The Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page A

pain had eased. “What the hell for?” he said. “It’s just gas. That’s all it is. Nothing.”
    â€œAre you sure?” she asked worriedly.
    â€œSure.” He took her hand and lay back. As she reached toward the light, his grip on her hand tightened and then relaxed. She looked at him. He lay on his back, his eyes open.
    â€œDanny!”
    He didn’t move or respond.
    â€œOh, my God! Danny! Danny!”
    She had heard somewhere of a thing called mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She pressed her lips to his, trying to breathe life into his half-open mouth. Then, on her knees on the bed, she clawed her way over to the telephone, leafing through the pages of the bedside telephone pad for Dr. Kellman’s number. She found the number and dialed it. Kellman answered the phone himself.
    â€œJean,” he said, “pull yourself together. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    â€œWhat shall I do? I think he’s dead.”
    â€œI’ll be right over.”
    Her hand had been steady enough when she dialed the doctor’s number, but now it shook so that she could hardly get the telephone back in its cradle. On the bed, on her hands and knees, she turned to look at her husband. “Danny,” she cried, her voice a shrill wail of agony, “don’t do this to me! Don’t leave me! You promised me! You promised me you wouldn’t leave me! Please, please, Danny!” Then she crawled over to him and kissed his cheek. “It’s a game. One of your crazy games. To see what I’d do — to see what I’d do …” Her voice trailed away. So quick. His cheek was cold as ice. She put her arms around him, pressing her body close to his, her face against his face. “I’ll warm you, Danny, I’ll warm you. I could always keep you warm. I can. I can.”
    She heard the doorbell ring. No servants slept in the house. The doorbell rang again. Jean let go of her husband, got out of the bed, took her robe from where it lay flung over a chair, and went downstairs to let Dr. Kellman in. He glanced at her, and then ran past her, taking the stairs two at a time. Jean followed him slowly. When she entered the bedroom, Dr. Kellman was bending over Dan, his stethoscope on Dan’s bare chest. Then he dropped the stethoscope, took a tiny flashlight out of his pocket, and directed the light into Dan’s open eyes. Then he closed Dan’s eyelids. He was about to draw the sheet up over Dan’s face when Jean stopped him.
    â€œDon’t cover him. Not yet,” Jean said hoarsely.
    â€œIt’s no use, Jean. He’s dead.”
    â€œI know. I knew when I called you.”
    With all his years of practice, Kellman had never discovered what one says at a moment like this. He muttered something about the ten years that had passed since Dan’s first heart attack. “I’ll give you something for your nerves.” That was what a doctor said.
    â€œI don’t need anything. I’m all right,” Jean replied. She walked over to the bed and stood staring at her husband. She laid one hand against his cheek, held it there for a moment, then drew the sheet up over his face. “I’m all right now. We’ve had a long run of it, Danny and me. Three years more and it would have been half a century. Could you leave me alone with him for a little while, Milton? I know there are things you have to do. Use the telephone downstairs.”
    â€œOf course. I phoned for an ambulance. Be here in a few minutes. I’ll send them away. Should I call your son? Or Barbara?”
    â€œBarbara’s in Los Angeles. No, there’s no use waking her in the middle of the night, or Tom either. I’ll call Joe myself — later.”
    What an extraordinary woman, Kellman thought as he left the room, what a thoroughly extraordinary woman — no tears, no hysteria, just completely contained. Being Jewish, he considered it