Redemption Read Free

door. I switched on the lights, and she followed me through the foyer into the living room. She looked around and murmured, “It’s very nice.”
    â€œWill you stay?”
    â€œYou don’t know anything about me.”
    â€œI know that you’re very tired and you need sleep. Come with me,” I said gently. She followed me into the guest room. “It has its own bathroom,” I explained, opening that door. “The bed is made up.”
    She nodded.
    â€œThere’s a robe behind the bathroom door.”
    â€œThank you, Professor. I’ll leave in the morning.”
    â€œIf you wish, of course. Perhaps you’d like a glass of warm milk? It would help you sleep.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know who you are or why you are being good to me,” she said softly, “but I’m so tired I could sleep in the gutter. Thank you, Professor.”
    She closed the door behind her. I had done what I could do, short of calling the police. Going into the living room, I dropped into an easy chair, realizing that I had taken her to my place so that she might not escape—but why not let her escape? The answer was simple: I couldn’t allow her to leave her death on my hands. I heard her toilet flush, and I heard the creak of the bed as she fell into it. Then I washed my face and hands, found a glass of cold milk in the fridge, and drank it down. Back in the living room, I fell into the easy chair once again. Stuffing my pipe but not lighting it, I remembered that when my wife was alive, I smoked only in my own office. Still, I didn’t light the pipe but simply sat and looked at it, reflecting on this sad little drama that I had stepped into.
    I fell asleep in the chair, and the next thing I knew, a voice was asking, “Professor?”
    Elizabeth stood in front of me, dressed and with her coat on. The sun was pouring through the windows behind me.
    â€œI couldn’t leave without saying thank you again.”
    Stiff and cramped, I got myself out of the chair. “Good heavens, what time is it?”
    â€œTen o’clock,” she responded.
    â€œHow do you feel?” I asked her.
    â€œAll right. Better than last night. I’ll go home now. I’ll be all right.”
    â€œNo.” I rubbed my eyes. “Forgive me, I don’t often fall asleep like that. A bit stiff. But I think we should talk.”
    She shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m over it.”
    â€œYes, I’m sure,” I said, thinking that she was by no means over it. My impression of her the night—or the morning—before, was of a woman wrapped in distress and agony. She looked different now. I could see the white in her hair; her gray eyes were alert, and the translucent skin that people of her coloring have now looked less ghostly. About five feet six inches in height, she was not beautiful as we think of beauty. But she had strong, even features. She might have come into my life late the night before and now just walk out of it, through the apartment door. Then I might never have seen her again, except to read in the morning paper that her body had been found. I am not a religious man, but I recall that it is said somewhere—in the Talmud, I believe—that he who saves a life saves the whole world. I think it is also said that when a life is saved, the obligation is put not upon the one who is saved but upon the one who acts to save.
    I didn’t ask her to stay. She was all negative at this point. I simply said, “You are free to leave, of course, but I want you to have some coffee first, and some breakfast. That is a small favor that I can claim for having saved your life.”
    â€œFor what it’s worth, Professor.”
    â€œAnd, for heaven’s sake, don’t call me ‘Professor.’ Call me Ike.”
    For the first time since I met her, she smiled. Her face changed; for a moment it glowed