Had he come to ask about a million dollars? she wondered.
Rune held up a rose in a clear cellophane tube. "I brought this. Is it okay if I give it to him?"
"He'll probably forget you gave it to him right away. But, yes, of course you can. I'll go get him. You wait here."
"They don't come to see me much. Last time was, let me see, let me see, let me see ... No, they don't come. We have this party on Sundays, I think it is. And what they do is, it's real nice, what they do is put, when the weather's nice, put a tablecloth on the picnic benches, and we eat eggs and olives and Ritz crackers." He asked Rune, "It's almost fall now, isn't it?"
The nurse said, in a voice aimed at a three-year-old, "You know it's spring, Mr. Elliott."
Rune looked at the old man's face and arms. It seemed like he'd lost weight recently and the gray flesh hung on his arms and neck like thick cloth. She handed him the flower. He looked at it curiously, then set it on his lap. He asked, "You're ..."
"Rune."
He smiled in a way that was so sincere it almost hurt. He said, "I know. Of course I know your name." To the nurse: "Where's Bips? Where'd that dog get to?"
Rune started to look around but the nurse shook her head and Rune understood that Bips had been in puppy heaven for years.
"He's just playing, Mr. Elliott," the nurse said. "He'll be back soon. He's safe, don't you worry." They were on a small rise of grass underneath a huge oak tree. The nurse set the brakes on his wheelchair and walked away, saying, "I'll be back in ten minutes."
Rune nodded.
Raoul Elliott reached up and took her hand. His was soft and very dry. He squeezed it once, then again. Then released it like a boy testing the waters with a girl at a dance. He said, "Bips. You couldn't believe what they do to him, these boys and girls. They poke at him with sticks if he gets too close to the fence. You'd think they'd be brought up better than that. What day is it?"
"Sunday," Rune ans
wered.
"I know that. I mean the date."
"June fifteenth."
"I know that." Elliott nodded. He fixed a gaze on an elderly couple strolling down the path.
The grounds were trimmed and clean. Couples, elderly and mostly of the same sex, walked slowly up the paved paths. There were no stairs, curbs, steps, low plants; nothing to trip up old feet.
"I saw one of your movies, Mr. Elliott."
Flies buzzed in, then shot away on the warm breeze. Big thick white clouds sent their sharp-edged shadows across the grass. Elliott said, "My movies."
"I thought it was wonderful. Manhattan Is My Beat."
His eyes crinkled with recognition. "I worked on that with ... Ah, this memory of mine. Sometimes I think I'm going loony. There were a couple of the boys.... Who were they? We'd have a ball. I ever tell you about Randy? No? Well, Randy was my age. A year or two older maybe. We were all from New York. Some'd been newspapermen, some were writing for the Atlantic or editing for Scribner's or Conde Nast. But we were all from New York. Oh, it was a different town in those days, a very different town. The studio liked that, they liked men from New York. Like Frank O'Hara. We were friends, Frank and I. We used to go to this bar near Rockefeller Center. It was called ... Well, there were a lot we went to. In Hollywood too. We'd hang out in Hollywood."
"You worked on a newspaper?"
"Sure I did."
"Which one?"
There was a pause and his eyes darted. "Well, there were the usual ones, you know. It's all changed."
"Mr. Elliott, do you remember writing Manhattan Is My Beat?"
"Sure I do. That was a few years ago. Charlie gave it a good review. Frank said he liked it. He was a good boy. Henry too. They were all good boys. We said we didn't like reviews. We said, what we said was reviewers were so low, you shouldn't even ignore them." He laughed at that. Then his face grew somber. "But we did care, oh, yes, ma'am. But your father can tell you that. Where is he, is he around here?" The old head with its wave of dry hair swiveled.
"My father?"
"Isn't Bobby Kelly your father?"