30 Pieces of a Novel (47 page)

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.”