The Stars Shine Down

"Wonderful," Philip snapped. "I feel just wonderful."

"It was a stupid question. I'm sorry."

"Don't mind me," Philip apologized. "I haven't been myself lately." He pounded his right hand against the chair. "If the bastard had only cut my right hand. There are a dozen left-handed concertos I could have played."

And Keller remembered the conversation at the party. "Half a dozen composers wrote concertos for the left hand. There's one by Demuth, Franz Schmidt, Korngold, and a beautiful concerto by Ravel."

And Paul Martin had been there and heard it.

Dr. Stanton came to the penthouse to see Philip.

Carefully, he removed the bandage, exposing a long angry scar.

"Can you flex your hand at all?"

Philip tried. It was impossible.

"How's the pain?" Dr. Stanton asked.

"It's bad, but I don't want to take any more of those damned pain pills."

"I'll leave another prescription anyway. You can take them if you have to. Believe me, the pain will stop in the next few weeks." He rose to leave. "I really am sorry. I happen to be a big fan of yours."

"Buy my records," Philip said curtly.

Marian Bell made a suggestion to Lara. "Do you think it might help Mr. Adler if a therapist came to work on his hand?"

Lara thought about it. "We can try. Let's see what happens."

When Lara suggested it to Philip, he shook his head.

"No. What's the point? The doctor said..."

"Doctors can be wrong," Lara said firmly. "We're going to try everything."

The next day a young therapist appeared at the apartment. Lara brought him in to Philip. "This is Mr. Rossman. He works at Columbia Hospital. He's going to try to help you, Philip."

"Good luck," Philip said bitterly.

"Let's take a look at that hand, Mr. Adler."

Philip held out his hand. Rossman examined it carefully. "Looks as though there's been quite a bit of muscle damage, but we'll see what we can do. Can you move your fingers?"

Philip tried.

"There's not much motion, is there? Let's try to exercise it."

It was unbelievably painful.

They worked for half an hour, and at the end of that time Rossman said, "I'll come back tomorrow."

"No," Philip said. "Don't bother."

Lara had come into the room. "Philip, won't you try?"

"I tried," he snarled. "Don't you understand? My hand is dead. Nothing's going to bring it back to life."

"Philip..." Her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," Philip said. "I just...Give me time."

That night Lara was awakened by the sound of the piano. She got out of bed and quietly walked over to the entrance of the drawing room. Philip was in his robe, seated at the piano, his right hand softly playing. He looked up when he saw Lara.

"Sorry if I woke you up."

Lara moved toward him. "Darling..."

"It's a big joke, isn't it? You married a concert pianist and you wound up with a cripple."

She put her arms around him and held him close. "You're not a cripple. There are so many things you can do."

"Stop being a goddamn Pollyanna!"

"I'm sorry. I just meant..."

"I know. Forgive me, I" - he held up his mutilated hand - "I just can't get used to this."

"Come back to bed."

"No. You go ahead. I'll be all right."

He sat up all night, thinking about his future, and he wondered angrily, What future?

Lara and Philip had dinner together every evening, and after dinner they read or watched television and then went to sleep.

Philip said apologetically, "I know I'm not being much of a husband, Lara. I just...I just don't feel like sex. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you."

Lara sat up in bed, her voice trembling. "I didn't marry you for your body. I married you because I was wildly head over heels in love with you. I still am. If we never make love again, it will be fine with me. All I want is for you to hold me and love me."

"I do love you," Philip said.

Invitations to dinner parties and charity events came in constantly, but Philip refused them all. He did not want to leave the apartment. "You go," he would tell Lara. "It's important to your business."

"Nothing is more important to me than you. We'll have a nice quiet dinner at home."

Lara saw to it that their chef prepared all of Philip's favorite dishes. He had no appetite. Lara arranged to hold her meetings at the penthouse. When it was necessary for her to go out during the day, she would say to Marian, "I'll be gone for a few hours. Keep an eye on Mr. Adler."

"I will," Marian promised.

One morning Lara said, "Darling, I hate to leave you, but I have to go to Cleveland for a day. Will you be all right?"

"Of course," Philip said. "I'm not helpless. Please go. Don't worry about me."

Marian brought in some letters she had finished answering for Philip. "Would you like to sign these, Mr. Adler?"

Philip said, "Sure. It's a good thing I'm right-handed, isn't it?" There was a bitter edge to his voice. He looked at Marian and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

Marian said quietly, "I know that, Mr. Adler. Don't you think it would be a good idea for you to go outside and see some friends?"

"My friends are all working," Philip snapped. "They're musicians. They're busy playing concerts. How can you be so stupid?"

He stormed out of the room.