Black Cat Weekly #2

IT’S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD GIRL! by Jeff Cohen-5

He said, “A what?”

And there was something in his voice, such a genuine tone of surprise, that I had a rare instance of absolute clarity. It might have been my first.

All day long this event had been making me remember a movie I like but don’t love. It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World should have been one of the greatest comedies ever made, and instead it’s an okay movie if you don’t mind watching a well-made three-hour sitcom. It employed every comedy talent available in 1963 (and Ethel Merman) from Sid Caesar to Doodles Weaver, set them all in front of a camera, and then shackled them to a plot in which everybody is after something they think will make them happy and nobody gets it. That is not actually a spoiler.

The thing is, that movie gathered so many great comedians it was practically impossible for it to live up to its potential, and indeed it didn’t. The Three Stooges show up and don’t actually do anything. Jimmy Durante, Jerry Lewis, Leo Gorcey, Stan Freberg, William Demarest, Peter Falk, Selma Diamond, and Buster Keaton combined don’t get as much screen time as Terry-Thomas. Nobody knows why.

But what I was realizing at the moment Anderson said, “A what?” was found deep in my consideration of that exact movie. There’d been a reason it was haunting me all day.

There are people who believe that It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World really is the greatest comedy ever made. They’re wrong, but it’s their right to think so. The reason they think that is simple: All that comedy talent together in one place would have to create a hilarious film, right? Many of these people are told It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World is unbelievably funny before they see it. So that creates a perception before the fact.

And now, I was starting to understand I had done precisely that today.

The room erupted in sound. Most were shouting questions. Dr. Wiseguy was just mouthing something, but I don’t think any sound was coming out.

Sharon wailed with a big contraction. Maybe this wasn’t the time. But then she yelled, “A murderer? Elliot, are you nuts?”

The birth of a child is such a tender moment for a man and the woman who divorced him.

“I saw him in the supply closet holding up a woman and holding a knife or something, and she had her eyes closed. She was bleeding,” I said. “But maybe not.”

My mother looked scared, and she doesn’t do that much. Worried, yes. Disapproving, sure. Even tense, much of the time. Scared? Almost never.

Anderson took a step toward me. “I told you... ”

And that’s when Jonesy came into the room, saying, “Just wanted to let you know my shift’s over. This is—” She stopped when everyone turned and stared at her. I got what she was saying. Behind her was the nurse who would take over for Jonesy for the next eight hours.

A curly-haired blond woman in blue scrubs. Clean blue scrubs. Who was walking just a little tenderly, her hand casually holding her left side just a bit.

“Hi?” she said. “I’m Jane.” She gave Anderson a strangely knowing glance he tried to ignore, but a little smile betrayed him.

Bingo.

Sharon had another minute or two before the next contraction. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “but my obstetrician’s not here and I’m having a baby. So can we not worry about this just now?”

Dr. Wiseguy headed to her bed and drew the curtain shut, shaking his head in either disbelief or disgust. At me. I knew that part for sure.

Anderson looked at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

But I’d seen It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World with clear eyes. “I think I do,” I said. “I was wrong about you. I thought you were hurting Jane here when I saw you, but you were doing something else entirely. Something that you don’t want people around here to know about.”

Jane looked at me. “Do I know you?” she asked. She looked at Anderson again.

“This is the guy,” he told her.

Jane immediately reddened. “Oh.” She put her hand to her mouth.

“What am I missing?” Carla asked.

I looked at the crowd. “Guys, Sharon’s going to have the baby. Can we have the room now, please? I promise I’ll explain it all later.”

Sophie was the only one who protested. “Elliot, you said this guy was a murderer.”

“I was wrong. Don’t worry. There’s no danger.”

She looked skeptical but followed Anthony, Carla, and Jonathan out of the room, looking behind herself every few steps. I waved her out. Sophie is loyal and sweet.

My parents didn’t budge. I looked at my mother.

“What?” she said. “That’s our grandchild.”

I gave my father a look. He nodded. “We’ll see the kid when he’s on the same side of Sharon as we are,” he said and took my mother’s arm. She protested, but Dad led her out.

I looked at Anderson, whom Jane had joined next to the hospital bed. I had no idea when Jonesy had walked out, but she was gone.

“The only part I don’t get was the blood,” I said. They both held fingers to their lips, so I spoke more quietly. “You two snuck into the supply closet to... do what you wanted to do, but how did that lead to a knife—or was it a scalpel?—and blood?”

“You can’t tell anybody,” Jane said. “We could get fired.”

“I promise I won’t,” I told her. “But what about—?”

“It was an accident,” Anderson said. “We like to use that closet because people don’t usually go in there.”

“I was looking for ice chips,” I confessed.

Jane laughed. “In the supply closet?”

“That’s not the point. Are you okay, by the way? You were bleeding pretty good when I saw you.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t even need stitches. It’s just Robert doesn’t know when to quit.” She stifled a giggle again. “Surgeons.”

I must have looked confused, because I was a human listening to this story.

Anderson kept speaking quietly and moved toward me and away from Dr. Wiseguy. “Look. It was just something we do, you know? I was... I was cutting Jane’s scrubs off with the scalpel.”

Of course he was. “Why?”

“We like to do that,” Jane said, not making eye contact. “It’s kind of fun.”

Dr. Wiseguy’s joke from earlier floated through my head. “Surgeons. For them cutting is as much fun as sex.” Naturally.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“I slipped. The floor was a little wet and I slipped. That’s exactly what happened.” Anderson pulled Jane close to him. “Believe me, I felt terrible. But it was only a small cut, and I bandaged it up and cleaned up the spot right there. Jane took the scrubs with her so nobody would find out.”

“Your eyes were closed,” I said to Jane. As if she didn’t know what had happened in the closet and needed me to explain it to her. Sometimes my own stupidity astonishes even me. “You were barely standing.”

Her eyes got wider and she really didn’t look at me now. “I just... it was good.”

Suddenly a question occurred to me. “He cut your scrubs. What did you wear out?”

She gave me the look that a seasoned professional would—one of astonishment at how stupid I was. “It’s a supply closet,” she said.

“Elliot!” Sharon called from behind the curtain. And she did not sound like she was negotiating.

“Dr. Anderson!” Dr. Wiseguy bellowed.

Anderson headed straight in, and I was right behind him. I’ll spare you a description of what happened then because I don’t think fainting is something a man should be ashamed of.

When I regained consciousness I was holding a small bundle wrapped in a blanket that someone had handed to me seconds before. Sharon, sweaty and exhausted, lay on the bed to my left, smiling oddly like she was not actually looking at anything on Earth.

Just our daughter.

My parents and my staff had rematerialized in the room, and Jane was cleaning up some of the remnants of the past half hour. Dr. Wiseguy had vacated the premises, no doubt with someone else’s delivery time to miscalculate. Anderson was still there, but he was mostly watching Jane.

Everyone cooed and tickled the baby, who had eyes only for her mother and, for a moment, me. I looked her in the eyes, which were wide and filled with wonder. I glanced at Sharon, and she nodded.

“Hi, Matilda,” I said to our daughter.

My mother blinked. “Matilda?”

Dad recovered for both of them. “It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

“We’re going to call her Tilda,” Sharon said, her voice a little throaty and far away.

“We’re going to call her Matty,” I corrected her, knowing it would not be the last time.

I stood up gingerly, desperate to avoid dropping my daughter on her head. Then I leaned over and kissed Sharon tenderly on the cheek. “You want to see Mommy?” I asked the baby. She didn’t answer but Sharon was already reaching for Matty, so I handed her over, not without regret.

“Matilda?” Sophie had appeared at my side as I moved away to let Sharon and her baby have a moment to themselves. After all, my ex was wiped out. I’d have custody of the baby for hours soon while she slept.

“I wanted Minnie, for the Marx Brothers’ mother,” I explained. “Sharon wanted Eleanor for Mrs. Roosevelt. We blended them together and got Matilda.”

“You wanted a boy, didn’t you?” Anthony asked. He seemed shy of the mother and child and turned his back as he stood to my right, facing Sophie.

I pointed at Sharon and Matty, but Anthony didn’t turn around. “I wanted that baby,” I said.

My father, who was now officially named Grandpa, put a hand around my shoulder. “Matilda. Not a typical name.”

I looked over at my ex-wife holding our minutes-old daughter. I walked to her and took Matty from Sharon, who leaned back on the pillows. Jane, done cleaning up, pulled the curtain on Sharon’s bed so she could get some sleep.

Anderson, whom I’d thought was a murderer not all that long ago, smiled at me and wished us luck before heading out to catch up with his pompous mentor. He seemed like such a nice young guy, and I liked the way Jane looked at him.

I surveyed the room filled with young people who worked for me, older people who had raised me, a woman I loved who had divorced me, and a tiny baby who seemed, against all odds, to trust me.

“We’re not typical parents,” I said.

“This is not the way I pictured this. Things have certainly changed since I had a baby,” my mother said.

“That’s true,” I told her. “It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world.”

“I have a beautiful granddaughter,” Mom said. “Who’s mad?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeff Cohen is a rumor put forth by a secret government cabal intent on being diabolically silly. As E.J. Copperman he writes the Jersey Girl Legal Mystery series and as himself he writes creative grocery lists and some snappy emails.