it. Do you remember them at all? As you can see she's very pretty, and her boyfriend was wearing a blue jacket. I know that because he borrowed it from me."
"I get many people in here every day, sir."
Myron glanced around. Aside from an old couple in the corner, he was the only one in the room. "Are you sure you don't recall anything?"
"Well..." The owner put his hand on his forehead. "I think I do remember her. I certainly didn't find anything, but I can check the back. Give me a moment?"
Myron nodded, and the owner disappeared. It gave Myron enough time to think of what to say when the owner returned empty-handed. Thus, when the owner stepped up next to him, a smile on his face and a gold bracelet in his hand, Myron was left temporarily dumbstruck. "I have to say, it's rather lucky." Robert allowed Myron to take it. "Even if she had dropped it here, there's no promise it wouldn't have been snatched up by someone else."
Myron's mind cranked at full speed, coming up with and then discarding responses. He finally settled on: "Well, I'll be a shlimazel!" He turned the bracelet in front of his eyes. "This is it all right. Boy, isn't that lucky!"
"I'm so glad I could help," Robert said, bowing a bit at the waist. "Now if you'll excuse me-"
"Eh, wait a minute please." Myron took a more-direct route. "There's...one other thing I have to ask. My niece, she...well she's worried about her boyfriend. She might think he has it for another girl. I don't want to take up too much of your time, but did he seem like he had his mind somewhere else?"
"I recall a bit of something," the owner said, resting a hand on his chin. "I was running around all over the place last night of course, but I do remember noticing something. Whenever your niece's boyfriend was next to her, he was looking somewhere else, but when they had separated to look at different things he was usually looking in her direction." He shrugged. "That's all I can remember."
Myron thought for a moment, nodding. "It's helpful, it's helpful. Thank you Robert, you've been..." he looked at the bracelet in his hands. "More helpful than I expected, if I can be perfectly honest."
"Of course. It's no problem at all."
On the bus to his last destination, Myron inspected the bracelet. It wasn't exactly as he had pictured it, but it fit the description he gave to a tee. Thin, gold, and with blue specks around the outside, almost like small sapphires. He looked out the window for a moment then returned to it. It was large enough to fit around his wrist, and he imagined it would be too big to stay on Callie's. Still, maybe she could get some use out of it. And if not, there was still someone who had legitimately lost the bracelet. Myron didn't know how likely it was of finding the person, but technology could do a lot of things these days.
The bus ride to his final destination was a longer one than the two before. He spent his time watching the people getting on and off the bus. The passengers were sparse, and as the bus bounced Myron watched with some humor the identical rhythms of the heads in front of him until the bus pulled to a stop outside St. Agatha hospital. The sprawling complex was lit up from all sides, with room lights, outdoor lights, and cars providing illumination from all directions. After Myron stepped off, he readjusted his cap and moved toward the lobby.
It was bright and loud and full of bodies within, so he took a seat and picked up a newspaper until it had cleared out a bit, at which point he went up to the front desk and met the eye of the harried woman behind the desk.
"Can I help you?" she asked, looking him over for injuries.
"I'm not hurt, and I'm not sick," Myron put forth, despite the fact he was rather tired, and couldn't wait to get home. "I'm looking for an an-es-the-si-ologist by the name of Greg, Greg Billings. Know him? Young fella, good smile."
"Is this an emergency?"
"No, no it isn't."
"I can page him, but there's no guarantee he'll be available." She picked up the phone.
"That's quite all right. I have plenty of time." This was technically a lie, it was getting close to the curfew he had applied to himself, but she didn't need to know.
The woman dialed a number and set the receiver back down. A few minutes later it rang again, and the woman looked at Myron. "What's your name, sir?"
"Myron, Myron Rubinstein."
She picked up the phone. "Hello? Yes, Mr. Billings there's a man named Myron Rubinstein here to see you at the front?" She listened. "No, he's by himself. All right, I'll tell him." She hung up. "He'll be down in about ten minutes. You're free to wait here. There's a coffee machine around the corner if you'd like some."
"I would! Thank you very much ma'am."
Ten minutes later Greg came down the hallway leading to the heart of the hospital wearing dark blue scrubs. Myron lifted his empty coffee cup and smiled in greeting.
"Myron, this is a surprise," Greg said. Myron put his cane down and stood up.
"I hope I'm not bothering you. I had something I wanted to discuss."
Greg looked around. "We don't have to do it here. Let's go into the cafeteria. Carrot cake's on me, and we can get you some real coffee instead of whatever that machine puts out."
"After you then, Mr. Big Fancy Doctor," Myron said with a smile on his face.
"I don't know what kind of madman first decided to put raisins in carrot cake," Myron said a few minutes later. "I'm tempted to say Hitler, but only if there aren't any other Jews around." Myron cast a glance over his shoulder. "Looks like I'm safe." He took a bite.
"What was it you wanted to talk about, Myron?" Greg asked, his own cake by his elbow.
"Right. Eh..." Myron took the bracelet out of his pocket. "Here, this is for you to either give to Callie or find the person it actually belongs to." He held the bracelet for Greg, who took it with a crinkled face. "It's a long story. If you want my advice I don't think she'd like it that much."
Greg continued to stare at the bracelet, confused, as Myron went on.
"There's something I want to ask you. As a friend. You know Callie's very dear to me, and I don't want to see her get hurt. So I'm asking you this question and giving you the knowledge you can be entirely truthful. I won't get angry. Disappointed, maybe, but you aren't my child so I can't tell you what to do. Now: Are you seeing another woman on the side?"
"What?" Greg asked, rocking his head back. "Where did this come from?"
"Call it an old man's intuition. An old man who was a military investigator for some twenty-odd years. I notice you didn't answer the question."
"I...no, of course not. Cross my heart and hope to die. Why would you think something like that? Did Callie ask?"
"No, Callie has nothing to do with this. Well, that's not true I suppose, but she has no hand in my coming here. I thought it because I got the feeling something else was on your mind. Occupying the thoughts that should have been about Callie."
Greg glared at the tabletop between them, eyebrows pushed together. He relaxed, and the indignant expression became one of trepidation. He pulled his carrot cake toward him and dug in, polishing it off in under a minute. Myron watched with surprise. When Greg finished, he pushed the empty plate away. "I don't love Callie."
"Eh?"
"I don't love Callie. She's wonderful. She's kind, she's gracious, she's beautiful. I don't love her."
Myron narrowed his eyes. "The reason I've been thinking about other stuff, as you put it, is because I'm trying to figure out where the relationship will go. I'm trying to imagine if she loves me, or if she feels the same way I do."
"Hold on just a minute. You've been seeing each other what, a month?"
"About."
"What, you think love is just something you find lying on the ground, wrapped up with a little bow?" Myron shook his head. "I knew my wife for three years before we even dated. And I know things have changed in the world and in men and women and in relationships and marriage since then, but we weren't in love when we started dating either. We weren't in love for maybe a year. You think a little sign pops up in front of you and tells you you're in love with a person?"
"It isn't right to waste her time."
"Waste her time with what? She likes you! She may not be in love with you, but I think she'd rather spend time with you than without! If she enjoys being with you, her time isn't being wasted."
"So you'd have me just...continue with a deception until she figures it out?"
"Oy, no! You, with this cockamamie stuff!" Myron waved his hands in the air. "You gotta think on it. A month isn't enough time to be in love with someone, even though they say sometimes love comes with just a glance! I'm gonna get real sappy on you and say this: the slow tree grows the tallest."
Greg, across from Myron, appeared to have become younger as the older man talked. Instead of the competent anesthesiologist, his face betrayed him as a teen hesitant to ask a girl to prom.
"I'm-I'm no expert," Myron said. "If I was, I wouldn't be in a retirement home, I'd be on Maui in my mansion. But I know you can't be too hasty with this." He pushed the bracelet toward Greg. "Here. It's yours to do what you will. We should keep this between us for the time being." Myron stood. "If you'll excuse me, my easy chair misses me. At the very least, I'm glad to know you're aren't a fonfer."
"Go on in, he's comfortable right now."
"Thank you," Callie said. She looked at Greg. "Can you hold him?"
From his bed, Myron watched the door open again. Callie's head, older and more mature, peeked inside, and gave him her brilliant smile.
"Hi Myron. How do you feel?"
"Like my insides have been all kicked up." Myron had trouble focusing as she came closer.
"We have someone we'd like you to meet," she whispered. Greg, standing behind her, offered the bundle he held. "This is Myron."
Though his face felt heavy and dull, a smile grew. The old man, tired from his unsuccessful surgery, took his namesake in stiff arms. "Myron," he said. He looked at the little child's closed eyes. "Mechayeh," he said. Looking at the couple, he handed the baby back, and whispered "mazel tov." He felt Callie's lips press against his head, and felt Greg grip his hand, just as he had the first time they met.