The faint outline of where another sign had been glued was visible just above.
Josh unlocked the plain one and held it open for me. I stepped into a narrow entry hall lined with framed Daumier prints. To my left was a bentwood hall tree from which hung a single raincoat.
A gray tabby cat came from nowhere and padded toward us on the parquet floor.
Josh stepped in front of me and said, “Hey, Leo.”
The cat stopped, arched its tail, relaxed it, and walked up to him. He dropped his hand. The cat’s tongue darted. When it saw me, its yellow eyes slitted.
Josh said, “It’s okay, Leo. I guess.” He scooped up the cat, held it to his chest, and told me, “This way.”
The hall emptied into a small sitting room. To the right was a dining room furnished with mock Chippendale, to the left a tiny kitchen, white and spotless. Though the shades were up on every window, the view was a brownstone six feet away, leaving the entire apartment dark and denlike. Simple furniture, not much of it. Some paintings, nothing flashy or expensive.
Everything perfectly in place. I knew one way Josh had rebelled.
Beyond the sitting room was another living area, slightly larger, more casual.
TV, easy chairs, a spinet piano, three walls of bookshelves filled with hardbacks and family photos. The fourth was bisected by an arched door that Josh opened.
“Hello?” Josh said, sticking his head through. The cat fussed and he let it down. It studied me, finally disappeared behind a sofa.
The sound of another door opening. Josh stepped back as a black woman in a white nurse’s uniform came out. In her forties, she had a round face, a stocky but shapely figure, and bright eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Rosenblatt.” West Indian accent.
“Selena,” he said, taking her hand. “How is she?”
“Everything is perfect. She had a generous breakfast and a nice long nap.
Robbie was here at ten, and they did almost the full hour of exercise.”
“Good. Is she up now?”
“Yes.” The nurse’s eyes shifted to me. “She’s been waiting for you.”
hAN IL L L. I
“Hello, doctor. Selena Limberton.”
“Hello.” We shook hands. Josh said, “Have you had your lunch break yet?”
“No,” said the nurse.
“Now would be a good time.”
They talked a bit more, about medicines and exercises, and I studied the family portraits, settling on one that showed Harvey Rosenblatt in a dark three-piece suit, beaming in the midst of his brood. Josh around eighteen, with long, unruly hair, a fuzzy mustache, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. Next to him, a beautiful girl with a long, graceful face and sculpted cheekbones, maybe two or three years older.
The same dark eyes as her brother. The oldest child was a young man in his mid-twenties who resembled Josh, but thick necked and heavier, with cruder features, curly hair, and a full, dark beard that mimicked his father’s.
Shirley Rosenblatt was tiny, fair, and blue-eyed, her blond hair cut very short, her smile full but frail even in health. Her shoulders weren’t much wider than those of a child. It was hard to imagine her birthing the robust trio.
Mrs. Limberton said, “All righty, then, I’ll be back in an hour –where’s Leo?”
Josh looked around.
I said, “I think he’s hiding behind the couch.”
The nurse went over, bent, and lifted the cat. His body was limp.
Nuzzling him, she said, “I’ll bring you back some chicken if you behave.” The cat blinked. She set him down on the couch and he curled up, eyes open and watchful.
Josh said, “Did you feed the fish?”
She smiled. “Yes. Everything’s taken care of. Now you don’t worry yourself about any more details, she’s going to be fine. Nice meeting you, doctor.
Bye-bye.”
The door closed. Josh frowned.
“Don’t worry?” he said. “I went to school to learn how to worry.”
Another small room, this one yellow, the windows misted by lace curtains.
Shirley Rosenblatt looked better than I had expected, propped up in a hospital bed and covered to the waist with a white comforter. Her hair was still blond, though dyed lighter, and she’d grown it out a little.