30 Pieces of a Novel (44 page)

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.”