Late Stories (10 page)

Turns on the light switch by the CD player to two living room lamps so he doesn't have to walk to his bedroom in the dark. Done it several times before, and even though he walked very slowly and his arms were weaving around in front of him, he bumped into things and twice cracked his forehead on a door. After he turns on his night table lamp, he'll turn the living room lights off with the light switch above the piano at the other end of the room. Both switches work for the same lights. He goes into the bedroom, undresses, exercises a little with two ten-pound weights, washes up, makes sure a handkerchief is on the bed and his watch and pen and memo book are on his night table, and gets into bed and reads. After about half an hour, he shuts off his light. A little light comes in from the living room. Forgot again. That one he does about once a week, or about every third or fourth time he makes it to the back of the house that way. He hasn't figured out a way not to forget to turn the living room lights off before he gets into bed other than
to tell himself when he first switches on the lights: Don't forget to turn the other living room light switch off after you turn the night table light on.

So he's worried. Or getting to be. Or just a little alarmed. Because what else will he forget? For he's been forgetting so much the last few months. Actually, the last year, and probably more. It could even go back to sometime after his wife died, or it's become worse since then, though he has no idea why for either. Truth is, he's not sure when it began. Maybe there were inklings of it before she died, and because he was so busy with her, he never paid much attention to it. But stove, oven, toaster, lights, fly, pills, a couple of times his phone number and zip code, feeding the cat, not knowing if he let him in or out the last time he opened the outside door for him, more than usual: people's names. What words mean but usually not their spellings. Music compositions and their composers. Hearing a familiar piece on the radio but can't come up with its name or who wrote it. Well, he's always had trouble with that, one or the other or both, unless it's something like
Enigma Variations
or
Pictures at an Exhibition
or
Appalachian Spring
, which are played on the radio so often that, great works though they are, he's sick of them. Recently, authors and their most famous works. Just the other day: Ellison and his novel. Okay, read it long ago, but it's still written and talked about but he couldn't remember his name or the book's title the entire day. Tried, too. Then, when his last name suddenly popped into his head, the first name came right after and the book's title. Also the other day: gazpacho. Bought a small container of it in the local market and was about to take it out of the refrigerator and sit down and eat it, when he realized he'd forgotten what it was called. This is a test, he told himself: let's see how fast he can come up with its name. Knows it's made of chopped-up tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers and onions and is served chilled and is
of Spanish origin and the traditional way it's made in Spain, or in some parts of it, and which he doesn't do when he makes it himself at home, is with chunks of bread. He gave up, and as he opened the refrigerator to take it out, it came to him: gazpacho. With an “s” or “z,” he thought. Let's see. He ran the word through his head. “Z.” He's almost sure. Remembers looking it up in the dictionary, maybe two or three times, when he wasn't sure of its spelling for something he was writing. Anyway: remember. What's on the stove, in the oven, how long the thing should be cooking, or thereabouts, and so on. Cat, pills, toaster, fly. To wear a cap when he's going to be outside, even when the sun's behind clouds, to prevent more scalp lesions. To check his daily calendar book every few days to see what appointments and engagements might be coming up. People's names he's not sure he'll remember next time he sees them. Use some memory device to help him remember. For instance, if the guy's name is Tom, then “Tom and Jerry” or “Tom Collins” or “Tom-Tom,” but something like that. There's a former grad student of his he seems to bump into a lot at markets and the two Starbucks he goes to and certainly at departmental parties he's still invited to, whose name he always forgets. It's embarrassing for both of them when that happens and he has to work around it to get her name, without appearing he forgot it, or ask someone else for it. So what is her name? Terry? Tracy? Teresa? He's not even sure it starts with a T, but something tells him it does. T-a? T-e? T-o? T-u? Oh, he gives up. He doesn't understand why he forgets some people's names more than others and a few people's names all the time. Knows her last name, a fairly common one, is the same as a well-known contemporary British writer, but forgets it now, too. Writes people's names in the memo book he always carries with him. About a week ago during his early evening walk, he met for the first time his new neighbors from across the street. Both doctors. That came out in
their brief talk. Also that they have twin sons. He saw them and introduced himself. So what are their names? They told him and he gave them his. He in fact asked for their names again just before he said goodbye and continued his walk. Might even have told them he's bad at remembering people's names, which is why he asked for theirs again. He thinks the woman said she is too and asked for his again. But are these going to be two more people whose names he always forgets? Because he's sure to be bumping into them again. Johnny and Rachel? Or Rebecca? He thinks it's Rebecca. He takes his memo book out of his back pants pocket, and pen he also always has with him, from a side pants pocket—he doesn't keep it in his back pocket, which he used to do, because he knows he'll eventually sit on it and break it and stain another pair of pants for good; he's learned that much—and writes on the first clean page he comes to: “Johnny and Rebecca or Rachel; new doctor neighbors. Rebecca at Union Memorial, Johnny in private practice: pulmonology.” Last names? She has her husband's: Mathews or Mathewson, and writes these names down. He'll put on this same page the names of other people in the neighborhood he's bumped into on his walks and exchanged names with, if he can remember theirs, and also new people he might meet around here, and look at them from time to time, or maybe only when he puts a new one down, so he'll know their names next time he meets them. Let them think he has a great memory, despite what he might have told them, and don't correct them if they say he does. Take it as a compliment, or just shrug.

Gets up, brushes his teeth, washes his face, exercises, dresses, goes into the kitchen. Oops. Forgot to shave, something he likes to do daily. Takes his shirt off so he won't wet it, and shaves and then brushes his hair. Hasn't had a shower, something he also likes to do daily, in a couple of days—could it be three? Would hate to think it was—but he'll do it at the Y today after he works out, or
here. Feeds the cat, changes his water, lets him out. Remember: he's out, not in. Again: good practice, to remember that. Cat out, cat out, he tells himself. Has breakfast, washes the dishes, makes sure the oven and all the stove burners are off, puts on his baseball cap and goes outside and does some needed yard work. Is out there for more than an hour. At least it feels like it. Fills up four leaf bags with weeds and twigs and sticks, gets sweaty and tired and thinks that should do it for the day. Has to pee. Came on suddenly, even though he's taking medication for it, though it's a bit better now than it used to be. He doesn't have time to go inside, so he'll do it behind a tree. Puts his hand to his pants to open his fly, but it's already open. Oh, geez. Won't he ever remember? What does he have to do? he thinks while he pees. Maybe he could make . . . no, there's nothing he can do. On that score, he almost seems hopeless. But he can't give up on it. Just try to catch it as many times as he can. Always, and he means always, never leave the house or a restaurant or any kind of store he's been in a while and it has a restroom for customers, without peeing first, even if he peed just ten minutes before. Got it. A set routine he's going to remember to follow, not that he hasn't thought of this before. At least he still drives without forgetting to look all around him when he backs out of a parking space or makes a turn, understands most of what he reads, or as much as he did years before; has a good visual memory for lots of things, going all the way back to when he was a kid, and is still able to write and at times even do some tricky writing stuff. By that he means . . . well, that he still comes up with something new to say in each piece and say it with what he thinks, though he might be all wrong in this, in a new way. It's the day-to-day things he forgets a lot. Well, writing is day-to-day, page-to-page, till he's finished the piece. But what was he getting at? Did he once again lose what he started out to say? Not important. Really, not important. What
is, and maybe this is what he was getting at, is what he's going to do about all this forgetting. Maybe he should talk it over with his daughters. They're smart, practical, want the best for him. No, doesn't want to worry or burden them with his problems, which is what his mother, when she was around his age now, used to say to him. What did he say when she said that? Probably something like “Don't worry about me. It's not a burden. You can never be a burden to me. I want to do everything I can for you.” So did she usually end up telling him? Forgets. If he does tell his daughters, they'll say something like, “Daddy, you have to be more careful. You can burn down the house with you in it.” “I know,” he'd say. But keep it to yourself with them. He really doesn't want to worry them. And there's enough, when they're here, that they can see for themselves. Then a friend. Is he really that close with anybody? Not since his wife died. He sort of pulled himself away. Even his sister? But what can a friend or his sister do to help? He knows she'll say he should take ginseng tablets. She's big on that and claims it's improved her memory by fifty percent. He remembers saying something like “I don't know how you can measure that, but if you say so, okay.” So there's nobody, really. Think. Nobody. He goes into the house. Wait a minute. How about his doctor at his next annual checkup? But by that time he'll forget he wants to speak to him about it. He always seems to forget what he wants or even thinks he needs to talk to him about. Too much time between thinking about it and the appointment. What he should have done is write it down in his daily calendar book for the day of the appointment. So for now, call his office and say he wants to see him sooner than his annual checkup, which he thinks is in March. It's always in March. But it won't do him any good. His doctor will put him on another pill. Then more upset stomach and worse constipation than he already has. That's what the hell those pills mostly do. So again: just try harder to remember.
Memory devices. Anything that can help. That's really all he needs. His mind is fine. For a start, he writes “remember” in marker on a piece of paper, scissors around it and tapes it to the refrigerator door. Underlines it twice. Puts an exclamation point after it. Then writes “remember!” on another piece of paper, cuts it out and tapes it to the bottom of the bathroom window frame. Any other place? No, that should do it. He pees, doesn't need to flush it—that he never seems to forget to do when he has to, nor put the toilet seat down—and is about to turn around and leave the room when he sees the “remember!” on the window frame. Zips up his fly. Later, for lunch, he puts the rest of the lasagna he made two days ago for dinner into the oven to warm up, sees the “remember!” on the refrigerator door and says to himself, “Now remember. This is important. Come back in twenty minutes to take the dish out. Twenty? Make it thirty, at 400 degrees.” The lasagna's been in the refrigerator and he just turned on the oven and he likes the pasta ends crisp if not a little burned. He pours himself a mug of coffee from the thermos, goes into the living room with it, sits, looks at the clock on the fireplace mantle, moves the mug to the side table from the chair arm so there's less chance of knocking it over, reads the newspaper and then a book—a good bio of one of his favorite writers; he's really enjoying it. He listens to music while he reads, rests his head back in the easy chair and daydreams or dreams for what feels like a few minutes and then comes out of it or wakes up. Smells something burning.

Vera

H
e knew he'd hear from her soon, not about his wife's death but just a phone call, since she hadn't called for a long time. He answered the phone. She said “Hi, how are you? Just wanted to know how things are going.” He told her. She said “Oh, I'm so sorry. And here I blundered into the phone so cheerfully and full of hope. It has to be awful for you. If there's anything I can do to help, I'm here for you.” “Thank you,” he said. “Right now, though, I can't talk about it—it's still too soon to—so I'll have to hang up.” “I understand. Oh, my poor dear. Much love to you and your daughters.”

They'd been in touch for so many years. Twenty-five, maybe. For a while she called him about once a year, usually on or near his birthday. “I know it's around this time,” she said a couple of times. He never called her unless she left a message on his answering machine in his office at school, and even then most times he didn't call her back. For the next ten years or so she called him every four to six months, in his office but now a few times at home. Always to find out how he and his wife were doing. Abby said once “She's just checking to see if I've finally croaked, so she can move in on you. You're still a good catch, you know. Your looks, health, tenured position, writing, and our combined assets.” He said “Not a chance. With all the infusions and new medications and stuff you're taking, you're only going to get better the next few years, and she and I are only telephone friends. For some reason I mean something to her. I'm one of her oldest friends, she said. We go back more than forty
years. One doesn't have too many of those, so she doesn't want to lose contact with me. Who else does she know who remembers her parents and the house she grew up in and her two Scotties? I don't care much for her calls, but by this time I don't know how to keep her from making them. But if you object, I'll find some way to stop them.” “Why would I object? Anything that'll happen between you two will happen after I'm dead. And it might even be good for you, a way to take your mind off losing me. And she's still pretty and quite lively, you say.” “Well, that was a while ago, but what does it matter?”

Last time he'd seen Vera was fifteen years ago when he was in her city for a new book of his. Took the train up from Baltimore, she met him at the station, took the train back. They had coffee at the cafe in the bookstore. He was giving a reading there and bought a copy of his book at full price—thought it would make him look cheap to her if he took the author's discount, which was offered to him—and inscribed it and gave it to her.
To Vera, my dear old friend
. She never mentioned later on that she'd read the book or any part of it or even started it, and he never asked.

About two years after that she called him to say she was staying overnight in Baltimore—she had an audition for a part in a play at the best theater company there—and he asked Abby, she said it was all right, and invited Vera for dinner. “But not to sleep here, okay?” Abby said. “I'd find that a little strange.” He picked Vera up at her hotel and drove her back. She said in the car “Your wife is beautiful, spiritually and physically. Such magnificent skin and hair—that of a much younger woman—and a lovely voice and manner of speaking. And so intelligent. I felt ignorant compared to her. She obviously adores you. And you're so good to her, tending to all her needs and just the way you speak to her. I like seeing that, although it's nothing short of what I expected of you. What she
must think of me, though, for the way I treated you in the past.” “Not at all. She knows all about it and said that was long ago, when we were practically kids. Believe me, she never had a bad thought about you. That's not Abby.” “Good. I didn't tell you, by the way, and you were both very discreet about it, but once again I didn't get the part. They said I was good and it was close but I was just a mite too old for the role. That's always a good excuse. I didn't think I did well.” “Nonsense. I'm sure you did well. And I'm sorry—for you and also because it would've been nice to see you on stage and have you over for dinner again, and we would've taken the kids to the play too. They would have loved knowing that we knew one of the main characters.”

Since that first phone call after Abby died, she called him about once a month to see how he was doing. “I'm concerned about you,” she said in her last call. “Your daughters away. You living alone after so many years with Abby.” “I'll be all right,” he said. “I'm getting used to it—the living alone, I mean. As for my daughters—I miss them tremendously, but they come down for weekends now and then.” “Have you ever thought of visiting me? It'd be a good change for you, doing something new, and I'm not that far away. Two, two and a half hours by car.” “I never go anywhere. The local Y; the local food market; that's about all. Oh, for a book at a nearby bookstore about once a month. I don't think I've been out of Baltimore County since Abby died seven months ago.” “That's what I'm saying. I'll show you around here, take you out to dinner, and you can spend the night. I've a guest room.” He said “Maybe you're right. Let me think. No, you're right. It could be a major emotional breakthrough for me, just reaching the entrance to 95 North, and my kids will love it that I even attempted to get away from the house for a day. They'll think, next time I might even drive up to see them in New York. Okay, I'm coming. But dinner's on me. And breakfast out also, if we have that too.”

He drove to her apartment near Philadelphia. During dinner he thought she's still so lively and funny and beautiful. In great shape too. Slim, very fit; tight behind. She even shows cleavage of a woman thirty years younger. Same with her skin. Hardly a wrinkle on her face and neck, and nice texture to her hair and just a few wisps of gray. “How can you look so young?” he said. “Pardon me, but we're almost the same age, and I've gotten to look like an old guy.” “No you haven't,” she said. “And it's not through surgery. You know I'd never do anything like that to my body. It's exercise, yoga, long walks every morning, and lots of filtered water and harmless facial oils and creams. And of course healthy organic foods, which is why I chose this restaurant and why it's a bit pricey. As for my hair, this is its natural color. What can I say?”

He slept in the guest room. “Oh, one problem,” she said when she invited him to come. “I've only been here a few months and haven't a spare bed yet. I'll buy it this week. I'll need it sometime. For instance, if my son ever decides to visit me.” He knew she was short of money, so he said he'd like to pay for the bed. “It'll probably cost no more than a motel room would, but so what if it costs more.” She got it at Ikea, set it up. He gave her a check for it when he got there.

He didn't sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable. And it was a hot muggy night and she didn't have air conditioning because she never liked it, nor an extra fan. “Take mine,” she said. “The heat doesn't particularly bother me.” “Wouldn't think of it,” he said. “I'll be fine.” He was hoping, as he lay in bed for hours, that she'd knock on his door and say something like “Would you like to sleep in my room with me? With the fan and cross-ventilation, it's much cooler.”

They had cold cereal and yogurt and coffee for breakfast. He said he wouldn't mind a slice of toast and butter if she has, and
she said she was all out of bread. “I should have planned it better. But the nearest natural food market is ten miles from here and I only do one shop a week.” Then they walked for more than an hour along an old restored canal. “I do the same route daily,” she said, “even when it rains. It's so tranquil. I get my most inspired thoughts here. Poems; even stories, I've begun writing. And ways to bring in enough money so I can quit my awful job.” His older daughter called him on his cell phone after they got back and asked how he was. He said in front of Vera “I'm having a great time. I'm so glad I came.”

He said to her in her building's parking area before he left “It's already past one. I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time.” She said “Why would you think that? From now on I'm going to make it my duty to see that you start thinking much better of yourself.” They kissed goodbye—a friendly kiss, lasted no more than a second—and during the drive home he thought he hasn't been this happy for a long time. Things are looking good. Just that she allowed him that quick kiss on the lips.

He called her that night. Thought for about an hour whether he should do this and then thought why not? He wants to know. She said “What a surprise to hear from you so soon.” “Wrong of me?” and she said “No, I like talking to you. We've a lot to say.” “Listen,” he said, “I want to be frank and direct with you. What else can I be at this stage in my life? Do you think something new and promising has started between us?” “It's a very distinct possibility.” “You know what I mean, of course,” and she said “You don't have to spell it out for me.” “Oh, that makes me feel good to hear you say that. So let's do it again, but soon, and how about this time you visit me? I'll show you around. No canals. But there's a beautiful reservoir just a half hour from me, and lots of other attractive places. And Baltimore's a fairly interesting city, if we want to do a little exploring
there.” “All that might be nice,” she said. “Let me see which of the next few weekends I'll be entirely free. I'll get back to you.”

He called her three days later and she said “Was I supposed to call you? I forget. But I've been thinking. Maybe it's not such a good idea I come down. I doubt my old buggy could make it both ways, the train will be too costly, and I've a ton of work that's piled up at my job and it seems it's going to be like that for weeks.” “The work you might be able to do here. I'll leave you alone. And I'll pay for the train fare. I've two spare bedrooms, but I'll put you up at a bed and breakfast if you prefer.” She said “That might be better—the B and B or an inn. It's sweet of you to offer all this. Let me see. I'll get back to you.”

He called her a few days later. “Tell me. Am I bothering you by being so persevering?” he said. “No, I can understand why you called, and I apologize for not calling you. I thought about it—knew what I wanted to say—but kept putting it off. I've decided we shouldn't meet again except as platonic friends.” “Wow, there's a word I haven't heard in a while.” “People don't use it anymore?” “I'm sure they do,” he said. “And a platonic friendship is what I want with you too.” “No you don't,” she said. “Be honest. You want romance, love, sex, marriage, constant companionship and the like. And you should have all that, after what you've gone through, just not with me. I don't think it's the right thing for us and I don't see that it'll ever be.”

He was once engaged to her. Almost fifty years ago. He was 24 and she was 23. She broke it off a month or two before the wedding. The ceremony was going to be at his mother's apartment and the reception, for the twenty or so guests, in a closed-off section of the Great Shanghai, a restaurant on a Hundred-third Street and Broadway. “I'm not ready,” she said. “It's too soon after my first unfortunate marriage.” Two years before that, when they'd been
seeing each other almost every day for three months, she suddenly disappeared on him—couldn't be reached by phone and her parents and a couple of her friends didn't know where she was, when he called them, and she gave no indication she was home when he rang her downstairs buzzer in her apartment building and then her doorbell several days in a row. She'd started up with a much older guy she'd briefly dated and had been in love with the year before. They got married and she had the marriage annulled in less than a year. He got a job as a reporter in Washington soon after the breakup with her. Two years later he moved back to New York as a news editor. He called up friends of hers, a married couple he'd gotten to know while he was seeing her, asked the wife how they were but was really more interested in finding out what Vera was doing. She told him about the annulment and invited him over for dinner and said would he mind if she asked Vera to come too. “I'm sure she has no interest in seeing me,” he said. “Not true,” she said. “She's spoken about you highly several times.” “Well, if she's there, she's there.” She came. They had lunch the next day and were sleeping together in a week. They got engaged in a few months and a few months after that she broke it off. Three years later, he was coming back from Paris, where he'd gone to write and learn French and possibly get a news job or something in writing or editing. He got a letter from her while he was there and after that they wrote each other about once a month. She knew he was coming back but didn't know how or when. She called his mother, who'd previously given her his Paris address but wouldn't tell her the name of the ship or when it'd dock in New York. “She's trouble,” she told him. “You're too blind to see that. She'll just make you sad again. I never should have told her where you were in Paris or that you were even in Paris. Bucharest, I should have told her.” “Come on, I'm twenty-eight,” he said. “Much better now in dealing with things
like that. If it doesn't go well, and with our history, no reason why it should,
tant pis
, as the French say. Not to worry.” He called her. They went out to dinner and slept together that night. Next morning, while they were having coffee in her kitchen and he was about to ask if they could spend the day together or get together again that night, she said “I have to confess something to you. It is nice seeing you again. But last night, and this morning when you pushed me into it again when I definitely didn't want to, I did what I promised myself I wouldn't. I'm not saying the first time wasn't fun. But I've done enough harm to you. It's not going to work out the way you want it to and by now you should be able to see that as well as I. You don't want to get hurt again and I don't want to hurt you and then feel guilty about it again.” “You're right, I don't,” he said. “And you can sure do it to me—oh, boy, can you. And I'm not going to make a big scene over it. You're safe from that, anyway. I'll just leave.”