“I’m a niece,” I said. “He doesn’t have any children or family of his own. Is it possible for me to see him?”
They sent me to the sixth floor, where I repeated my tale of being a niece. The ward head told me my uncle had suffered fractures to both arms, his pelvis, and he had a crushed cervical vertebra. He’d been unconscious when he was removed from his car, but scans didn’t show damage to the brain.
“He’s heavily sedated so he may not wake up, but he will hear you talking to him, so talk about things that are positive, that will soothe him and reassure him—happy family memories, or a favorite pet of his.”
I nodded guiltily, since my real hope was that Julius would be in a frame of mind to unburden himself of his own guilty secret. However, talking about it might soothe him more than chatter about a dead cat. I followed the ward head’s directions through a set of pneumatic doors.
Julius Dzornen looked like a knight in white armor, so completely was he casted. His breath came in short, heavy rasps. IV lines were inserted through the plaster. The only visible flesh was his face, which looked waxen and unreal. In repose, free of the bitterness that consumed him when awake, he looked younger.
I pulled up a chair next to his head and leaned over. “Julius, it’s V. I. Warshawski. Vic. I’m sorry you were injured. The ward head said to talk to you about your pets. Your birds are all eating well, Julius; I was just at the coach house and they looked pretty darned happy. I’ll get the Basier kids to keep the bird feeders full while you’re on the disabled list, Julius.”
I kept repeating his name, hoping it would rouse him. He seemed to stir a little, but maybe it was my imagination.
“Cordell is an angry and arrogant guy, isn’t he, Julius?” I said. “You must have really pissed him off, taking that BREENIAC sketch away.”
He mumbled something, but I couldn’t make out any words.
“Julius, it was Martin Binder, not Cordell, who went into the library using your name. He found Ada Byron’s letter to your father. Julius, did you know Ada Byron? Was she another of your father’s lovers?”
His eyelids started fluttering and his pulse increased.
I was sweating, scared about whether I was doing him harm. I’d make one more effort and then leave him alone.
“Gertrud Memler. Is that who she really was, Julius?”
“Mem,” he mumbled. “Mem-ler.”
A trace of spittle fell out of his mouth. I took a tissue and wiped it.
“Memler, Julius? Where is Memler?”
“Root.” His lips were cracked and the word came out in a guttural; I wasn’t sure I was hearing it correctly. “Root. Sell.”
“What are you doing here?”
I jumped at the unexpected voice. Herta Dzornen Colonna had come into the room and was furious at seeing me bent over her brother. “They told me one of Julius’s nieces was here. I thought it was my daughter Abigail, but it’s you. Get out of here at once.”
I got meekly to my feet, but didn’t apologize. “I saw your brother arriving at Cordell Breen’s house late last night, Ms. Colonna. He was very angry.”
“Julius?” She was so surprised she briefly forgot her own rage. “He hates Cordell.” Her face tightened again. “How do you know? Were you following him?”
“No, ma’am. Cordell had summoned me to Lake Forest to chew me out. Julius arrived as I was leaving. He accused Cordell of impersonating him to gain access to your father’s papers at the University of Chicago Library.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“Which part?” I asked.
Julius moved restlessly within his carapace and said again, “Root . . . Sell.”
Herta moved to the bed and put her fingers against her brother’s neck. “Don’t worry about it, Jules. Just rest and feel better.”
She looked at me. “I don’t know why Cordell would want to see Father’s papers, unless he thought there was an expired patent he could exploit. He and Julius never got on, but after the launch of the BREENIAC, they couldn’t be in the same room. Our families stopped having Thanksgivings together. It wasn’t long after that Edward Breen moved up to Lake Forest. But if Jules was really angry, I suppose he might have gotten drunk for courage and driven up to confront Cordell.”
She sighed and patted the part of her brother’s head that lay exposed. “I suppose that’s how he lost control of his car.”
“If he hated Cordell so much, how come he’s living in the Breen’s old coach house?”