Doyle

by Irving A. Greenfield

Doyle’s mother, Bridget, insisted on his given name, Peter, in the hope that he would one day honor his namesake, her, and the rest of the family by becoming a priest. But Pete, as he was called by family members and friends alike, took it into his head to become a Marine; and a day after his eighteenth birthday, on January seventh, he went to the recruitment center on Times Square and enlisted for a four-year hitch. To his mother’s disappointment, the priesthood for her only begotten son was put on hold.
Three years later, Peter came home with a medical discharge, pieces of shrapnel in his legs and back, and dark memories of the things he had experienced in the jungles of Vietnam. Gone was his former exuberance; gone was Peter. He was now Doyle, the name he was known by in his platoon; only then it had been Sergeant Doyle. 

And now forty years later, he sat in La Bagel – a Glatt Kosher restaurant on First Avenue between Fifteenth and Sixteenth streets – thinking about retiring when he reached his sixtieth year. After more than thirty-five years on the police force, he’d retire with a good pension.

His sons were grown with children of their own. There would be no need for him to work again. He and his wife, Mary, would be free to travel and to spend more time on the Sea Wind, a forty-foot sloop that slept four and had a well-equipped galley and bathroom. One of the things he definitely planned to do was travel the States; going where he pleased when he pleased. He’d visit with his old buddies – all of them members of his platoon – if he happened to be in their neighborhood. Doyle smiled; by neighborhood he meant within a hundred miles or so, in any direction from where he would be at the time to where the man lived. He had many friends across the country. Thinking about his friends drew a weary sigh out of him. To push away the past, he looked around.

La Bagel wasn’t much for ambience. One side was entirely given over to the food counter and a place for the cashier. The rest of the store had eight tables and four chairs at each table. There was a counter across the front window and one on the rear wall where customers could sit on stools and eat whatever they bought. The remaining wall was covered by a flaking mural depicted the confluence of two streets, presumably in Paris, where several couples ate al fresco.

Two men were in line at the food counter. One wore a yarmulke; the other, more orthodox, wore the traditional white stockings, long black coat, and wide-brim hat. Seeing them reminded Doyle that he hadn’t done any of his Christmas shopping yet, and Christmas was only two weeks away. But somehow he didn’t feel anything about the Holiday Season; it was drab. Maybe it was because of the war in Iraq.
By looking at his watch, he forced his thoughts away from the gloomy. It was one-thirty. The lunch crowd was beginning to dwindle. More tables were empty, and no one was sitting at the front or rear counter.

Doyle was reluctant to leave and return to duty. He’d have liked to stay where he was and while away the time. “Gathering clouds,” his mother used to say whenever she’d catch him daydreaming, which was what he was doing now; though he was also marginally aware of what was going on around him. Training and habit made that kind of thing possible; it gave him an extra sense to anticipate trouble, hopefully before it manifested itself in an ugly way.

The children attracted his attention first; they occupied the second table in front of him. There were four of them: a girl about nine years old; a boy, already wearing a yarmulke, who couldn’t have been more than seven; another girl about three; and the youngest, in the stroller, somewhere between one and two from what he could see. Then he looked at the mother to see if there was another one “cooking in the pot.” There wasn’t, but the woman was breathtakingly beautiful. Though her hair was covered with the traditional babushka, wisps of auburn hair escaped. A dark brown sweater covered her arms, but the sweater couldn’t hide the thrust of her breasts, nor could the brown tweed skirt hide the flare of her hips. But it was her face – a Madonna’s face if there ever was one – that glowed.

Suddenly aware that he was making her uncomfortable, Doyle said, “I have grandchildren about the age of your two youngest.” Even as he spoke, he imagined her nude. That kind of split-second change from just looking at a woman to the erotic hadn’t happened in a long time. In an effort to camouflage what he was thinking, he said,  “I have four to be exact. Two live in Canada and are much older. The younger two live in Japan.” He was half inclined to take out his wallet and show her pictures of his grandchildren. But he didn’t; he waited for her response.

“You must miss them terribly,” she said in a voice that was more of a whispered mumble than something clearly articulated. She guessed what he was thinking, and felt naked under the gaze of his ice blue eyes. He looked at her with an intensity she had never before felt, though other men often looked at her the same way. And when they did, she always turned away, as befitting a faithful daughter of Israel and a faithful wife. But for some inexplicable reason she continued to look at him as he looked at her. Her thoughts rushed across the screen of her consciousness: he was somewhere in his fifties, near sixty, maybe Scandinavian? A Swede or Norwegian? No. Irish. She was sure of it. There was also something else about him she couldn’t define. Something oblique, distant, sad, and at the same time deadly, lay behind the twinkle in his eyes.

His cell phone suddenly rang.

As he pushed his jacket away to answer it, she saw he was armed, and she shuddered. He was either a gangster or . . .

“Doyle, here,” he said, and listened for a few moments. “Okay, I’m in La Bagel – you know the place. I’ll be outside. Fill me in then.” He stood and picked his coat off the chair next to him. “Have a good day,” he said with a smile and tipped his hat.

“You have one too,” she said, surprised that she was answering.

He stopped at the cashier’s to pay his bill and then went outside. Within a few minutes, an unmarked black limo pulled up to the curb and he vanished inside of it, but not before glancing back and catching her looking at him. There was the hint of a smile on his face.

Flushed, she turned away, fussed with the children.

- - -

Her husband, Gideon, shared a room with a black man, Sylvester Freeman, whose nickname was Slye; and whose family and friends visited him frequently during the two days they were together. Though both men were close in age, neither had much to say to the other beyond the normal courtesies. Their lives were so completely different. Slye was a bus driver, a grunt in Vietnam, and a street kid before that. Over the years, he had become the head of a large and extended family; and with a combination of street smarts and the knowledge gained from living, he guided his family with a gentle hand.

When Gideon’s wife and children were there, Slye was always happy to speak to them. Having heard Gideon call his wife, Rivka, he took the liberty of addressing her by that name, which he did when she entered the room, saying, “Rivka, you’re even more beautiful today than usual.”

“How many women did you say that to today?” she chided with a smile.

“Not too many; but with you I mean it. Besides, from where I am – well, if they weren’t all beautiful, I’d be pushing up daisies.”

“Nonsense! You’ll dance your way out of here,” she said, moving her three oldest to the side of their father’s bed, where they dutifully kissed him; then lifting the youngest out of the stroller, she lowered him to his father. Finally, when the children were finished kissing their father and her youngest was back in the stroller, she leaned over Gideon and kissed him on his forehead.

“After the surgery,” he said, “I’ll be here for five days, possibly a couple days longer before I go to rehab.”

Rivka sat close to the bed and took hold of her husband’s hand.

“The schvartza has his tomorrow morning,” Gideon whispered.

“And yours?” she asked.

“The same,” he said. He was very pale and very frightened. 

She wanted to press his hand to her breasts; but such a gesture might alarm their two older children. It might even alarm him, giving him reason to think his condition was worse than it really was, and it was bad enough. He’d suffered a major heart attack a couple of days before; after returning early from his office, complaining he didn’t feel well and was very tired. An hour later, he told her to call 911. He was scheduled for either a triple bypass or quadruple bypass, depending upon what the surgeon found when he was inside his heart. Facing both of them was the possibility that he wouldn’t survive the surgery; and that if he did survive the surgery, he wouldn’t be able to survive the aftermath.

Breaking into the silence between them, Slye announced, “Well now, here comes my sunshine.” 

His wife, Serena, a good-looking woman about his age, entered the room and went straight to her husband, kissed him, and then smiled at them.

With a twinkle in his eyes, Slye gestured toward Rivka and said, “now that’s a real drop- dead gorgeous lady, even if she does have a parcel of little ones.”

“Now, Mister Slye . . . “

“Today she’s even more glowing,” he teased.

Rivka felt a sudden rush of heat go through her, and knew her face was flushed.

“Gideon, it’s easy to see why you have so many kids,” Slye said

“Slye, stop it; you’re embarrassing . . .”

He laughed and said, “Tomorrow I’m up for grabs, but today I can still laugh, and thumb my nose at whatever is goin’ to happen.”

Serena kissed him again, and said, “He’s such an impossible man.”

“And a very good one, I suspect,” Rivka said.

“One of the best,” Serena answered.

“Now don’t you go boastin’,” Slye laughed, “even if it is true.”

Gideon rolled his eyes and whispered in Yiddish, “Er ret narishkite, foolishness.” Annoyed that Slye could so openly complement Rivka and allude to their sexual behavior irked him; but he lacked the strength to be angry.

During the years they’d been married, Gideon was frequently reminded of the difference in their ages. She was twenty when he married her, while he was twice that. Their Rebbi set up the marriage; it was, as all arranged marriages were, “a done deal.” She came with a large enough dowry that allowed him to open his own insurance office. That led to selling mutual funds, stocks and bonds, so that now there was a staff of fifty people working for him. His personal worth was two and a half million dollars. But she was often taken for his daughter, and he the grandfather of his own children. He was not unaware of the way other men looked at Rivka, and what played out in their imaginations. Because he was a sick man, and would now always be a sick man, he was more jealous than he usually was.

- - -

Because the children were bored, they were restless. But Rivka waited until Gideon said it was time for them to go; if he was sleeping, she’d make the decision.

He remained awake, and each of them spoke in low tones. Neither one mentioned the future; both in their own way were afraid that speaking about it would destroy it. Though she once commented that he would have to take better care of himself: work less, change his diet, and lose some weight.

Gideon uttered a weary sigh and asked, “Where are you going when you leave here?”

“Home,” she snapped, wanting to add: Where would I go with the children? But she remained silent; it was not time to say or do anything that might aggravate him.

Biting down on his lower lip between words, he said, “If anything should happen to me, you’ll go to your next husband with a much larger dowry than when you came to me.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense,” she said

“A fact is a fact.”

“It’s only a fact when it happens,” she answered in a choked voice.

“If it should become a fact . . .”

“I don’t want to hear any more.”

“You must listen. Uri . . .”

“Uri!” she gasped.

“I don’t have any brothers, and Uri knows the business. He’d be a good father . . .”

“No more, Gideon. Please, no more, “ Rivka pleaded.

After a silence Gideon said, “I love you, Rivka.”

“I know,” she said, but her thoughts were somewhere else – a place where the word love had a different meaning; one she didn’t understand and was frightened by knowing it was secular, and it came from the magazines and books she secretly read.

Gideon mistook her bewildered expression for shock. He’d never before told her that he loved her. They were married; and she’d never denied him.

“I’ll be here early tomorrow morning,” she said, suddenly feeling guilty and ashamed.

He closed his eyes and told her he was tired.

She bent over him and kissed his forehead. “God be with you,” she said.

He smiled and answered, “With you and the children also.”

- - -

Doyle was peeved. Peeved that he was forced to go to another meeting of NSA, the National Security Agency, which went nowhere, and peeved that he and his driver, Lou Distafano, were caught in Monday night traffic, not that he had anywhere special to go.

“There must be some easier way to earn a buck,” he grumbled.

“Robbin’ banks, but that don’t come with a pension,” Lou answered.

“If it had one, I’d have taken it.”

“You’re not the bank robber type,” Lou said.

“Are you?”

“Nah, that’s why I’m not doin’ it.”

Doyle smiled. “If I were younger, I might give it a try; just to see what it’s like.”

“Keep dreamin’, Captain.”

Doyle didn’t answer and closed his eyes. Maybe that was why he was so damn angry when he left the meeting; attending it prevented him from daydreaming about the woman with the four kids. It was a game men played no matter what their age; he imagined women played it too. But probably not in the raw in the way that men did, though from what he saw on TV or in films, he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just as raw.

The woman ignited in him a “slow burn,” as it was once called; it was something that hadn’t happened in a long time. When he was younger, he’d take advantage of any opportunity that came his way. But his interest waned; the excitement he had felt dissolved, melted the way the sea ice at both poles were melting from global warming. But there wasn’t any kind of warming; just a growing indifference that overcame his lust, his passion. Driven by the need for romantic love, he never really found it, and gradually stopped trying to find it. But now – with that woman –  the possibility might be there. Something passed between them, and . . .

“Captain, I think once we pass Canal Street it’ll be smooth going,” Lou said.

Doyle opened his eyes; he was out of himself, back in the real world.

- - -

Rivka left the hospital deeply disturbed by Gideon’s suggestion that, should he die, she should marry Uri, since he didn’t have a bachelor brother, who would by tradition marry her.

Uri was Gideon’s mitzpvah; Gideon paid for his education and eventually took him into the business. She’d never liked the man; now she detested him. How Gideon could think otherwise, angered her; and how much of Gideon’s plan for her future was in place, frightened her. The one thing she’d never given any thought to was another arranged marriage; and now she was faced with that possibility.

It took several minutes for her to flag down a cab. Because of the Christmas holiday traffic, the ride back to the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn was stop-and-go all the way. It was not Rivka’s favorite time of the year, even though Hanukkah this year coincided with the gentiles’ Christmas. Usually the holiday meant social obligations, visits to and from her sister’s family and Gideon’s brother’s family. But with Gideon in the hospital, she hoped she’d be spared some of it. Of course there would be the obligatory visits to her parents and to his – Rivka stopped herself; she had a greater concern than what would or would not happen during Hanukkah. Gideon might not survive the surgery. The realization that she could wind up in Uri’s bed so chilled her; she shook involuntarily, as if her body was suddenly drained of its inner heat.

It was easy for Rivka to imagine herself in that situation; but not at all easy for her to quell the rising feeling of panic and despair, which made her gather her children to her and fiercely hug them, as if her embrace could protect them from whatever was coming.

- - -

As soon as Mary heard the sound of Doyle’s car pulling into the driveway, she went to the front door, opened it, and stood on the top step hugging herself against the cold. There was no easy way for her to do what she had to do.

“Sonny’s dead,” she said as he came up the steps.

Doyle faltered, grabbed hold of the railing for support. He felt as if he had received a body blow; or worse, a blow on his head. After a few moments, he motioned her back into the house; following her, he closed the door behind him.

“When?” he asked.

“Last night,” Alice said. “Just died after dinner while sitting in his easy chair,” Mary explained.

Tightlipped, Doyle removed his coat and suit jacket; glad to be free of them, he opened his collar button and loosened his tie. Sonny … Sonny Steniger was a black man; short and wiry, he was a tunnel man, the best in the platoon. And like all the survivors of the platoon, Sonny was a member of their special family.
As he always did, Doyle slipped off his weapon and put it on the dining room table, where it would remain until he went upstairs to bed when Mary would place it on the night table next to her side of the bed.

“The funeral will be on Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock,” Mary said. Sonny lived in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he managed a large condominium complex.

Still silent, Doyle went to the breakfront, took out a bottle of Glenlivet, and poured himself a shot. “Want one?” he asked, still holding the bottle.

She shook her head.

Doyle downed the first shot in one gulp, poured another, and downed that one too.

Mary knew he wouldn’t eat much of the dinner she’d prepared, even though it was one of his favorites: shrimp marinara and baked ziti.  He’d continue to drink until he drank himself into oblivion. It was the only way he could deal with the demons he now confronted. 

Bottle in one hand and shot glass in the other, Doyle preceded her into the kitchen and sat at the small round table where they ate; the dining room was reserved for special occasions. He sat as if he were frozen into the position; the palm of his left hand rested on the edge of the table, while his right hand curled around a whiskey bottle.

“We’ll go,” he said. “We’ll take the earliest flight we can and take the last flight back. You make the arrangements.”

“Yes,” Mary answered, as she loaded his plate with food he would not eat.

- - -

Awakened by the sound of the alarm clock’s blare, Doyle reached over and shut it off.  For a few moments, he teased himself with the idea of calling in sick. But he wasn’t sick, or he wasn’t sick enough to do that. A mild hangover didn’t count, despite the sour taste in his mouth and a head that felt twice as large as it should be.

Though he shaved, showered, and dressed a little slower than usual, he still arrived at his office before any of his men did. According to the Duty Officer, nothing unusual happened the previous night; and he settled behind his desk with a container of hot black coffee and a raisin bran muffin he bought at a nearby luncheonette.

Before the flurry of the morning’s activity, it was the quiet time during which he usually did his paperwork. But he just sat and stared at one of the walls, where a large cork bulletin board was covered with a variety of memos and bulletins from Headquarters, none of which had any meaning for him. Even his coffee and muffin, which he usually enjoyed, he neither drank nor ate.

He wasn’t grieving for Sonny as much as he was reliving the time they had spent together in Vietnam. Now he alone held it, and it couldn’t be shared. They were men who had bonded together because of the circumstances; and when the circumstances ended, the bond remained.

With a weary sigh, Doyle turned to the computer and typed in a classified URL. And so his day began.

- - -

By eight in the morning, Rivka was in the OR waiting room. It was now eleven. If  Gideon’s surgery started on time – nine o’clock – it would be over by two, unless there were complications. She spoke to Serena, who was also in the waiting room, and was told that Slye was an ex-Marine who had fought in Vietnam, where he was wounded twice and awarded the Silver Star for bravery, of which she was very proud.

There was nothing Rivka could tell her about Gideon that could match what she was told about Slye, so she spoke about her children. But even that was not enough to maintain a bridge of conversation between the two of them. Besides, conversation seemed to be out of place. Grim silence gripped the room, on whose light blue walls were hung several reproductions of modern paintings; none of which she understood or reacted to emotionally.

She felt stifled; even the women’s magazines, with their lurid covers, bothered her, so blatantly sexual, advertising articles about orgasms or other intimate things. She couldn’t help reading the cover of an issue of Cosmopolitan that read, “YOU TOO CAN HAVE MULTIPLE ORGASMS.” She doubted that she’d ever experienced one. Such things were never spoken about; or if they were, she never took part in the conversation. The closest she had ever come to such a conversation had happened on a subway; she sat near three young women who were discussing their sex lives. One of them was married; the other two had lovers. At the time, she knew she should have moved; but she was curious. For the first time she realized that women experienced sexual pleasure. But there was no one with whom she could discuss what she had surreptitiously learned.

Chiding herself for the thoughts that tumbled through her brain while Gideon was in a life or death situation, Rivka told Serena she was going out. “I’ve got to clear my head, she said; she wanted to go to the park behind the hospital, where she would sit on a bench and pray for Gideon.

“I’ll stay a while longer,” Serena said, “before I go.”

- - -

By midmorning, Doyle was too antsy to do anything of value and left the office. Despite a strong wind coming off the water, he walked parallel to the East River.

Sonny’s death called his own mortality into question. Life, despite the Church’s teaching, offered nothing except the certainty of death; a nothingness that few come to terms with, even in old age when the body is too exhausted to continue the struggle to live.

Doyle paused to watch a small freighter make its way to a pier in Brooklyn, directly across the river from where he was. But the wind had a bite to it, forcing him to start walking again.

Several months after Doyle returned from Vietnam, he would have committed suicide if it wasn’t for a bum who had stopped him. The heavy blackness inside of him then was just too heavy to carry. On a similar day, when it was bitter cold and the wind pushed the crashing surf in front of it, he went to Coney Island, walked out on the beach, and was starting for the water when a man called out to him, “You don’t wanna do with that.”

He hadn’t thought about that day for years until now; it was just something he didn’t want to remember. Like so many other things he did, he hid it from everyone, even himself.

- - -

Rivka crossed Second Avenue and entered Gramercy Park, where she found a bench and sat. Drawing her fur collar up against the wind, she prayed that Gideon would survive the surgery and live a long life. When she was finished praying, she felt no better than when she’d begun. She’d been taught to believe that whatever happened was God’s will and part of His plan, that it was unknowable to humans. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t understand how Gideon’s suffering was part of a master plan. Her rabbi would have told her that it was a test: a test for what? But that would not explain why there was a need for a test, for such terrible suffering? And then she thought of Uri, and Gideon’s plan for her. Ashamed of herself for having questioned God, she prayed for forgiveness – something she didn’t think she deserved – and wept.

- - -

Doyle found his way to La Bagel; glad to be out of the cold and away from the wind, he claimed a table near the rear counter and put his container of black coffee on it. He wasn’t hungry; all he wanted was something to dissolve the chill in his bones. Except for him and a man sitting at the window counter, the place was empty; but the lunch hour rush would soon begin.

The first few sips of coffee tasted good, but then he put the container back on the table and sat with his hands folded until he noticed a newspaper on the chair next to his. Before he picked it up, he called his base to check if anything needed his immediate attention: nothing did.

It wasn’t a newspaper; it was something called The New York Review of Books. The feature article was about Courbet, a French 19th Century painter. A photograph of the painter’s self-portrait was on the front cover; he looked like a wild man. Doyle knew nothing about the Review or about Courbet. The Review he found, as he turned its pages and scanned them, was – as his mother would have said – “one of those highfalutin’ magazines.”  He wasn’t interested in any of the reviews he looked at. They were about books he would never read, and on subjects having no connection to the world he lived in. Then he came to a three-page review of three books about the life and art of the painter; and he quickly discovered a smaller version of the painting on the front cover, and a small photograph of another painting that stopped him: L’origine du mond, “The Origin of the World.”  Doyle studied it; what made it a work of art and not pornography? The longer he looked at it, the more beautiful it became to him, and the more fitting its name became.

Doyle closed the Review and at the same time closed his eyes. He had seen more than one woman in the same pose as the woman in the painting; and though he had made love to them, his reaction had never been so visceral as it now was. The painting burned itself into his brain.

Then his cell phone rang.

It was Mary; she was worried about him.

He tried to assure her that he was all right. But he wasn’t successful.

“Try to come home early,” she said.

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Doyle said, ending the call.

For a few moments, he did nothing. Suspended in his own gray fog, he felt as if he hadn’t any reason to do anything except to sit where he was for eternity.

- - -

Rivka saw him before he saw her. She was in line; she needed something to warm her before she went back to the waiting room. When her turn came, she ordered a small container of split pea soup and a pumpernickel bagel; then she saw him staring out of the window of the store. There was a troubled expression on his face. Her first impulse was to take her tray to the counter in front of the store; but before she could move, he saw her.

Doyle gestured to the empty chair in front of him. At that moment, he needed her; she could have never imagined how much. But he knew, by doing what he was doing, that he was asking her to cross a line, the invisible line separating them: he was a lapsed Catholic and she an Orthodox Jewess.

She shook her head.

Doyle left his chair, went to her, and taking hold of her tray, he said, “Please join me.”

Embarrassed, not wanting to create a scene, she let go of the tray and followed him to the table.

“I was hoping to see you again,” he said.

She flushed, said nothing, and sat very still.

“Crying?” he asked.

Rivka nodded, and said, “My husband is having open-heart surgery.”

“Waiting it out is always a tough game,” he said sympathetically. He wanted to reach across the table and touch her hands – a definite no-no!  She was clearly frightened by him, and by the circumstances her husband was in.

“Have your coffee,” he said, removing the container lid for her. “You’ll feel better.”

“Soup.”

“Yes, soup. Go ahead, have a few sips.”

Child-like, she obeyed. What was she doing, sitting with a stranger – a man no less? She was already blasphemous, and would have to confess it to the Rabbi. Now this!

“My name is Doyle,” he said. “Peter Doyle. But everyone calls me Doyle.”

“Rivka,” she answered, breaking off a piece of a bagel.

“I’m glad you came in here. I was hoping we’d meet again.”

Blushing easily, she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

“My best friend, one of the men for my platoon, died. We were in ’Nam together.”

“Nam?”  She looked bewildered.

“The war in Vietnam,” he answered, surprised that she didn’t know about it.

“We don’t talk about such things,” she told him.

“Not even about nine-eleven or the war in Iraq?”

“No,” she said.

Not knowing what else to say, Doyle said, “We were Marines,” and immediately realized that would mean nothing to her. It meant little to most people even now.

She looked questioningly at him for a few moments.

He knew what she wanted to ask, so he said, “Yes.”

She shuddered. “Many?” she asked, unable to equate a man sitting opposite him with a man who killed.

“Even one is too many,” he said, lowering his eyes to the table.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said.

“He saved my life,” Doyle said, looking straight at her.  

From his tone and the wild look in his eyes, she knew he was back to wherever it happened; but it passed quickly. In that instant she saw his pain, and said, “He’s at peace, blessed be the Lord.”

Doyle thanked her and then fell silent. In a few minutes, she’d leave and return to the hospital; and when she’d leave, he’d go back to his office.

The way he was staring at her made her feel naked. His eyes roamed over her, exposing everything to his imagination, or was it her imagination imagining what she thought he was imagining?

He did not want to lose her. Lose her? Hell, he did not have her. Maybe he would never have her. But he had to try.

“Will I see you again?” he whispered, the words flowing from his mouth before he considered them, weighed them. His right hand touched her left. “Please!”

Startled, Rivka looked down at his hand. Again a burst of heat flooded her body. She wanted to run away. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She couldn’t speak.

“Say yes,” Doyle urged.

She nodded.

“Tomorrow. The same time.”

“Yes,” she managed to answer. It was the only thing she could do to end the situation. “I must go now.”

Before she could move, Doyle kissed the back of her hand. No one, not even Gideon, had ever done that.

“So you’ll not forget,” he told her.

Rivka left the store feeling that everyone was looking at her, especially the men because they knew what she had done.

- - -

The following afternoon they sat opposite each other, neither one eating the small portion of baked salmon salad in front of them. But they quietly drank their coffee.

La Bagel was crowded and noisy. A table occupied by students from the local high school was especially boisterous; their laughter was loud, and it grated on Doyle. He was certain it had the same effect on Rivka.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, looking down at the table rather than at him.

“Then why are you?”

“To tell you I can’t do this again.”

“I was going to tell you the same thing,” he said, covering her left hand with his right hand. “But once I saw . . .” His voice trailed off before saying, “Tomorrow I’ll be flying down to my friend’s funeral; I’ll be back late tomorrow night. If you’re not here on Thursday, I’ll understand.”

“You’re putting everything on my shoulders,” she told him. “I have enough on them as it is.”

Doyle nodded.

“I have a husband hovering between life and death, and . . .”

“Neither of us can alter that by what we do or don’t do,” he said. “Neither of us is responsible for his condition.”

Rivka shook her head. “We have already sinned.”

Letting go of her hand, Doyle waved her words away.

“Yes. In my world, I’ve committed a sin; I’m committing a sin by sitting here speaking to you . . . You don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her. Her beliefs, he realized, were as strong as his disbeliefs.

“Can’t you see – I’m an Orthodox Jewess.”

“And I’m a lapsed Catholic,” he said.

“My children . . .”

“I have children and grandchildren.”

“I feel as if I’m being torn apart,” she told him. “I worry about my husband; then I think about you and I feel guilty.” Her eyes glistened, and tears ran down her cheeks. She wanted to tell about her possible problem with Uri, but didn’t, knowing what his answer would be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, daubing at her cheeks with his handkerchief. But he wasn’t sorry. He understood what she told him and chose a more direct route than her circuitous one. “I want you,” he told her, gently touching her cheeks with the tips of his fingers.

“Yes. I knew that from the first time I saw you,” she whispered.

Doyle felt her move, as if she wanted to have his hand roam over her face, wanted his touch firmly planted in her memory. Unexpectedly, she took hold of his right hand and kissed its palm. Her lips were warm and moist.

“Why is this happening to me?”

Doyle didn’t answer, though he knew the answer as well as he knew she did; only she wasn’t willing – or couldn’t acknowledge – the reality they’d so quickly created between them. Its exclusivity, for whatever it was worth or however long it would last, was almost completely separate from the mundane reality of everyday life; that was why it was so intense, so indefinably exciting, different, and full of light. Love had nothing to do with it; but their lust and their passion did. He was awakened in a way he had never before experienced with any of the women with whom he had slept. Though married with four children, she was more virginal than Mary was when he had married her.

- - -

At six o’clock, the surgeon, Dr. Patel, came into the waiting room to speak to Rivka. A tall, thin, dark-skinned man with his green surgical mask hanging below his chin, he seemed entirely too young, too foreign looking, to be entrusted with a person’s life.  She was the only one left in the waiting room; even Serena had gone to see Slye in the recovery room.

Dr. Patel looked tired. He went to the coffee vending machine and bought coffee for both of them. He suggested they sit.

“Yes,” Rivka said, taking several deep breaths to control her anxiety.

“Your husband required a quadruple bypass. He is in serious but stable condition.”

“How serious . . .”

“If he makes it through the next seventy-two hours, he’ll have a chance.”

“A chance?” She grabbed hold of that word chance as if her own life depended upon his answer.

“To live; but of course his activities will have to be severely limited. Any kind of physical exertion would be out of the question, and his exposure to stress would have to be limited or avoided altogether. But we can discuss all of those things later. Now, nothing more can be done for your husband. We have to wait and see. It’s an hour-by-hour situation.”

All of that was said without any emotion, as if he had said it countless times before. It seemed to Rivka it was his way of distancing himself from Gideon. He had done what he was paid to do; and now the patient was someone else’s responsibility.

“I want to see him,” she said.

“Certainly. But he hasn’t come out of the anesthesia yet.”

She nodded; he escorted her into the recovery room.

“Only a few minutes,” he said, leaving her at the foot of Gideon’s bed.

“Yes,” she whispered, shocked by the numerous IVs feeding into him and the many electronic devices connected to him, their screens displaying green or amber numbers.

Aware that Patel was no longer at her side, she said softly, “It won’t happen again, Gideon; I promise you. I promise it will never happen again.” Despite her feelings of contrition, the memory of the intoxication she felt only a few hours before was still there coupled to her sense of shame. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. “Spare him; take me instead. Take me.”

“It’s time to go,” a woman said.

The nurse was there.

“Yes,” Rivka said. “Yes.  I’m going.”

“You can visit again tomorrow morning between eleven o’clock and noon, but for only five minutes,” the nurse told her.

Rivka nodded and left the recovery room. She felt as if she couldn’t breath and hurried outside. It was snowing; large white flakes tumbled down. She knew it would be hard to get a cab.

- - -

The funeral depressed Doyle even more than he thought it would; and the weather aided and abetted it. The front that brought snow to New York the previous night also brought ice to Raleigh, delaying his departure from LaGuardia for more than an hour.

Because they were incapacitated in one way or another, fewer of the men from the platoon were at the funeral. Sonny’s wife and children treated all of them as if they were part of the family; but Doyle was special, godfather to Sonny’s sons, while Mary was their godmother.

Like Doyle, Sonny lost his faith in Vietnam; but the funneral service for him was held in a Baptist church crowded with mourners. Everyone knew that he and the other men sitting in the front were part of Sonny’s other family, his platoon.

Doyle had written Sonny’s eulogy the previous night. It was in the inside breast pocket of his jacket; but when he stepped up to the podium to deliver it, he pursed his lips and shook his head. To steady himself, he grabbed hold of the rostrum. Clearing his throat several times, he began. “Brothers and Sisters, the comments I wrote about Sonny last night won’t do for today. I can tell you how wonderful he was, but you all know that; I can tell you how brave he was, but all of you also know that; if all of you already know what I would tell you, then there would be no sense in telling you what you already know.”

He paused, looked down at the flag-draped coffin, and again cleared his throat before saying, “A few of Shakespeare’s words are more fitting than any of mine could ever be. He wrote: “Taken all and all, I shall not look upon his likes again.” He brushed away the tears from his eyes. “Good night, sweet prince,” he whispered, sobbing.

Two men from the platoon started toward him.

He waved them back. “One more thing to do,” he said. Stepping away from the rostrum, he went to the head of the casket and saluted Sonny; the other members of the platoon did the same.

- - -

Rivka returned to the hospital the day after Gideon’s surgery; and every hour on the hour she visited with him for five minutes.  Though he was moved from the recovery room to the intensive care facility, he was still in grave danger.

All she could do was hold his hand and softly whisper her fidelity to him. Whether or not he was able to hear her didn’t matter. But she never told him she loved him. She couldn’t. She didn’t love him even when she was a bride, and she couldn’t pretend she did now.

The day passed slowly. Even though she knew that Doyle wasn’t going to be in La Bagel, she avoided going there and went instead to the hospital café, off the lobby. She met Serena there.

Slye, like Gideon, had quadruple surgery, but unlike Gideon he developed a kidney infection and was running a high fever.

The two women sat opposite each other, neither one doing anything more than nibbling at their sandwiches and taking an occasional sip of coffee. They hardly spoke. Each was conscious of the difference between them, but also knowing that their respective husbands would never do what they were doing now. Gideon, Rivka knew, didn’t trust blacks; while Serena knew that Slye was sensitive to bigotry and would seek a different table.

Rivka, burdened as she was with Gideon’s illness and the prospect of being Uri’s wife, was also burdened with forbidden thoughts of Doyle and her feelings for him. They continued to bubble up into her brain no matter how hard she tried to suppress them. What kind of a man was he? Was he a womanizer? And then there were those thoughts that were erotic, sinful. What would his hands feel like on her body? How did he smell? How would he make love to her? All of them ridiculous! All of them transgressed the law.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Serena said.

Rivka studied her for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to speak to her about Doyle. She thought about speaking to her Rabbi about him, but she knew he would judge her harshly and find her wanting, a fallen woman even before she fell. She also thought about telling her sister, but even there she would be judged, perhaps more harshly than the Rabbi would have judged her.

“Are you all right?” Serena asked, beginning to feel uncomfortable under Rivka’s appraising stare.

“Have you ever had an affair?” The words were spoken slowly, with hesitation, and with her eyes looking down at the table.

“Ah, so that’s it!”

Rivka nodded.

“Between a rock and a hard place!”

Rivka looked at her quizzically; she didn’t understand what Serena said.

“Your husband, and the other man, whoever he is.”

“Yes,” Rivka answered, quickly adding, “But nothing has happened between us.”

“Yet?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want from me?” Serena asked.

Rivka closed her eyes. “Just someone to speak to; someone who’d listen to me, and not judge me.”
After a long pause Serena said, “I was there myself long ago.”

“And did you?” Rivka asked eagerly.

“Would you feel better if I told you I did?”

“No,” she lied. “Besides, it’s none of my business.”

“You’re right there. It’s none of your business. But you look like you need an answer.  Yes, with a white man. A poet, of all things.”

“Were you sorry afterwards?”

“How could I be sorry about something I wanted?”

Rivka nibbled on her tuna fish sandwich. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but dared not. How did it feel with another man touching her? Did she ever see them again? Did she think of him after their relationship ended? She couldn’t think the word affair. It cheapened her feelings about Doyle, made them tawdry. Finally, she asked, “Did you ever tell anyone?”

“Yes,” Serena answered. “But he already knew.”

“He knew?” Rivka asked in astonishment.

“Men also have intuition,” Serena answered as she lifted her container of coffee and drank from it.
Rivka wondered if Gideon knew? Even now, though nothing had taken place between her and Doyle, something was happening to her; she felt it, especially when she thought about him, inside of her there was a longing.

Neither woman spoke again until, as if on signal, both looked at their watches and simultaneously said, “It’s time to go upstairs again.”

- - -

Though their return flight from Raleigh was only a half hour late, it encountered an unusual amount of turbulence on its approach to Newark Airport and made a rough landing. At that time of night, there was hardly any traffic; the drive from Newark to their home took only   twenty minutes.

Doyle showered, hoping to wash himself clean of death, but knowing that wouldn’t happen until he himself died.

“Are you coming to bed?” Mary asked when he came out of the bathroom. She was exhausted and knew that he was too; though from their years of being married, she also knew they experienced it differently: she’d crave sleep, while he’d postpone it as long as he possibly could.  For him sleep frequently meant nightmares; for her, it was usually deep and blissful.

Since he didn’t answer her first question, she posed a different one. “Are we going Christmas shopping tomorrow evening?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Goodnight,” she said.

Doyle kissed her forehead. “Thanks,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”                 

“It’s what people do for each other when they are married.”

“Yes,” he answered, and went downstairs to the finished basement where there was an old-fashioned roll-top desk; a small rollaway computer table with a laptop and, on its bottom shelf, a printer; and a combination copier and fax machine on a separate table. A day bed occupied half the length of one wall, the other half taken up with photographs of the men in his platoon as they were in Vietnam and as they became middle-aged men. There were other photographs too, mainly seascapes he had photographed. The other walls were given over to bookcases he had built. All of them held books he had read or intended to read, some of them dating back to his college years.

For a while Doyle surfed the Internet. With the exception of the news about what was happening in Iraq, nothing interested him. The grandsons of some of the men in the platoon were there, which gave him (however strange it might seem to anyone else) a more immediate connection to the current war than most people had. The news from Iraq wasn’t good; and that depressed him even more.

Suddenly, Doyle felt overwhelmed with fatigue. He shut the computer down and sat very still, almost too weak to move; when he finally did move, he stretched out on the day bed and immediately fell asleep.

- - -

Rivka avoided going to La Bagel on Thursday and Friday. The weekend was horrendous; she spent Saturday morning in the synagogue and Sunday at the hospital. By Monday she could no longer deny herself and she walked by La Bagel. He was there.

She entered it with a firm resolve to end their . . . what was there to end when nothing had begun?
Doyle saw her before she opened the door. His first impulse was to stand, but he didn’t. It would attract too much attention.

She took the chair opposite him and saw that there was a cellophane-wrapped red rose on the table.

“What do you want?” Doyle asked.

“No. What do you want?” Rivka asked, returning his question with one of her own. But God, she knew, she knew what He wanted, and she was ready to give it to him, especially now that Uri had entered her life in a personal way. But what she would so willingly give to Doyle, she’d made up her mind to deny Uri as fiercely as she could, no matter what the consequences.   

“Food, I meant,” Doyle said.

She shook her head. “I must go,” she told him.

“Please stay,” he said, picking up the rose and handing it to her.

Her eyes glistened with tears. “I can’t; I can’t even take this.” And she put the rose down on the table and ran out of the store.

Grabbing his coat and the rose, Doyle ran after her. In the street, he caught hold of her arm.

“What are you doing?”

He spun her toward him, brought her close to him, and kissed her lips.

She struggled to break free; then her struggling ceased: she embraced him. His scent was what she expected, intoxicatingly manly. “This is . . .”

Doyle kissed her again, then let go of her, and stepping back, he handed her the rose.

“This is wrong. Crazy!” Rivka said.

He took hold of her arms again. “We’ll go where we can talk,” he said.

Wide eyed, she looked up at him. For the first time, she realized he was at least a head taller than she.

“Come with me,” Doyle insisted.

“Du nemest me en drerd arien,” she said in Yiddish, and quickly translated for him. “You’re taking me to hell.”

He wanted to say, no. Not to hell, but maybe to ecstasy. Instead, he said, “Some place quiet. A place I know a short cab ride away.”

“By cab!”

“I’m not going to kidnap you, Rivka.”

She nodded.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

Doyle stopped a cab and held the door open for her, then walked around to the other side of the cab and slid in beside her. “Water and Beekman Streets,” he told the driver.

Without speaking, they sat with a space between them, where their hands barely touched.

Despite her misgivings, Rivka couldn’t deny the excitement she felt. She was doing something that could brand her for the rest of her life. Something that would allow her husband, if he knew, to divorce her and take the children from her. Yet she was doing it.

Twice she glanced at Doyle and found him looking at her; each time she felt a surge of heat in her body. What did he see? Was he looking at her as she really was, or was he looking at her with his imagination? Imagining her nude, and what they would be doing together? Her own imagination uncontrollably went to those forbidden images.

“Give me your hand,” Doyle said, when they were out of the cab.

She obeyed.

“The place is at the far corner,” he said. “It’s been there for over a hundred years.”

It began to snow; and because they were near the river, it was very windy.

“Carmines’!” she exclaimed when she saw the name. “Italian seafood. Oh my God, I can’t.” And she stopped walking. “You don’t understand.”

“Your dietary laws?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t eat or drink anything, except water?”

“Not even that.”

“All right, not even that. But let’s go where it’s warm,” Doyle said.

She let him guide her into the vestibule, and then into the restaurant proper, which was a small space with a few tables and four booths. On two sides there were windows, and behind a dark wood counter, a large mirror. The air had a sharp spicy scent and something else she couldn’t identify. But it was quiet, as Doyle said it would be.

He chose the booth farthest from the door.

“I can’t stay too long,” Rivka said, accidentally removing her babushka as she pushed back her fur-trimmed hood. Her long black hair tumbled to her shoulders. Quickly, she replaced the cover.

“I liked it better the other way,” Doyle said.

“That’s only for my husband to see,” she told him, shaking her head.

“Amongst all the other things,” he responded.

Rivka opened her coat. The black sweater underneath it outlined her breasts, and she was immediately conscious of the way he looked at them. It brought goose bumps to her arms and back and made her nipples swell. But she didn’t close her coat; she wanted him to look at her that way. Just that morning Gideon’s cardiologist had told her not to expect Gideon to be a complete man.

“Do you know what that means?” the doctor had questioned.              

“Yes,” she answered. “I know.”

A waitress came to the table for their orders.

Drinking on duty was an absolute no-no. “I’ll have a coffee and a small order of fried calamari,” Doyle said.

“And you, ma’am?” the waitress asked.

Before Rivka could answer, Doyle said, “She’s allergic.”

“To everything?”

“That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

The waitress gave him a quizzical look and left the table.

“You lied to her,” Rivka chided, trying to conceal a smile.

“I’d like to think of it as a half truth,” he said.

She didn’t answer; that wasn’t the kind of thinking she was used to.

Doyle reached across the table and took hold of her hand; locking fingers, she joined hers to his.

- - -

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Rivka returned to the hospital. Because it was still snowing when she and Doyle left the restaurant, it was difficult to find an empty cab, and the traffic on the East River Drive and other streets was moving slowly.

Uri was there when she entered the room.

“He’s been asking for you,” he said, rebuking her without actually doing it. A tall thin man with a well-trimmed black beard, long fingered hands jutting out of his jacket sleeves, he wore his yarmulke under a broad-brimmed black hat.

She went to the other side of the bed. Gideon was asleep with his mouth open. Dutifully, she kissed him on his forehead. He smelled; his breath was foul. She forced herself not to gag. Her husband was an old man with an unkempt beard. For better or worse! She was about to become his caretaker, and that would be the end of her life.

“Where were you?” Uri asked.

“In La Bagel,” she answered absently.

“I didn’t see you there.”

“I was seated in the back for a while, then I went for a walk,” she said, knowing that she had told a half truth and trying not to show her anger with him.

“In this weather? ”

“Yes. I have much to think about.”

Uri nodded with a thin smile.

Now, Rivka was angry. He had no right to ask her questions. None. She pursed her lips, knowing that he knew she had lied. Had they not been facing each other over Gideon, she would have told him what she thought of his questions. What she thought of him and the possibility that he might wind up her husband. Oh, she would have told him that would never happen in this world or the next. She hated him, God forgive her. To imagine those long boney fingers on her body was nauseating.

Gideon’s eyelids fluttered. He turned his head toward her and reached for her hand.

She gave it to him; and thought of the other hand she’d held a short while before.

“Rivka?” Gideon whispered.

“Yes, Gideon. Rivka.”

- - -

For Doyle, Christmas was a family thing. His sons and their families would be flying in, as they did every year. The religious aspects of the holiday did not exist for him. But he dutifully worked at trimming the tree with Mary helping.

“There’s a chance it might snow for Christmas,” Mary said.

“It looks nice for about a minute and a half, but it’s really more trouble than it’s worth,” he answered. He was standing on a small ladder putting the finishing touches on the top of the tree. It was a tall, full tree; and after he anchored the Star of Bethlehem on top of it, he climbed down the ladder, walked across the living room, and looked at his work.

Mary joined him. “Beautiful,” she said, hoping the compliment would please him.

“It’s for the grandchildren,” he answered. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about it.”

“Well, despite your feelings, you did a good job of decorating it.”

“Thanks.”

“How about coffee and pie à la mode?”

Doyle waved the suggestion aside and said, “I’m going downstairs to watch TV for a while, and then call it a day.”

“Are you going to come upstairs?” Mary asked pointedly. He hadn’t slept in their bed since Sonny’s funeral. Though sex didn’t play much of a role in their relationship, she enjoyed it when it was there; but more than the physical act, she liked having him near her. Often he fell asleep, holding her breasts in the palm of his large hand, or he’d hold her bush with his fingers half way in and half way out.

“If I don’t fall asleep first,” Doyle answered.

Mary knew he would fall asleep; she also knew that something more than Sonny’s death was bothering him. The other night he had asked her if she ever felt like breaking free and doing whatever she wanted to do.

“I’m sure everyone does now and then,” she’d said.  “But if everyone did that – well, we’d have unimaginable chaos.”

Doyle had said nothing.

“See you in the morning,” she said now, heading for staircase.

“Mary?”

“So there won’t be any problems . . .”

“What problems?”

“I’m not going to Mass on Christmas or New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh, Doyle . . .”

“I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Yes. This time, I will. It has to be for myself. These lights, the tree – they only accentuate the sham of it all.”

Not answering, she slowly climbed the steps.

Doyle watched her. He knew he’d hurt her, and he was deeply sorry. But when he’d looked at Sonny’s casket, he realized he was as dead as Sonny. His hope for resurrection could only come when he was alive; and if it came at all, it would come now through  Rivka. But it wasn’t resurrection he wanted, at least not in any religious sense. He wanted the orgasmic pleasure of the moment, and its connection to the immense void. It was something Mary could no longer give him.

“It’s all bullshit,” he growled. “All bullshit.” He wanted her because she was a beautiful woman. Because she wanted him in the same way that he wanted her.

- - -

They were lovers without having made love. They would meet on the street corners and go to a place where they could sit next to each other in a booth, so that their thighs touched or they held hands. Sometimes they sat in his car and just held one another.

- - -

The days rushed by. Gideon was out of intensive care. He’d lost weight and his skin lacked color, giving his face a pasty look. There was fear in his eyes. His cardiologist told Rivka that he’d have mood swings as a result of the medication he took; that he’d be cranky and depressed. “Remember,” he told her, “your husband has been through a physical and psychological ordeal. You must be very patient with him.”
He now shared a room with an elderly Chinese man who spoke very little English, and whose family brought him Chinese food every afternoon, food that according to Gideon gave the room an unhealthy smell.

Distressed with himself, Gideon found reasons to complain about everything Rivka did or did not do. There were afternoons when it was all she could do to keep from running out of the room. The time she spent with Doyle became more important than ever to her. And the affection he gave her helped her weather the difficult times she spent with Gideon.

One afternoon Gideon brought back up the subject of her marrying Uri, saying, “Uri would make a good husband for you.”

“Not for me,” she snapped angrily. “He is your employee, not mine. I never liked the man. Besides, don’t bury yourself before you’re dead!” The thought of Uri touching her was repugnant.

“But I’m already dead,” he said in a choked whisper.

Rifka knew what he was referring to, and she wanted to reassure him that it didn’t matter. But she couldn’t; she couldn’t offer him the comfort that a good or even dutiful wife would. She wanted Doyle. In his car. He would caress her breasts, kiss them, and the valley between them; and with his hand between her thighs he would make her moan with pleasure.

Gideon took hold of her hand. “I need you, Rivka, more than ever,” he said.

She had to tell him what he wanted to hear. “And I need you,” she said.

Suddenly his fingers tightened around her hand, hurting her; then, just as suddenly, he let go of it, tossing it away from him as if he found it unclean.

Rivka bit her lip and turned her face away from Gideon; she couldn’t bear to look at the expression on his face. He knows; he knows; he knows what I’ve been doing and what I want to do, she told herself.

- - -

Doyle entered the jewelry store on the northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Forty-Seventh Streets. Earlier in the year he’d sold a few things there at a fair price. Now he was there to buy a gift for Mary, and possibly for Rivka. Christmas was a week away, and so was Chanukah. The two holidays intermeshed perfectly, something that seldom happened. The store was brightly lit, crowded with potential buyers.

Mary liked gemstones more than diamonds, and Doyle found a small moonstone surrounded by emerald chips in a Florentine gold setting. He pointed to the ring and asked the salesman behind the counter, “How much?”

“Twenty-eight-hundred,” the salesman said, placing the ring on a piece of black velvet already on the counter and adding, “That stone has life.”

Doyle made a low humming sound. He knew the drill. He had learned about the business early in his career, when assigned to the Diamond District as an undercover cop. Prices were always doubled for Christmas, and again in late April through late June for the June brides.

“It’ll make a wonderful gift for . . .”

“My wife,” Doyle snapped.

“Of course,” the salesman said smoothly, suggesting then that he pick up the ring and look at it.

Doyle shifted gears. He smiled. “Thank you,” he said, holding the ring with the fingers of his left hand, and a loupe with the fingers of his right hand. As he examined the ring it occurred to him to buy two: one for Mary and one for Rivka. He knew it was a crazy idea, but because it was a crazy idea he liked it, even knowing that, unless she found a way to explain to her husband where it had come from, Rivka would never be able to wear it. In any case, he saw that as her problem, not his. All he wanted to do was show her how much he cared for her, that she meant more to him than . . .

“The moonstones for their size are of excellent quality,” the salesman said.

“Suppose I wanted two rings?” Doyle asked.

“Two!”

“Let’s not waste time; you want to sell and I want to buy,” Doyle said.  “Bottom line: I’ll give you two Gs for both rings.”

“No can do,” the salesman said. “Give me a number I can live with.”

Doyle thought for a few moments before saying, “Twenty six hundred for the two of them. That’s as much as I will go.”

“Deal,” the salesman said, offering his hand.

Doyle shook the man’s hand and told him he wanted one wrapped for the holiday and the other in plain wrapping paper.

- - -

Outside, his breath steamed in the cold night air. The street was awash with people. Doyle slowly threaded his way toward Fifth Avenue; when he reached it, he turned north and walked up to Rockefeller Center, where the tree blazed with thousands of multicolored lights. He went into the plaza and watched the ice skaters in the rink below him.

When he was a young man, before he joined the Marines, he had been a skater too, either on roller skates or on ice skates. Several times he had skated, on this very rink, with a girl – Yolanda Palonie – whom he intended to marry when he got his first leave. But by the time his first leave came he was already battle hardened, a veteran of more than a dozen firefights, and the recipient of a  “Dear John” letter in which Yolanda  wrote that she had fallen in love with someone else and intended to marry him.

He still had that letter, but no one in the family ever knew about Yolanda. Once, after he’d returned from ‘Nam, he met her on the street with her husband, whom she introduced as Jeffrey Faust, and who Doyle realized resembled him.

Doyle left the Plaza, crossed the street, and went in to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was crowded and elaborately decorated with flowers for the holidays. Tired, he sat in the rear pew.  He knew that if he closed his eyes he’d nod off. After a while, and despite his negative feelings about religion and God, he walked to the nearest small altar on the side of the cathedral, where he lit a votive lamp for Sonny; then he left and found himself wondering what Sonny would think of his relationship with Rivka?

- - -

It took Doyle several minutes to flag down an empty cab; and then the driver groused about having to go all the way downtown, only stopping when he flashed his badge.

Settled in the right corner of the cab, Doyle closed his eyes. He knew that the next time he and Rivka met they would wind up in a hotel room. He wanted her in a way that having her sexually would not satisfy. He just wasn’t in love with her; he loved her. He loved her the way he loved Mary. No. Mary was his wife; he needed Mary as she needed him. They shared a life.  Counting up all the hours he’d spent with Rivka, it couldn’t equal more than a day. And yet the intensity of feeling existed on both their parts.

Doyle opened his eyes and speed dialed Rivka’s cell number.

She answered immediately. She’d been with him in the afternoon; and, as she had gotten in the habit of doing, she napped when she got home.

“Where are you?” Doyle asked.

“Home.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Tired, that’s all.” Though she welcomed his caresses, she didn’t want to tell him how exhausted she felt afterwards. It was pleasure, almost unendurable pleasure. But there was always something lacking; the fullness of him was lacking. She loved him more than he could ever imagine. She was willing to do whatever he wanted. She gave him more of herself than she had ever given to Gideon.

“Good,” Doyle said. “When I saw you, you look tired.”

“Really? It hasn’t been easy here; but after a nap, I’m fine.”

“My boys and their families will be here the day before Christmas.”

“I’ll miss you very much.”

“And I’ll miss you.” When they were together, they’d agreed to meet the day after New Year’s Day, and to keep in touch by cell phone.

“Doyle,” she said passionately. “Just Doyle!”

“Goodnight, Hon. I love you; I will always love you,” he said as he clicked off; and leaning back against the rear of his seat, he whispered, “Why can’t we just be friends?” He knew, of course, that it wouldn’t work that way. He would always want her, and she would always want him; neither of them would be willing to leave their spouse. They would be strung out between their passion for one another and their obligations to their spouses. Each of them had made a life for themselves in different worlds. He didn’t want either of them to be betwixt and between.  Maybe some other men could do it, but Doyle realized that he couldn’t.

- - -

Doyle looked at his watch; it was only six-thirty; he’d be home, the latest, by eight-thirty.  Mary would have dinner waiting for him. He closed his eyes and felt better than he had in a long time. He had even changed his mind about going to midnight Mass with his family; he knew that would please Mary.