The Right Thing to Do Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Jonathan Kellerman
Station. On the side, he began tinkering with the radios and appliances of their neighbors, was finally able to rent a roach-infested, half-width storefront no one else wanted. There, he plied his skills as Blue-Bulb Repairs and by 1940 the income from the shop got the small family by and he only janitored on Saturdays.
Late in that year—approaching the dreaded November—Sabina missed her third period in a row and finally went to her women’s doctor. She’d made sure to find a Jewish one, this time. Though he was cranky, habitually tardy, and smoked a cigar nonstop, Nathan Diamond, M.D., would never expel her because of her ethnicity. Also, he seemed to know his business.
On top of the menstrual delay her abdomen ached dully and she felt weak and off-kilter and was convinced she had cancer. Not totally displeased by that terrible possibility because it confirmed her worldview, she confided her belief to Dr. Diamond, expecting a mournful look and talk about keeping her comfortable.
He felt her abdomen and said, “Let’s kill a rabbit.”
“Pardon?”
“Pregnancy test.”
“Not necessary,” said Sabina.
“Why the hell not?” said Dr. Diamond, a man not used to being challenged.
“Not possible.”
“Not only possible, young lady,” said Dr. Diamond, glaring at her. “Probable. You’ve always been regular before.”
“No,” she insisted.
The rabbit said otherwise.
—
The growth of the thing in her belly was startling, so big, so fast. Abnormal. Part of her still believed it might be a monstrous tumor, though Dr. Diamond claimed to have heard a heartbeat and pronounced her fit and able.
“What about the size?” she insisted.
He ignored her and left to see another patient.
By four months along, she was heavy to the point of near-immobility. Dr. Diamond felt around with his stethoscope, wondering out loud if she could be carrying twins. Blowing out a cloud of acrid Cuban smoke, he said, “Nope, one heartbeat. You’re a good-sized woman. How big was the other?”
Sabina mentally converted kilograms to pounds. “Eight and a half.”
“There you go, you grow ’em sizable. See you next month, go get dressed.”
“This feels different.”
“Get yourself dressed, go home and drink some wine to calm yourself down, and stop being neurotic.”
Two weeks before her due date, having been bedridden for a month due to fatigue and depression and dread, Sabina was rushed to the hospital where Dr. Diamond, not one for anesthesia, allowed her to struggle for seven agonizing hours before cursing and transferring her to an operating room where he finally intubated her and performed a cesarean section and extricated a ten-pound nine-ounce, twenty-four-inch-long boy with a full head of dark wavy hair.
“Biggest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” he confided to his O.R. nurse. “And she’s not even diabetic.”
They named him Malcolm, because it sounded Gentile and evoked nothing of the world and the families they’d left behind.
“Better,” said Sabina, “to be reminded of nothing.”
Willy said, “Rest up. I’ve got a fancy phonograph to work on, can’t afford to make a mistake.”
—
The Eldorado rolled into L.A. half an hour after midnight. The Sunset Strip was empty of pedestrians, auto traffic sparse, shops and restaurants, dark. Even Ciro’s and the other clubs were dormant. For all its reputation as a swinging place, Malcolm had decided L.A. was basically a small town.
The drive up to Steve’s ten-year-old ranch house on Blue Jay Way was a dark, winding curl of tape. Despite the hour, Ramona was at the door to greet them, the dining room table set for three, the open kitchen rich with the aroma of broiled meat and fried potatoes.
She stood on her tiptoes and pecked Malcolm’s cheek, gave Steve a full-on mouth-mash. A few years older than Steve—Malcolm guessed forty—Ramona wasn’t the type he’d imagined his brother would go for.
All those movies Steve had done, his looks
Late in that year—approaching the dreaded November—Sabina missed her third period in a row and finally went to her women’s doctor. She’d made sure to find a Jewish one, this time. Though he was cranky, habitually tardy, and smoked a cigar nonstop, Nathan Diamond, M.D., would never expel her because of her ethnicity. Also, he seemed to know his business.
On top of the menstrual delay her abdomen ached dully and she felt weak and off-kilter and was convinced she had cancer. Not totally displeased by that terrible possibility because it confirmed her worldview, she confided her belief to Dr. Diamond, expecting a mournful look and talk about keeping her comfortable.
He felt her abdomen and said, “Let’s kill a rabbit.”
“Pardon?”
“Pregnancy test.”
“Not necessary,” said Sabina.
“Why the hell not?” said Dr. Diamond, a man not used to being challenged.
“Not possible.”
“Not only possible, young lady,” said Dr. Diamond, glaring at her. “Probable. You’ve always been regular before.”
“No,” she insisted.
The rabbit said otherwise.
—
The growth of the thing in her belly was startling, so big, so fast. Abnormal. Part of her still believed it might be a monstrous tumor, though Dr. Diamond claimed to have heard a heartbeat and pronounced her fit and able.
“What about the size?” she insisted.
He ignored her and left to see another patient.
By four months along, she was heavy to the point of near-immobility. Dr. Diamond felt around with his stethoscope, wondering out loud if she could be carrying twins. Blowing out a cloud of acrid Cuban smoke, he said, “Nope, one heartbeat. You’re a good-sized woman. How big was the other?”
Sabina mentally converted kilograms to pounds. “Eight and a half.”
“There you go, you grow ’em sizable. See you next month, go get dressed.”
“This feels different.”
“Get yourself dressed, go home and drink some wine to calm yourself down, and stop being neurotic.”
Two weeks before her due date, having been bedridden for a month due to fatigue and depression and dread, Sabina was rushed to the hospital where Dr. Diamond, not one for anesthesia, allowed her to struggle for seven agonizing hours before cursing and transferring her to an operating room where he finally intubated her and performed a cesarean section and extricated a ten-pound nine-ounce, twenty-four-inch-long boy with a full head of dark wavy hair.
“Biggest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” he confided to his O.R. nurse. “And she’s not even diabetic.”
They named him Malcolm, because it sounded Gentile and evoked nothing of the world and the families they’d left behind.
“Better,” said Sabina, “to be reminded of nothing.”
Willy said, “Rest up. I’ve got a fancy phonograph to work on, can’t afford to make a mistake.”
—
The Eldorado rolled into L.A. half an hour after midnight. The Sunset Strip was empty of pedestrians, auto traffic sparse, shops and restaurants, dark. Even Ciro’s and the other clubs were dormant. For all its reputation as a swinging place, Malcolm had decided L.A. was basically a small town.
The drive up to Steve’s ten-year-old ranch house on Blue Jay Way was a dark, winding curl of tape. Despite the hour, Ramona was at the door to greet them, the dining room table set for three, the open kitchen rich with the aroma of broiled meat and fried potatoes.
She stood on her tiptoes and pecked Malcolm’s cheek, gave Steve a full-on mouth-mash. A few years older than Steve—Malcolm guessed forty—Ramona wasn’t the type he’d imagined his brother would go for.
All those movies Steve had done, his looks