30 Pieces of a Novel (45 page)

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

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

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

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