The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “So, what do we do next?” asked Pat.

  “Wait.”

  “But you promised Marvin you’d get back to him.”

  “I know, but I have absolutely no intention of doing so,” said David, placing his arm around Pat’s shoulders. “I’d bet a hundred dollars on Marvin phoning me first thing on Monday morning. And don’t forget, I still need it to look as if he’s the one who’s doing the pushing.”

  As they climbed into bed, Pat felt an attack of asthma coming on, and decided now was not the time to ask David to go over the details again. After all, as David had explained again and again, there would never be any need for Pat to meet Marvin.

  Marvin phoned at 8:30 on Monday morning.

  “Hoped to catch you before you went off to sell those stocks and bonds,” he said. “Have you come to a decision?”

  “Yes, I have,” said David. “I discussed the whole idea with my mother over the weekend, and she thinks I should go for the million, because five hundred thousand may not turn out to be such a large sum of money by the time I reach sixty.”

  Marvin was glad that David couldn’t see him licking his lips. “Your mother’s obviously a shrewd woman,” was his only comment.

  “Can I leave you to handle all the paperwork?” asked David, trying to sound as if he didn’t want to deal with any of the details.

  “You bet,” said Marvin. “Don’t even think about it, my friend. Just leave all that hassle to me. I know you’ve made the right decision, David. I promise you, you’ll never live to regret it.”

  The following day Marvin phoned again to say that the paperwork had been completed, and all that was now required was for David to have a medical—“routine” was the word he kept repeating. But because of the size of the sum insured, it would have to be with the company’s doctor in New York.

  David made a fuss about having to travel to New York, adding that perhaps he’d made the wrong decision, but after more pleading from Marvin, mixed with some unctuous persuasion, he finally gave in.

  Marvin brought all the forms around to the apartment the following evening after Pat had left for work.

  David scribbled his signature on three separate documents between two penciled X’s. His final act was to print Pat’s name in a little box Marvin had indicated with his stubby finger. “As your sole dependent,” the broker explained, “should you pass away before September 1, 2027—God forbid. Are you married to Pat?”

  “No, we just live together,” replied David.

  After a few more “my friend”s and even more “you’ll never live to regret it”s, Marvin left the apartment, clutching the forms.

  “All you have to do now is keep your nerve,” David told Pat once he had confirmed that the paperwork had been completed. “Just remember, no one knows me as well as you do, and once it’s all over, you’ll collect a million dollars.”

  When they eventually went to bed that night, Pat desperately wanted to make love to David, but they both accepted it was no longer possible.

  The two of them traveled down to New York together the following Monday to keep the appointment David had made with Geneva Life’s senior medical consultant. They parted a block away from the insurance company’s head office, since they didn’t want to run the risk of being seen together. They hugged each other once again, but as they parted David was still worried about whether Pat would be able to go through with it.

  A couple of minutes before twelve, he arrived at the doctor’s office. A young woman in a long white coat smiled up at him from behind her desk.

  “Good morning,” he said. “My name is David Kravits. I have an appointment with Dr. Royston.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Kravits,” said the nurse. “Dr. Royston is expecting you. Please follow me.” She led him down a long, bleak corridor to the last room on the left. A small brass plaque read “Dr. Royston.” She knocked, opened the door, and said, “Mr. Kravits, Doctor.”

  Dr. Royston turned out to be a short, elderly man with only a few strands of hair left on his shiny sunburned head. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had a look on his face which suggested that his own life insurance policy might not be far from reaching maturity. He rose from his chair, shook his patient by the hand, and said, “It’s for a life insurance policy, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Shouldn’t take us too long, Mr. Kravits. Fairly routine, but the company does like to be sure you’re fit and well if they’re going to be liable for such a large amount of money. Do have a seat,” he said, pointing to the other side of his desk.

  “I thought the sum was far too high myself. I would have been happy to settle for half a million, but the broker was very persuasive …”

  “Any serious illness during the past ten years?” the doctor asked, obviously not interested in the broker’s views.

  “No. The occasional cold, but nothing I’d describe as serious,” he replied.

  “Good. And in your immediate family, any history of heart attacks, cancer, liver complaints?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Father still alive?”

  “Very much so.”

  “And he’s fit and well?”

  “Jogs every morning, and pumps weights at the local gym on weekends.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Doesn’t do either, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she outlives him comfortably.”

  The doctor laughed. “Any of your grandparents still living?”

  “All except one. My dad’s father died two years ago.”

  “Do you know the cause of death?”

  “He just passed away, I think. At least, that was how the priest described it at his funeral.”

  “And how old was he?” the doctor asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Eighty-one, eighty-two.”

  “Good,” repeated Dr Royston, checking another little box on the form in front of him. “Have you ever suffered from any of these?” he asked, holding out a clipboard. The list began with arthritis and ended eighteen lines later with tuberculosis.

  He ran an eye slowly down the long list before replying. “No, none of them,” was all he said, not admitting to asthma on this occasion.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Never.”

  “Drink?”

  “Socially—I enjoy the occasional glass of wine with dinner, but I never drink spirits.”

  “Excellent,” said the doctor and checked the last of the little boxes. “Now, let’s check your height and weight. Come over here, please, Mr. Kravits, and climb onto this scale.”

  The doctor had to stand on his toes in order to push the wooden marker up until it was flat across his patient’s head. “Six feet one inch,” he declared, then looked down at the scale and flicked the little weight across until it just balanced. “A hundred and seventy-nine pounds. Not bad.” He filled in two more lines of his report. “Perhaps just a little overweight.”

  “Now I need a urine sample, Mr. Kravits. If you would be kind enough to take this plastic container next door, fill it about halfway up, leave it on the ledge when you’ve finished, and then come back to me.”

  The doctor wrote out some more notes while his patient left the room. He returned a few moments later.

  “I’ve left the container on the ledge,” was all he said.

  “Good. The next thing I need is a blood sample. Could you roll up your right sleeve?” The doctor placed a rubber pad around his right bicep and pumped until the veins stood out clearly. “A tiny prick,” he said. “You’ll hardly feel a thing.” The needle went in, and he turned away as the doctor drew his blood. Dr. Royston cleaned the wound and fixed a small circular Band-Aid over the broken skin. The doctor then bent over and placed a cold stethoscope on different parts of the patient’s chest, occasionally asking him to breathe in and out.

  “Good,” he kept repeating. Finally he said, “That just about wraps it up, Mr. Kravits. You’ll need to spend a few minutes