30 Pieces of a Novel

His Mother

HE GOES TO see her. Lets himself in, says, “Hello, it’s Gould, I’m here.” Woman who takes care of her says, “We’re back here, mister.” Goes to the back of the apartment. His mother’s in bed. Blinds are closed, room’s dark. “How come she’s still in bed?” he says, opening the blinds of one window, and Angela says, “She said she wanted to sleep.” “But it’s past noon, I came to take her out to lunch.” “She said she doesn’t want to go to lunch. I asked her this morning. She said she only wants to sleep.” “Did she have a rough night?” and she says, “No, it was fine. She might be tired from some other nights.” “Mom, Mom”—shaking her shoulder — and she opens her eyes, not the usual smile or glad-to-see-you expression, says, “Oh, hello. What is it? Not today, Gould, I’m too tired.” “But you can’t just sleep all day. You got to get out. You need air, you need food, you need exercise,” and she says, “I can sleep if I’m tired. Right now I’m no good for anything else.” “But we had a date for lunch. I told you yesterday. You like lunch. You’ll have a drink.” “A drink would be nice; would I be allowed to? But another time. I’m too tired for one now, and it’ll only make me sleepier.” “Have you had breakfast?”—raising the blinds of the one he opened — and she says, “The light. Please let me sleep. What am I asking?” “But look at the light; it’s beautiful. And breakfast. Have you had it today?” and she says, “Breakfast? Sure. I think so. Ask the girl,” and closes her eyes. “Has she?” and Angela says, “I made it for her, sat her up in the chair, two hours ago, right after I got her back from the potty. But she said she didn’t feel like eating and then started dozing on me, so I put her back in bed.” “This is no good, really,” and she says, “I know, but if she says she’s so tired? I didn’t think I should force her to eat. That’d be worse. When they’re tired, little here, little there, that’s the best, I found.” “I meant, sleeping all day isn’t good,” and she says, “Oh, that. I know that too but I didn’t see anything else I could do. But she’s not starving, you know. When she doesn’t have breakfast, she has a big lunch.”

He raises the other blinds without opening them first. “Mom, come on, really, we’re going to lunch. We have to,” and she says, “Why?” “Because it’s good for you. You’ll see. Just getting out and seeing daylight and other people and being in a restaurant and eating is good,” and she says, “Not the way I look.” “So you’ll look better. Angela will help you with your hair and a shower if you didn’t have one; now you just look like you’ve been sleeping.” “Some other time, please, darling.” “No, today, and I’m hungry. Come on, Mom,” even though he thinks maybe she is better off in bed; he could be pushing her too hard. Who was it? Sybil, his wife’s friend, who pushed her mother on a vacation — sort of forced her to see more and more Mayan ruins when the woman that day just wanted to sit by the pool or in the motel room and nap and read — and she got a stroke and died, and she was — what? — a young woman, not even sixty. But if she sleeps it means she won’t eat or exercise or get any fresh air, and she’ll be bored — you lose interest in life, you lose your life, or something like that; at least it doesn’t help you at that age, that’s for sure. She should get up and out; he’s almost positive she should. “What should I do?” he says to Angela. “You gotta do what you gotta do, I suppose. I think she’s had enough sleep and the air will do her good if it’s not too hot.” “It’s mild; it’s okay. Mom, really, we’ll have a good time. I promise I won’t keep you out too long or push you. We’ll go slow. And just say the word and back we’ll go.” “I’m not really hungry today. If you are, the girl can prepare you something here.” “Before you came she did say she didn’t have an appetite,” Angela says. “You’ll do fine once you’re in a restaurant,” he says to his mother. “First a drink: Jack Daniels on the rocks, little water, twist of lemon; that’s your favorite, isn’t it?” and she smiles and says, “You know what I like. I always thought it was the best. What is it, a bourbon, a rye? I never know what to call it.” “It’s a sour mash, I think, which is close to a bourbon.” “They once sent me glasses,” and he says, “I remember, with the Jack Daniels logo on them.” “They were good glasses, too. It was some campaign and the liquor store man said … where was I at the time?” “You were in a liquor store,” he says, “the one on Columbus, down the block, that isn’t there anymore. I remember the story. Buying a bottle of Jack Daniels — a quart — and the salesman from Jack Daniels was there, and the liquor store man said to him, ‘She’s one of our best customers for your Daniels,’ and the man from Daniels said, ‘Then just fill out this slip, ma’am’—you said he had a Southern accent but I don’t see how that could be so.” “It was so long ago, I forgot the story. They must’ve thought I was a real shikker; why else would you give away something like that? But I never really drank that much, and I certainly don’t now. I just happen to prefer Jack Daniels over all those scotches and bourbons and whatever you called that one. But is that how I got those highball glasses, they were for highballs, though I used them for water when guests were here. They took ice well. Me, I like my Jack Daniels in a shorter squatter glass—” “An old-fashioned glass,” he says, and she says, “Yes, one of those. But that was very nice of them to do. It came from Kentucky, the package, and was insured. The postman brought it to the door and I had to sign for it. Eight of them in a box. I didn’t think I’d ever get them. You never do when you just fill out a slip and don’t pay money. And it was pure luck. I walked into the store at the same time the Jack Daniels salesman from Kentucky was in it, selling to the store, I think he was doing. And his company had this campaign, this promotional campaign he called it, and the store salesman probably put in a good word for me because he knew I only bought Jack Daniels and only from him, and I got on the list. I think I still have those glasses.” “No, they’re all broken by now,” he says. “Too bad. They were good glasses. I didn’t use them for my Jack Daniels drinks but I did for beer and soda, though they aren’t the appropriate glasses for beer. Those are different, and which I once had plenty of but they all must have broken by now too. Mugs, steins … the tall ones shaped like cones. …” “Pilsner glasses, I think you mean. Did I ever tell you of the time I was on a train in Czechoslovakia, Sally and Fanny when she was an infant and I, drinking a Pilsner beer in a Pilsner glass, and when I looked out the window at the station we’d just pulled into …” She starts closing her eyes and he says, “Anyway, good memory, Mom, amazing. You got everything. It’s wonderful the way you were able to bring that scene back. Now Angela and I will get you out of bed and she’ll give you a shower and help you brush your hair. Then you and I will go to Ruppert’s and get a drink and some lunch, and after that I’ll push you into the park and we’ll sit at our favorite spot, that food kiosk by Sheep Meadow. It’ll be cooler there than anywhere in the park, that I know of—” “I don’t think I’m up to all that. I’ll even skip the drink. I’m too tired to do anything now but sleep.” “You don’t have to do anything. Angela and I will get you up. She’ll give you a shower and help you dress. All you have to do is sit on that stool in the shower. She’ll even dry you if you’re too weak. Then I’ll get you in the wheelchair and to the street and into the restaurant. Or you can walk behind the chair and push it a little for exercise; by that time you might feel able to. You’ll see; you’ll end up appreciating that I practically forced you to go. You need the change of scenery. Everyone does.” “You’re right. It’s so monotonous here, but I doubt I’ll make it to every place you say you want to take me.” “You’ll make it, you’ll make it. Now, upsy-daisy, Mom, ready?” and she shakes her head and looks as if she’s about to cry, and he says, “Come on, what’s wrong? You’re okay, maybe still a little tired and confused from too much sleep, but you’re ready,” and lifts her from the back, sits her up, and swings her around so her feet rest on the floor. “Now we’ve started. We can’t turn around now, can we?” “Okay,” she says. “You’re too convincing. But I don’t want to be out for very long. My body couldn’t take it. I feel too weak.”

On the street she pushes the wheelchair about twenty feet toward Columbus Avenue and then says, “Something’s not working, I can’t go any further. Let me sit,” and he says, “That was hardly any exercise at all. Just walk to the corner, or halfway to it from here,” and she says, “I’m about to fall any second right here; I feel it,” and he quickly helps her sit, gets her feet on the footrests, and pushes the chair down the block. Someone walking a dog passes, and she says, “Do you know what that woman is?” and he says, “Oh, not again, Mom,” and she says, “A dog walker. I never knew such people existed, but they walk dogs for a living.” “Listen, as I’ve told you many times before, why do you think one person walking a dog is a professional dog walker? If she had five or six dogs, or three or four, and all of them on different kinds of leashes, I could see her being one. But the odds are she’s just the dog’s owner,” and she says, “Oh, no, I’ve heard. She’s a dog walker. It’s a profession I never knew of till someone told me. It’s an interesting thing to do, walk someone else’s dog, and you’d get lots of fresh air and exercise and get to meet lots of people walking their dogs, and it seems easy to do. Hey, do you think they’d give an old lady like me the job? I’d love it,” and he says, “Sure, you can do it from your chair.” “That’s right, I could,” and she smiles. “I’m sorry, that was a mean joke, and I didn’t intend it as such. I don’t know what I was saying,” and she says, “No, it was funny, and you’re right, and I could make extra money. If I do get anything from it I’ll give it all to you. I don’t need it anymore. Dog walkers, though. It’s something, really something to think about. All these new things.”

At the corner she says, “See those windows?” and he looks across the street where she’s pointing and says, “Which ones?” “All. The entire building has new windows, you don’t see? They’re a new kind. They never get dirty, outside or in.” “I don’t see the difference from regular windows, and their frames don’t look new,” and she says, “Oh, yes, someone told me about it. Very expensive to put in, but in the long run it pays off. Special wires or fibers in them you can’t see that always keep the panes shiny and clean. I never knew such things existed. I should replace my old windows with them. They also keep the cold out better and the heat in, so you save on fuel and electrical bills, and it’d mean no window washers every fall and spring. That I’d really be thankful for. With them, you make an appointment and then wait around all day and they rarely show up. But I’m an old lady and I’d be throwing away money on the new windows, since I won’t be around long enough to take advantage of the savings.” “What are you saying? You’ll be around plenty long; you’ll outlive me. You’re healthy most of the time, just a little weak today and probably from the heat. If you want those windows or more information about them, I’ll look into it,” and she says, “No, it’s too late.”

On Columbus, couple of blocks from the restaurant, she points across the avenue and says, “They put in all new fire escapes there. It’s the city law now,” and he says, “Where, which building? They all look the same to me,” and she says, “The green one.” “Green?” and she says, “Well, maybe not green — my eyes — but that dark one I’m pointing to. It used to be a landlord could have either inside sprinklers or fire escapes; that was the fire law. But now the law says you need both. So that building there had to install them.” “Mom, those fire escapes are old; they’ve been there since I was a kid,” and she says, “Oh, no, they were only recently put on, two months ago, maybe three. It’s the law now, but only for apartment buildings of up to six stories. It was because of some terrible fire last year where several children died. I don’t know how they think they’re going to save those kids from the taller buildings. Maybe they think every building seven stories and up has elevators, but that’s what’s happening.” “If you say so. But if those fire escapes are new, then something’s already wrong with the paint job they did, for even from here I can see it’s peeling.” “Don’t kid me, you can’t see that well from so far. But every building of that size and lower will have to have them, mine too, of course. It’s going to ruin the architecture of this neighborhood and cost the landlords a fortune. A city of fire escapes, it’ll come to be known as. Ugly and creepy, like everywhere you look, skeletons. And in back too if the building isn’t made up completely of floor-through apartments, which the majority aren’t. I’ll have to take out an enormous second loan.”

A half block from the restaurant they bump into a friend of his mother’s. “How are you, Mrs. Silbert?” he says. His mother just stares up at the woman, and he says, “Mom, your friend, Marjorie Silbert,” and his mother says, “Hello, how have you been? It’s so good to see you,” and shakes the woman’s hand, and the woman says, “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve wanted to come by, Bea, but haven’t been my old self lately. But soon,” and his mother says, “Good, we’d love having you. Come for dinner. Call beforehand, and I’ll make sure the girl prepares something nice for us and goes out for some schnapps.” “Your mother’s looking well,” the woman says, “she’s feeling well too?” and he says, “Seems to be,” and his mother says, “What am I, a ghost? Ask me and I’ll tell you. I’m tired, dear, then more tired. It must be the weather because it can’t be my age. Otherwise, no complaints, especially when my son’s in town for a while and his lovely family. You know Gould, don’t you?” and the woman says, “You’re lucky to have family around even for a short time. My two won’t come near New York,” and kisses his mother on the cheek, says, “I’ll telephone you and come over, we’ll have a long chat,” and goes. “That was nice bumping into her,” he says, “always such a pleasant, elegant lady,” and she says, “Who is she, a friend of yours?” and he says, “I told you, Marjorie Silbert, from the block,” and she says, “She looks awful, no wonder I didn’t recognize her,” and he says, “She doesn’t look bad, always a nice smile and nicely dressed,” and she says, “Awful, like death’s knocking on her door.” “Nah, come on, you’re exaggerating. And I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her. You and Dad were good friends with her and her husband, both dentists — though he died long ago. I used to play with their younger girl,” and she says, “I hope you didn’t knock her up; that’d be scandalous for us,” and he says, “We were little. Kindergarten through about the fourth grade. Then she went to some expensive girls’ school on the East Side and from then on wouldn’t give me or any of the other boys on the block the time of day. But they lived down the street from you — Mrs. Silbert still does, or Dr. Silbert; that’s right, doctor — number one-forty-three. She owns the building; they had their dental practices on the first floor.” “No, don’t tell me. If it was true, I’d know immediately who she is,” and he says, “Mom, no offense meant, but something’s really happening to your memory. You’re sharp in a lot of ways, and when you do latch on to a memory you create a big, full picture, but you have to try and use it more. You got to make an effort to remember who people are, where you are, and what day it is and all those things.” “No, you’re kidding me. My mind’s not so bad. But you can’t tell me I know that woman and she’s lived on our street that long. I was always bad with names but never faces.” “Okay,” he says, “okay. But what are you going to do if she calls you and wants to come over and chat?” and she says, “I’ll let her. When you’re not around no one comes by but friends of the girls who look after me, so I can use the company.”

He gets her in a seat in the restaurant, folds up the wheelchair, and puts it to the side of the bar. “Did you look at the menu yet?” he says, sitting down, and she says, “I’m not hungry at all. I don’t know why you brought me here,” and he says, “To get you out and to eat. This’ll be both breakfast and lunch. What do you think you want?” “You know, my eyes — I can’t see the print too well, so you pick something for me. I’m sure it’ll be good,” and he says, “Like to start off with a soup?” and she says, “I never liked soup, though at some dinner parties with your dad I often had to pretend I did,” and he says, “Since when? You usually like the soups here, even when it’s hot out. And if you don’t want a hot soup today, you could have a cold one, like. …” and he looks at the menu, and she says, “No, no, no, no soup, I don’t eat them, I’m telling you.” “Okay, something with fish, meat, a smoked turkey sandwich, hamburger, turkey burger?” and she says, “I don’t want meat. It upsets my stomach, takes too long to digest, keeps me up, and I’ve learned things about it recently: undercooked meat and its problems and the bacteria meat collects if it’s left out too long,” and he says, “Good, you’re reading the newspaper again,” and she says, “I heard it on the all-news channel I get. A terrific bore to sit in front of for a few hours straight. But it does pass the time and is better than most of the rubbish on, and occasionally there’s an interesting story.” “Then how about a salad?” and she says, “What am I, a rabbit, that I should just have salad?” and he says, “That’s something like what Dad used to say,” and she says, “Well, every now and then your father said some smart things — he knew about life,” and he says, “Yes, no; on some things: money, for instance, and how to make it. Anyway, it doesn’t have to be just vegetables in the salad. There could be tuna in it, grilled chicken, marinated steak strips, it says here. Lots of things like that. But you don’t want to eat meat”—because she’s shaking her head—“okay.” “It’s funny, though, but I never liked tuna, not even when I was a little girl and it was all the rage. Real fish in a can that isn’t sardines, people thought. Oh, boy, how everybody got excited when it first appeared in our neighborhood grocery store. But it’s always been too oily for me, and smells. Your father loved tuna, canned or fresh, and the oilier the better, but especially mackerel,” and he says, “We had mackerel in the house? I don’t recall, nor Dad liking tuna that much. I also don’t remember your ever serving fresh tuna,” and she says, “Restaurants.” “Oh. What about a pasta dish? They have hot and cold and in all sorts of shapes: curly, long, penne, which I remember from someplace but now forget what it is, and a cold pasta salad too, again a penne,” and she says, “Too doughy; may as well eat bread, and the sauce will make a junkyard of my blouse,” and he says, “You’re right, I should’ve thought of that. Eggs. What the hell, you always liked them, omelets or otherwise, even though they’re not supposed to be great for people. But at your age, why worry about it? You’ve passed the possibility of those kinds of complications from foods,” and she says, “Eggs, then, a good choice. Fried with the eyes up, but not too runny, and let me have a few strips of bacon, well done,” and he says, “Fine.” She doesn’t eat and he doesn’t touch her food, though she’s constantly offering it—“The cholesterol, I’m not supposed to,” he says, “and my salad’s enough”—so her lunch is wasted. She sips a few times from her Jack Daniels, but that’s all, plus a sesame stick. “No taste for anything today, I’m afraid — I told you.” When he comes back from the men’s room, she’s sleeping. “Maybe,” he says to the waiter, who starts cleaning up around them, “I should let her nap awhile, and I’ll have a refill on my coffee,” and the waiter says, “Whatever’s your enjoyment,” but he can see the waiter doesn’t like the idea — place is busy and though there are a few free tables, his might all be occupied — so he says, “No, I should get her home, let her sleep there, peaceful as she is now. And she’ll be embarrassed if she finds she’s been napping in public,” and the waiter says, “So I should forget the coffee, I presume,” and gives him the check. He touches her and says, “Mom? Mom, we have to go,” when she starts stirring, and she says, “I wasn’t sleeping, I want you to know. Just closed my eyes to rest them. There must be a lot of pollution in the air for them to get so tired. What time is it?” and he says, “Ten after two,” and she says, “It’s so light for two o’clock, when usually my eyes see things darker,” and he says, “Two in the afternoon,” and she says, “Of course, even though restaurants around here are still serving that late in the evening. But how dumb of me.” “No, you’re just momentarily disoriented; so who isn’t?” He walks her out, then says, “Jesus, what was I thinking? Hold on to the wall here, I’ll get the chair,” and she says, “I don’t think I can.” “Sir,” he says to a young man passing, “could you please hold my mother up by the arm while I get her wheelchair from inside?” and the man says, “Why didn’t you bring it first?” and he says, “She said it was all right, that she could stand and wait, but suddenly doesn’t feel well,” and the man says, “Go get it,” and holds her, and he gets the chair and says to her while she’s standing, “You want to walk behind it and push it for a block?” and she says, “Let me sit for a second,” and he sits her in the chair and says, “So after you catch your breath, you want to walk behind the chair for a block?” and she says, “Why’d you lie to that nice man?” and he says, “Why, what’d I say?” and she says, “Why are you now lying, or — I’ll be kinder to you — fibbing to me again?” “I don’t know what you mean,” and she says, “Each new thing you say makes it worse for you. Why are you doing that?” and he says, “Shoo, are you suddenly sharp! I’m glad to see it,” and she says, “And why are you still trying to fabricate your way out of my original question?” and he says, “And what was that? Okay. Because I felt embarrassed at my stupidity in getting you out here before I got the wheelchair. That make you feel better?” and she says, “Please don’t speak to me like that; I don’t deserve it,” and he says, “I’m sorry, really sorry. I just should’ve admitted my error right off to the man. I’ve always got out of spots like that by dissembling, but I’ll try not to anymore,” and she says, “You didn’t even have to explain to him. Just say, ‘Would you mind holding my mother’s arm while I get the wheelchair from inside?’” and he says, “Isn’t that what I said?” and she says, “But with the long apology you made, I think,” and he says, “Sure, that’s even better, what you suggested; that’s what I’ll do next time. Now, want me to help you to stand so you can push the chair from behind for a couple of blocks?” and she says, “Before it was one, now it’s two?” and he says, “Hoo-hoo, are you ever cooking. Okay, one or two. It’s good exercise for your legs, which you don’t do enough of, according to Angela. You don’t want those muscles to atrophy. That would be catastrophic, the doctor says,” and she says, “Everyone has to get his two cents in. No, I’m feeling too weak to walk.” “You’re really tired today, aren’t you?” and she says, “That’s what I’ve been saying. I’m glad at last it’s registered.”

On the way home she says, “See those fire escapes over there?” and he says, “You pointed them out already today.” “I did? My mind must be going. That’s what I fear most. I don’t mind, or not that much, when the body goes piece by piece. But I do when the mind goes in big chunks. Then you’re lost and ought to be shot like a horse,” and he says, “Your mind’s okay. Little lapses, but usually sharp as a tack, as I said before,” and she says, “You think so? I hope you’re right.” A block later she says, “Did you know there’s a new law where every landlord in the city, of apartment buildings of six stories or fewer, has to have fire escapes on them? And if the apartments don’t go clear through to the back, then rear fire escapes too?” “Yeah, you told me, though I hadn’t heard of it before,” and she says, “I did? Not today, I hope,” and he says, “When we were on our way to the restaurant. Or maybe it was yesterday; we almost always go to Ruppert’s, so I think it was. Yes, yesterday, or even the day before. I get confused.” “No, don’t fool me, it was today. You’re being kind to me, but don’t. The most helpful thing is to let me know when I’m being overforgetful or just plain dotty, so I can try to stop it. See? My mind is going, and once it does there’s no going back,” and he says, “Jeez, talk about your mind, what about mine? I meant to take you to the park, and here we are walking home. We can still do it. Want to go to one of the old spots? Strawberry Fields — those nice quiet shaded benches there — or that eating gazebo — what do you call it again? — anyway, by Sheep Meadow?” and she says, “It’d be nice drowsing in the park in a cool shady scented place with lots of birds around chirping, but that’d be too much like a scene out of Heaven. Just take me home and let me rest in my own bed. There I know where I am, even when I suddenly wake up.”

When they get home, Angela says to her, “So how was it?” and she says, “How was what, dear?” “The lunch, the outing?” and she says, “I’m not sure” and — to him—“Did we have lunch?” and he says, “We went to Ruppert’s again, but you didn’t eat anything. You hungry now?” and she says, “Did I order something there?” and he says, “Plenty,” and she says, “Did we ask them to wrap it up for later?” and he says, “I didn’t think we should, for fried eggs.” “Dorothy might have wanted it,” and he says, “Who’s Dorothy?” and she says, “This nice young woman taking care of me here,” and Angela says, “No, thank you, Mrs. B. Eggs are best when cooked fresh.” “And her name’s Angela, Mom,” and she says, “I know. Where else did we go today?” and he says, “The park, through the zoo; the penguins made a special point of waving hello to you. A brief spin through the Impressionist wing of the Met and then south again because I wanted to take you on the merry-go-round, but you said you get too dizzy on them. Next we went to the chess and checkers house near the zoo and you beat a grand master in seven minutes flat—’Check,’ you said, ‘check, check, check’“—and she says, “Now you are kidding me. But it’s true about the merry-go-round. Even when I was a child. I suffer from — it’s because of a bad ear; one of my grade school teachers battered it — but what is that term when you get very dizzy?” and he says, “‘Getting very dizzy’?” and she says, “No, a medical term; you know.” “No, I swear to you; right now my mind’s out to lunch,” and Angela says, “Don’t look at me for it, Mrs. B. I’m the worst with your big American words.”

They get her on the bed, her shoes off, air conditioner turned on, afghan she made years ago spread over her, side rail up, and he says, “I can see to her from here on, Angela, thanks.” He kisses his mother’s forehead, she smiles up at him, looks sleepy; he says, “Just rest, close your eyes, rest,” and she shuts her eyes. “You feeling better now?” and she doesn’t say anything. “I’m not leaving right away. I’ll sit here awhile, if you need me,” but she doesn’t open her eyes or make any sign she heard him. Sits across from her, looks around for something to read, nothing here but a stack of old interior decorating magazines and another of Gourmet. He should tie them up and put them on the street, get rid of a lot of things she doesn’t use anymore, make the place less cluttered, but maybe these magazines are being kept for reasons he doesn’t see. She was an interior decorator for a while, not a bad cook, so she may think the magazines still have some use to her: get Angela or one of the other helpers to cook different things from the recipes inside, for instance. Or she just likes the idea of the stacks here, hoping she’ll go through them when her eyes improve. Door’s closed but Angela’s radio music is still very loud in the next room, Caribbean beat, female vocalist singing or talking rap in what sounds like a patois. Doesn’t want to tell her to turn it down; it’s only bothering him. But maybe his mother’s hearing it in her sleep and it’s disturbing her dreams. But it could also be making them more exciting and beautiful. She can be at a beach, cool breeze, blue sky, swimming in warm clear water, no other people on it, not even noise from a radio. Though she could also be drowning, being bitten by a shark, raped by a native, suffering from food poisoning. Oh, what’s he talking about? Doesn’t ever see them going out for lunch again. Or only on her very best days, when she’s stronger and more alert than he thinks he’ll ever find her again. From now on mostly just long strolls in the park and resting there, he on a bench, she in her chair; he could bring lunch for them, cook it himself or buy it at a deli: sandwiches, cole slaw, soup on the cooler days eaten out of a container with a plastic spoon, ginger ale for her, coffee in a Thermos for him, ice-cream bar from one of the vendors. Or just go to that concession stand by Sheep Meadow she seems to like — and that’s all it is, a concession stand — and get her an iced drink and Danish or crumb cake there, and that’d be all. Lightly toasted plain bagel — they do it in the microwave — with a cream-cheese spread; she likes them though never eats more than half of the bagel or the cake. He used to like taking her to lunch up to about three months ago, could do it with little effort. She pushed the chair most of the way, walked into the restaurant and to the table by herself with a cane, ate well, and never seemed to get drowsy. Sometimes they didn’t say much, but she liked being out and around people, and that was enough for him. She was getting a little weaker then, but nothing like the last couple of months and especially today. If there is a next time in a restaurant with her — there will; he’ll push her all the way, and so what if she falls asleep at the table? — he’ll order a glass of wine and click her drink with it instead of the coffee mug or water glass he uses now. And ask her things about her childhood and the city then and why the teacher battered her ear; she’s told him a couple of times but he’s forgotten it. And Dad and how they met, what the courtship was like, marriage early on, places they lived, jobs she’s had, people and books that influenced her the most, and so on. In the chair in the park she sleeps most of the time now or is awake but not conveying much, except at the concession stand, where there’s a table to sit at, and when they’re moving.

He says to Angela as he’s leaving the apartment, “If she’s up and alert this evening, call me, and I can shoot over, if I don’t have something urgent to do with my family, and have a drink with her.” “She’s not supposed to be drinking,” and he says, “One every other day won’t hurt her, and the one I got her today she barely touched,” and she says, “I don’t know what it’ll do to her, but that’s what the doctor and visiting nurse said.” “But she likes a drink every now and then, or did, and we can’t just take everything away from her all at once. Cigarettes, booze, reading, because of her eye illness, different foods because of this cholesterol and that salt and the rest of it. If anything will kill her, that will,” and she says, “I’m only repeating what was told me. You’re not there at every checkup and visit, but they always warn me about the same things.” “So, at her age we can be her doctors too. Lifting her spirits, letting her get away with some things she’s not supposed to. Let’s face it, the liquor makes her feel good. And to me, all that’s important; there’s little risk, and I’m sure it only makes her healthier rather than the reverse,” and she says, “I’m for that. But understand, you’re the son, I only work for her, and you both pay me through the agency, so with most things I’m not going to stop you. But if the doctor asks, I got to tell the truth.” “Don’t worry, and I’ll call you later. I really didn’t give her enough time today,” and she says, “She’ll appreciate it. She always appreciates seeing you,” and he says, “And I like being with her. And it gives you a break, right? because your job can’t be easy,” and she says, “That too.”

He calls around seven and Angela says, “She’s still sleeping.” “You mean from when we got her down this afternoon?” and she says, “I’ve tried to get her up but she won’t and I can’t force her. She must have slept less than I thought last night and needs to make it up,” and he says, “I should probably make an appointment for her with her general doctor, long as I’m in town,” and she says, “He won’t tell you anything newer than what he told me and your cousin a few weeks ago, because her health hasn’t changed since.” “Let her sleep then, but we have to get her up and around and things tomorrow,” and she says, “We can always try. But you know she’s not one for exercise or moving any faster than she can. She’s stubborn, which I admire in her.” He calls an hour later and Angela says, “Still sleeping. Believe me, I’ve seen it before with old people; she’s out for the night.” “I’m a little worried,” and she says, “Don’t be. She’s adjusted to her new pace, and she told me she hopes you get adjusted to it too.” “When she say that?” and she says, “Last week; but she’s always saying it.”

He comes by around noon the next day. She’s sitting up in bed in her nightgown, and he says, “Mom, you want to go out for lunch?” and she says, “Today I’m too tired to. I’ll just have a bite here. I had a big breakfast,” and Angela says, “You ate practically nothing, Mrs. B, and only wanted me to put you back in bed.” “That’s not so. I know I had a good breakfast — eggs, bacon, bread, and a glass of juice, unless it was an alcohol drink you were trying to feed me to get me to sleep,” and Angela says, “That sounds just like me.” Angela gives her a shower, gets her in clothes, they sit her in a chair in front of a table tray, and Angela puts a plate of food on it. She only nibbles on toast, sips some ginger ale, then says she’s full and can’t eat anything else. “Then let’s go to the park,” he says. “You won’t have to walk or do anything but rest in the wheelchair, and soon as you want to come home we’ll leave,” and she says, “Anything you want, I don’t care anymore,” and he gets her into the chair and wheels her to the park. She sleeps most of the way and continues to sleep when he stops to sit on a bench. He looks at her and tries remembering her face when she was thirty-five and forty and he was a boy. You need photographs for that, he thinks. He thinks that in thirty-five years, or even twenty-five, he’ll probably be dead too. If one of his daughters wheels him to a park a few months before, he hopes he’ll be capable of telling her he used to do this for his mother and before that for his dad. She could say, “I never knew your father, and how many years back was that with Grandma?” and he hopes he can figure it out and answer. If he can’t, he can’t. He’s sure he’ll be sleeping a lot then during the day. It’ll be very restful for him in the park, and probably that’s all he’ll want.