30 Pieces of a Novel

Near the Beginning

VISITS HIS MOTHER in the hospital. Goes to. Sees. “I’m afraid this could be it,” her general man said on the phone. “Today, tomorrow; she could go anytime. She’s … what is she, ninety?” “One.” “Worse, then. Everything that could be wrong with her’s wrong with her. Everything that counts, that is: heart, kidneys, lungs. There’s nothing any medical staff can do for her except keep her comfortable and free of pain till she expires. Do you mind my being so blunt?” “And if I did? But no, I’ve told you.” “That’s what I thought. Hope to see you over there, though she’ll be in good hands if I miss you. You flying in today?”

Started with the hip. No, started long before that. She’s been sick on and off the last fifteen years. In the hospital, out; in, out. Ambulance over, intensive care for a few days, regular room for a couple of weeks. “Why do they keep dragging me in here?” she’s said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m old, so some days I’m weaker than others. They had a spare bed and some available machines; they saw a good chance to milk the insurance company and Medicare.” But with the hip they couldn’t put a pin in because of her fragile health. Or they put one in and the body rejected it; he forgets. Lying in bed most of the time, sitting in a chair the other times, usually in pain, she deteriorated rapidly; didn’t see the point in living like this, she said, whenever he visited her or phoned. Wouldn’t eat, or couldn’t; anyway, hardly ate and refused to move to a nursing home—“I’ve only what left, no time? And you’ll have to swap me for every cent and brick we own, plus I heard they beat you black and blue if you pish in your pants, so it makes no sense for either of us, and who can stand being with all those groaning old people and their smells”—and around noon the woman who takes care of her weekdays called. She couldn’t wake his mother. Ambulance was called, she went to the hospital in a coma, came out of it, will probably be in one by late tonight or early tomorrow, the resident for the intensive care unit says before Gould goes in. “But who can say? I’m always an optimist with my patients. They repeatedly surprise me, more times than I can remember, though mostly much younger ones. Save me the trouble of getting her chart; how old’s your mom?” “Ninety-one.” “She looks amazing for someone her age. Almost no facial creases, neck still pretty good; she must’ve been the beauty in her family. You wouldn’t know simply by looking at her she was in such terrible shape. So as for her walking out of here … what’d her internist tell you about it this time?” “That she’s not.” “There’s little chance, really no hope. I haven’t told her this and she hasn’t asked, but if you feel she wants to know and that she can absorb it, do what you think is best.” “It can’t help her, right?” “Help, hurt, what are we talking about here? It should all be up to the patient if her comprehension’s keen. Would you like to know in a similar situation and at her age?” “Yes, I think so. Or maybe I wouldn’t care either way. Or I wouldn’t want to know because I’d be afraid that with dying there’d be lots of pain or the news of it would disturb the only enjoyable thing left, my dreams.” “First of all, we’ve instantaneous drugs, so no pain. Or one wince by her or bounce on the monitor and we turn it up. But me, a doctor, I’d know without my kid telling me. If he started to say, ‘That’s not true, Dad, you’re going to be fine,’ I’d say, ‘Bunk, pure bunk.’”

A nurse is taking his mother’s temperature from under her arm. Does it in a few seconds with some new kind of thermometer, one he’s never seen, and records it on a chart. She turns to hang the chart on the end of the bed and jumps. “My goodness, you scared me. You here for her.” and he says, “Yes, Mrs. Bookbinder; her son.” “Good, everyone alert here can use a few minutes of company. But please, no longer. Max of one visitor per patient at one time — ICU rules — and for a total for all visitors of ten minutes an hour. As should be obvious, we have so many—” and he says, “It’s okay, I read the sign on the door, and no one else is coming. And I don’t want to use up any more visiting minutes, but how is she?” and she says, “You spoke to the resident?” and he says, “Yeah, but you just took her temperature, maybe her pulse.” “Good, she’s good. A strong woman for someone past ninety, remarkably strong. Bit of temperature just now, but I’m sure only because of the IV needle. Take it out, she’ll be normal.” No need to ask what she means about strength. Strong enough to hold on another day, two, three at the most. IV’s not coming out till they have to work on her to get her breathing again or she’s dead. Something like that; he really doesn’t know. And her pulse? he wants to ask, but she’s with another patient now. He stands beside his mother and says, “Mom, it’s me, how you doing, you awake?” Her eyes are closed, no lid movement. “Mom, can you hear me? It’s Gould. You want to sleep? If you do, don’t even bother opening your eyes. I’ll be here a few minutes, then I have to leave. Hospital rules for this room — no more than ten minutes — but I’ll be back before you know it.” Her eyes open slowly. “Yes,” she says, adjusting her eyes to the ceiling, then staring at it. He puts his head a few inches above her face. “Can you see this big ugly head over you? It’s me, Gould, your son. How you feeling?” and kisses her forehead. “How I feel — don’t get so close; move back,” and he does. “Can’t you see? In the pink.” “Hey, you’re okay, you look good, and your sense of humor’s just perfect.” “I was a deadbeat before I met your dad.” “You’re saying you had no sense of humor till you met Dad? That can’t be true.” “Is that what I said? I don’t want to lie. What did I say? I know I got wax in my ears but not that much.” “There, again, always good for a funny line.” “Who?” and he says, “You. You’re funny, clever; you oughta go on the stage.” “I’ll tell you … did you ask something?” “No.” “The last stage. When the curtain’s pulled down. That’s me, and no encores. And whatever anyone says, nobody gets them.” “And philosophically funny now; oh, you’re too much.” “I’m too much? I’m cheap, I’m cheap, a heap of nothing, and I’m going to die here, I know. Well, I can’t say I’ve been lucky, but it’s my time.” “What’re you talking? You’re doing fine; doctor told me to tell you.” “I’m doing fine, take me home.” “That they won’t let me do just yet. Once you come in — you know by now the procedures — they gotta do all their checks and tests on you before you can be released.” “If you wanted to take me, you could. You have my permission. Give me the dotted line.” “No, I swear, I can’t do, and you need the rest.” “All I do is rest. How old am I?” “Maybe we’re talking too much and you should be resting more, and I think my visiting time’s up.” “Why, I told you; let them kick you out. They’re not going to, and if they try, blame it on me. I haven’t seen you for a long time. Now how old am I?” “How old do you think you are?” “That depends on how old you are. How old are you?” “Nearly sixty.” “You’re an old man already, how’d it happen so fast? You were once such a young man. You were a baby once and I knew you then.” “Your baby, but don’t get me started.” “Started where? You’re too old to get started. Me, though, that’s age. So how old am I? You’d have the information to know?” “You do know who you’re talking to, right?” “Of course, I’m not stupid. You’re my son. Your name I forget just now but I’ll get it, give me time.” “Gould.” “That’s right: Gould. Who’d we name you after? It’s such an uncommon name, but it must have been from someone.” “You always said from no one, you just liked the name. And Dad used to say he went along with it because he knew he couldn’t change your mind.” “That’s what he said? When did he tell you that? Never to me. No, it was all my idea. You were named after … Dad wanted his father’s name, but I put my foot down on that. I forget what his father’s name was, but I knew it wasn’t for a modern young man. Isaac. Or Julius. No, the last one was an old boyfriend of mine and the first one I don’t know why I brought it up. Look at me: I can remember an old boyfriend’s name from another century but not yours or my father-in-law’s. Well, his I no doubt forgot because he was such an awful man.” “Abraham.” “Abraham. Abe Bookbinder. Who could name a child that, and the kind of man he was too? Father of men, I think it’s supposed to mean. That’s good for a one-day-old? How old am I?” “Just a second, Mom. Now that you started it, I would like to know who I was named after. It’s interesting, finding out now.” “I’m not keeping it a secret. A man’s first name, a woman’s last? Or some other way, but it’s not coming back to me.” “Did you get it out of a newspaper or from a book you read?” “I was always reading. As a girl, you saw a book more than my face. So books much more than newspapers, newspapers almost never. The daily news didn’t interest me. My father said I would go blind. But I didn’t wear glasses till I was sixty, or never needed them, I thought. Your father didn’t mind, but he wasn’t interested either.” “In choosing my name? In your reading books or that you didn’t wear glasses or that you wore them later on? Because I know Dad was interested in newspapers. He read about three a day.” She closes her eyes, shakes her head, doesn’t seem uncomfortable or in pain. “I’m sorry for pursuing this, Mom, but was it the industrialist Gould I was named after?” With her eyes closed: “Who’s he and why industry?” “Good, you put that together. And he was in railroads, actually, and a speculator, though maybe industry too. Not the pianist Gould. That was much later, his fame, and he’s only a few years older than me, or would be. Now I’m a few years older than he ever got.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Wasn’t there a character in a well-known novel of around nineteen-ten or — twenty with the last name Gould?” “I can’t read anymore. My eyes are all gone for that, even for the much larger print, so maybe my father was right — he’d like to know. Each letter would have to be a foot high for me to read, and what book has that? I’d have to be a giant with giant eyes. I’m too old, I can’t grow. When you get this age, no matter what age you’re too old. I’m never getting up again, I can see that. Never away from this bed, probably, not even to pee. Give me a drug, send me away, I’ve been bad, very bad, it’s right I go.” “Why do you say that? You’re absolutely wrong.” She opens her eyes. “Why, what did I say? I forget.” “You haven’t been bad. You’ve been wonderful and generous all your life. And you could get out of here if you wanted to. I don’t mean into your clothes and home this moment, but if you want to leave here, you will.” “I don’t. Enough’s enough, don’t you think? How old am I? A hundred years old, two hundred? I bet I am, the way I feel.” “You’re ninety … not even that. Still young, believe me — today? Almost ninety’s nothing, or just starting to get there.” “Let me sleep,” and she shuts her eyes.

He goes out for coffee; when he gets back her bed’s not there. “Where is she, something happen?” he asks a nurse, and she says, “They didn’t think she needed the room anymore and we need every bed in ICU we can get. She’s in a private on another floor.” He goes to it; she’s alone, still hooked up and sleeping. Sits, the book in his back pocket sticks into him, and he takes it out and tries reading, but a book’s no good for sitting in a room like this — he can’t concentrate, is easily distracted: noises in the hall, pigeons on the windowsill, distant car honks and what sounds like a helicopter overhead, paging and muffled voices through the walls, his mother’s heavy breathing and occasional lip-smacking and snorts and snores — and gets today’s Times from a vending machine by the elevator doors. He’s reading it, being careful not to crack the pages when he turns them, when her food comes. “This can’t be for her,” he says, and the man who brought it says, “If she’s Bookbinder, it’s what I was told.” Gould picks up the tray cover: “Meat, not even sliced? A baked potato, hard roll? Even a soft one wouldn’t do. Her teeth aren’t around — maybe they’re in the drawer here,” and looks in the night table drawer and they’re in their case. “And she only came out of a coma this morning. Diluted apple juice, at best a weak broth.” “She didn’t fill out her menu for the day, and nobody for her, so this is what’s listed downstairs to give her.” “It’s okay, take it away; she won’t be eating, believe me, and just the food smells might disturb her.” “What won’t?” his mother says. “Take what away?” Eyes open, she’s trying to push herself up. “Wait, stay, wait,” he says to her, pressing down on her shoulder. “You got tubes in you, which is another thing. She can’t eat with those things in too,” and the man says, “Sure she can; I’ll just get the nurse to take out the glucose IV while keeping all the rest in.” “If you’re hungry,” Gould says to her, “and that’s a great sign, I’ll get you something soft and fluid to eat. And notice, you’re out of intensive care and in your own room. That’s how much better they think you’re doing.” “They put me in here not to scare the other patients. But I got no appetite. Have you gone to the cafeteria here?” and he says, “Just for coffee.” “Then you haven’t eaten. Take all of it, I’m not going to. You don’t like some of it, don’t eat it, but there’s got to be something on the tray you like.” “Okay, I’ll nibble. Is it all right?”—to the man — and the man says, “Everyone does it,” and goes. He breaks the roll in half, opens it with his fingers, sticks some shredded lettuce and a tomato wedge inside, and bites into it. “The meat, take that. I can’t quite see it, but I bet it’s good,” and he says, “No, that’s okay,” and takes one cooked pea out of the peas and carrots bowl and eats it. “It’s good, it’s not bad”—taking another pea — and she says, “If you’re eating it and saying that, when you know it’s all yours because I don’t want any, then it must be good. For you have very high standards with food. Now, if that man left a menu for tomorrow, let’s fill it out, but help me; I can’t write.”

A doctor comes in, one he hasn’t seen before. “So, Mrs. Bookbinder, how are you? I’m Dr. Burchette, chief resident internist for this floor.” “Fine and dandy,” she says. “When can I get out of here?” and he says, “Soon, soon, but not for a few days.” “What a laugh. Not ever. I can see it on all your faces.” “Oh, you can, can you? That’s good, that you’re observing and speaking so clearly, even sardonically, though here you’re not seeing the right thing. Right now you have a trifling amount of fluid in your lungs, nothing to become alarmed over, and the rest of you is doing fine. I wouldn’t fool you; you’re too smart a woman to have something put over on you.” “Sure I am; sure you wouldn’t. You know I’m finished, so let me die already.” “You’re a tough one to convince, aren’t you? That attitude can only hurt you, and look what you have to go home to. Your son, for instance. The women who look after you, and a niece and grandchildren, I’ve heard.” “Two of them,” Gould says. “Two; just enough to shower with plenty of attention. They all want you home and healthy, and you should cooperate by not trying to fight getting well.” “Neighbors too, who come in and see her,” Gould says. “And tenants in her building.” “So there, an army of well-wishers,” the doctor says. “Neither of you is fooling me,” she says. “Just don’t do anything to stop me from dying, you hear? Nothing,” and the doctor says, “I know, you signed something about that long ago, and we’ll honor your wishes if it comes to that. But it’s not going to for a long time, I assure you,” and she says, “Lies again,” and the doctor says, “Not lies, believe me,” and she says, “Not lies, you’re right. You’re only doing your job. Fibs, then. You think they make me feel better, will ease my dying better. Okay, you’re a nice man, I don’t want to be a pest.” “Thank you,” he says, “and you’re in terrific shape. What a change from this chart when you checked in. You’re a remarkable woman, Mrs. Bookbinder. Your son’s lucky to have your genes.” “You want to go out with me then, I’m so nice?” “Sure, when you get completely better.” “The Copa. We’ll go to the Copa and dance the night away. I could use the exercise.” “You got a date.” “Is the Copa still around?” and the doctor says, “I wouldn’t know, I never heard of the place. But if it isn’t, we’ll find somewhere else to dance.” “And to drink. I don’t only want to dance. I want to raise hell.” “It’ll be my pleasure to help”—and to Gould—“Your mother’s a miracle woman. She’ll live to a hundred-ten, maybe longer.” “I’ll set the record for sure,” she says, “if whatever my age is today is the record. Truth is, doctor … what’s your name?” “Burchette.” “That’s right … what’s it again?” “Dr. Burchette.” “I’m sorry, suddenly I’m not hearing.” “You’re not hearing?” “I’m not hearing. Or not thinking. Or not feeling good. I don’t feel good. Suddenly I’m seeing double. I feel sick.” “You’re serious now, Mrs. Bookbinder?” “I told you, I don’t feel good. I’m sick. Something’s caught in my throat; my chest hurts.” “Mom?” Gould says, and the doctor waves him away, feels her neck, wrist. “Who was that?” she says, and Gould says, “It’s me, Gould, I’m right here; the doctor’s examining you.” “You’ll be where? I don’t feel good. Call a doctor, get me something.” “You better leave,” the doctor tells him, and presses a button by her bed. A voice over the intercom says, “Yes?” and he says, “Dr. Burchette here. E-team in Nine-oh-six.” “Got it, doctor,” the voice says, and he turns to Gould. “Please leave.” “What is it?” “You can see what it is.” “Gould,” his mother says. “Gould, be a good boy, don’t leave me.” “I won’t, don’t worry; I’ll stay here on the side,” and the doctor says, “He has to leave, Mrs. B. We have to take care of you.” “Don’t leave me, Gould; do what I say.” Nurses, doctors rush in. Equipment. “Please,” the doctor says to him. “Please?”

They’re in there a half hour. Every time someone comes out he asks, “How’s she doing?” and they say things like “Don’t know … later … the doctor will tell you … out of my way.” Then Burchette comes out and says, “I can’t explain what happened. Blood pressure shot up a little but nothing major. Nausea, maybe, but now everything’s back to what we’ll call normal.” “So why were you in there so long?” and the doctor says, “Tests; we wanted to check everything. And she is a remarkable woman, you know, I wasn’t just trying to make her feel good; and you should feel fortunate with the genes she handed down. My mother: breast cancer at forty-four and dead three years later. My dad: stroke at sixty-one that killed him. How old was your father when he died?” “Who says he’s dead? He’s in Hawaii this very minute, probably surfboarding or sailing his sun-fish.” “What are you talking about?” and he says, “Only kidding. I’m just relieved she’s feeling okay again,” and pats the doctor’s shoulder. “Nothing we did. And humor runs in your family, I see. You, your mother, who else?” and he says, “My father was the funniest of the lot. And seventy-eight, complications from Parkinson’s and diabetes, more than twenty years ago. In fact his hundredth’s coming up this year.” “Seventy-eight for someone of his generation isn’t too bad. Today, if he was that age and with the same illnesses, we’d be able to keep him till eighty-five or ninety. Maybe not ninety, but anyhow, you have decent genes from both sides, I’d say. Wish I had them.” “Thank you.” “You should go in now. She’s probably wondering.”

She’s sitting up, eyes closed, resting, maybe sleeping. “Mom, hi, it’s me, how you doing?” Doesn’t answer. “Mom, it’s Gould, I’m here. You’re okay, the doctor said. Just nausea, nothing else. You sleeping?” “No”—opening her eyes—“thinking. Thanks for coming back.” “Good. I’m staying here till closing. They’re not kicking me out again, so don’t worry, though that time it seemed necessary.” “If I’m so okay, go home and come back tomorrow, you must be tired.” “Come on, I’ve hardly been here.” “No, I know how tired one can get. I did it with your father and younger brother.” “What younger brother? You mean my older one, Robert, who died so young?” “My younger brother, Harris. Stayed in his room from morning to night and sometimes slept over, we were that close. Someone had to, because by that time my folks were long dead and his wife had deserted him.” “She didn’t desert; they got divorced years before he died.” “Then because his shoulder deserted him.” “His shoulder?” “His children, I mean; you knew that.” “They had none.” “What? He had no children? Harris and Dot? That’s what he told you? Oh, he was a hell-raiser. Had children all over. Did you ever see any of them?” “Why would I?” “They’re your family; you want to stay close. They’re the ones you go to in the end. And they all looked like him, and good thing too. Dot was an eyesore. Her entire family was. Ugly as sin, as your father would say. He only married her for her money, which was the one wrong thing he’d ever done, and she for his good looks. There’s something to say about having good-looking children. He never told us who they were, though.” “His kids from other women? Or who the women were?” “I stayed with him for days. Never left the hospital except to get you to bed at night and sing you to sleep, and then I came right back. He needed me. You can never get too much attention in a hospital. Your father was very good about it. He looked like I must look now but younger, much younger. But just as sick, so just as sick-looking, and look what happened to him. He was such a sweet man but a real schlemiel. He let all his women step on him. You never want to be like that. And no head for business, which is why he died broke. If he got into a big argument with his partner, he walked away from his store, leaving everything behind. Then I went out of the room for something, probably to smoke, and when I got back he was gone. But I’d said my goodbye to him hours earlier, when he was in a coma. They say the person can hear, that it’s the last sense to go, but I couldn’t tell when I was talking to him. He was my favorite brother.” “He was your only brother.” “No, I had two.” “Mom, what are we talking about?” “We’re talking about family: yours, mine.” “Then let’s be clear, you had two sons and one brother.” “My father was a hell-raiser too. Lots of children around from other women, and — this is odd — all boys.” “But you never met any of them, these stepbrothers?” “Never; he was too discreet. He didn’t want to hurt my mother. And that was that.” “And your mother? No hell-raiser, right?” “Don’t even say the word when you talk about her. Like me, she didn’t play the field, which she could have. She was so beautiful. And also the kindest person who ever lived. Kind: now that’s the thing to be, over everything else. My father didn’t deserve her. Everyone who met her said so. You know, you remember her.” “I couldn’t have; she was dead before I was born.” “Don’t tell me.” “It’s true, if that’s what you meant.” “You’re named after her.” “How could I be? We don’t even have the same first initial, neither my first nor middle name.” “You were, I’m telling you. I insisted on it once she died. That my first child be named after my mother.” “But I’m your second. And Robert, as a name, has nothing to do with hers either. What was her middle name?” “I wouldn’t know; it was so long ago.” “Maybe you thought if your first child was a girl you’d name it after her. Could that be it?” “Someone was named after her. Possibly one of my sisters’ children, though their names I forget too.” “Who was I named after, do you remember now?” “Who were you?” “You don’t want to remember, that’s why you won’t say.” “No, I’ll remember; who were you named after? It’s only because I’m sick that I forget.” “Was it Dad’s father?” “Don’t be mean. You know his name and you know I hated the man. He would touch me when your father wasn’t looking. Not try to but actually touch me. My thighs. And once even a place more intimate than that, but through the clothes. When I told your father that, he said it’s impossible. That his father didn’t even like women much, something his mother complained about. So I said, ‘Watch him, he’s been fooling everybody. Watch him next time he sits beside me at the dinner table.’ So I purposely sat him there the next time so your father could watch. His hand, it was everywhere under the table. What an old fool, and so coarse. But your father was always looking elsewhere. It was like a game.” “What, that his father was playing? Or Dad?” “I don’t know, except it was disgusting.” “This really happened, though?” “He also made passes at me when he visited us in Long Beach. And in front of the children. You were very young, almost a baby. Because I think we stopped summering there in 1940. This was after your dad’s mother died. We felt sorry for him, invited him for a few weeks. I knew it would be a problem, even if he was old, or old to me then. He acted like a drunken laborer. Well, that’s what he was. He refused to learn how to read, not even in his own language. He lived for his schnapps and to embarrass women and his son. He said, ‘Let’s have fun in my bedroom.’ Dad was at work in New York, took the car. He meant the guest room where he slept. It was yours and your brother’s room, but when guests were there you both must have slept in ours. It was more like a small bungalow than a house, but was right on the beach. I think we saw sunsets.” “I’ve no recollection of it and have never even seen it in any of the old photos you have.” “He took my hand and tried pulling me to your room. I said, ‘You’re crazy, you’re ugly,’ and to leave now. He wouldn’t, though.” “Where were Robert and I at the time?” “Your brother was sick, as you know, almost from birth. It’s what he died from. He slept a lot and was usually lethargic. And you were only a baby. So your grandfather had the place to himself except for me. I would have killed him with a kitchen knife if he had continued to try and force himself. I never would have allowed something like that to happen to me. To have the second man in your life be your father-in-law? And think of it, it was you he said he had come to see most, his grandchild. He oohed and ahed over you whenever you were around.” “There was Robert too.” “So sick and because he slept so much and was mostly unresponsive, your grandfather considered him dead. If I remember, you were barely one.” “How did you finally get rid of him?” She looks away. “Did you tell Dad what his father tried to do?” “He wouldn’t have believed me. And my father-in-law would have denied it or lied that I’d made eyes at him.” “But this is all true?” “Or maybe barely two, so you were probably napping. That’s what kids do a lot then.” “I mean the story about Dad’s father and you.” “Oh, a hell-raiser. Girl in every port.” “He was a sailor too? I thought just a weaver and darner.” “He was a hell-raiser, but of the worst kind. He cheated on his wife left and right. And if he had had three wives he would have cheated on them all, but with other women.” “Funny to find out now.” “I didn’t take him up on it, you understand.” “Of course not, but how did you finally resist?” “Imagine, asking me that. Pawing at me, pulling me to the bedroom. Some men are oversexed. Your father was normal. I did what he asked me to even if I knew he had other dames.” “It’s all right, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.” “I’m embarrassing you?” “It’s not that.” “Then what? It’s not upsetting me. I’m too old to be talking about it? First you’re too young and then you’re too old? Your father was normal. So that’s good. Better that than a cold fish. We had our good times. But some men aren’t. And some are like your grandfather. They say, when he was much younger, there wasn’t a woman under twenty-five on the Lower East Side he didn’t have his way with or who hadn’t been tried.” “If everyone knew this, how come Dad talked about him not liking women?” “He told you that? It’s not true. The man was an animal, though by the time I knew him, not such a young one. So if I said it—” “It’s all right, you don’t have to explain.” “No. If I said it, it’s not what I meant, so it could be I was talking about someone else.” “Good. But what perplexes me is why Grandma … what was her name again, Dad’s mother?” “I forget.” “But why’d she marry him?” “Why not? He made a decent living, though he blew half of it.” “I mean, if she knew he was always cheating on her and had this terrible reputation and might have already drunk heavily before they met.” “Who says he did?” “The drinking or the women?” “Both. And from what I heard, she was as much of a slut as him, or whatever you call the man. She had a terrible reputation, on the Lower East Side and then when they moved to Brooklyn.” “Dad’s mother? That’s not what I heard of her or what you used to say.” “Is that what he told you?” “I give up,” he says. “No, I give up. I wish they would give me up. They’re not keeping me alive for anything, are they?” “You mean like for a New Year’s Eve dance or something?” “Yeah.” She smiles. “That’s good. You can be funny. I like that in a man. It took you a little while, but you finally got it. Your dad was the same way, but a different kind. Mine? Cold as ice. Never a kind word, though I was his favorite. And sharp, sardonic. It would have been nice, though. …” She shuts her eyes, her forehead furrows, she starts shaking her head, looks pained. “You okay, Mom?” “I don’t know what’s wrong.” “But you’re feeling okay?” “Why does everything have to happen to me?” “Why, what’s the matter?” “You’re here?” “Yes, sure, I’m here, right beside you.” “I’m sleepy. And I don’t like my thoughts.” “What are they?” “They’re mine.” “Okay, I can understand.” “Huh?” she says sleepily. “Just rest, Mom.” “I’m not?” “But more; sleep.” He fixes her head on the pillow, folds the sheet over on her chest. “Sleep,” she says, “yeah.”

He stays there for about an hour, reads from his book, holds her hand, once gets up and does a few stretching exercises, looks at her, looks out the window, can hear the pigeons cooing but can’t see them so they must be on some other sill or somewhere, thinks about the funeral. She asked to be cremated. Said it the last few times in the hospital. “I know I’ve made a complete turnaround from what I originally wanted, but how I end up’s gotten to be less important to me and I think just going up in smoke’s the best thing now.” And that nothing be done with the ashes. “Just throw them away. Or don’t even bother with that. Leave them at the cremation place after the ceremony, if you have one.” And then the last time in the hospital: “About my ashes? I’ve been thinking. Put them in the ground near your brother, or just sprinkle them over his grave. No, put them in a box and the box into the ground beside him. And no big ceremony. Just a simple graveside service. Everything all in one. Nothing very planned or formal, and no words by a rabbi who didn’t know me from Adam. I never went for that. And it’s already cost you enough keeping me alive the last few years, though I contributed some, didn’t I? And the women who look after me must be costing us both a bundle too. So just a few people at it. This is what I want you to promise to do. Your wife and children, of course. Some old friends if they’re still around and can make it, and anyone from the building if they want to come. And call your cousins — this is what we’ve always done in the family, and I’m the last aunt or uncle on our side to go — and say they don’t have to be there if they have a previous engagement, but that they’re welcome. And certainly Angela, the girl who’s taken care of me most the last few years.” Today on the phone, Angela told him to call her when his mother died. “Hey, wait, maybe she won’t,” and she said, “I hope you’re right. But I’ve seen plenty of people go in my work, and I saw the signs before they went, too.”

He says to his mother, “Mom, if you don’t mind, I’m going downstairs for a coffee and bagel and to make a couple of phone calls. I won’t be more than twenty minutes. I’m very hungry.” She’s breathing evenly, seems to be sleeping. He takes her hand, rubs it, kisses it. “I’ll be back soon.”

He comes back a half hour later. Her mouth is open, eyes closed; there’s a sort of glaze all over her face and arms; she doesn’t seem to be breathing. “Mom?” He takes her hand. It’s slimy and cold. Cold and slimy. Slimy, cold.