Phil Cavilleri was in the solarium, smoking his nth cigarette, when I
appeared.
"Phil?" I said softly.
"Yeah?" He looked up and I think he already knew. He obviously needed
some kind of physical comforting. I walked over and placed my hand on his
shoulder. I was afraid he might cry. I was pretty sure I wouldn't. Couldn't.
I mean, I was past all that.
He put his hand on mine.
"I wish," he muttered, "I wished I hadn't He paused there, and I
waited. What was the hurry, after all?
"I wish I hadn't promised Jenny to be strong for you. And, to honor his
pledge, he patted my hand very gently.
But I had to be alone. To breathe air. To take a walk, maybe.
Downstairs, the hospital lobby was absolutely still. All I could hear
was the click of my own heels on the linoleum.
''Oliver.
I stopped.
It was my father. Except for the woman at the reception desk we were
all by ourselves there. In fact, we were among the few people in New York
awake at that hour.
I couldn't face him. I went straight for the revolving door. But in an
instant he was out there standing next to me.
"Oliver," he said, "you should have told me."
It was very cold, which in a way was good because I was numb and wanted
to feel something. My father continued to address me, and I continued to
stand still and let the cold wind slap my face.
"As soon as I found out, I jumped into the car."
I had forgotten my coat; the chill was starting to make me ache. Good.
Good.
"Oliver," said my father urgently, "I want to help."
"Jenny's dead," I told him.
"I'm sorry," he said in a stunned whisper.
Not knowing why, I repeated what I had long ago learned from the
beautiful girl now dead.
"Love means not ever having to say you're sorry.
And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his
arms. I cried.