Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

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.

He says to Angela as he’s leaving the apartment, “If she’s up and alert this evening, call me, and I can shoot over, if I don’t have something urgent to do with my family, and have a drink with her.” “She’s not supposed to be drinking,” and he says, “One every other day won’t hurt her, and the one I got her today she barely touched,” and she says, “I don’t know what it’ll do to her, but that’s what the doctor and visiting nurse said.” “But she likes a drink every now and then, or did, and we can’t just take everything away from her all at once. Cigarettes, booze, reading, because of her eye illness, different foods because of this cholesterol and that salt and the rest of it. If anything will kill her, that will,” and she says, “I’m only repeating what was told me. You’re not there at every checkup and visit, but they always warn me about the same things.” “So, at her age we can be her doctors too. Lifting her spirits, letting her get away with some things she’s not supposed to. Let’s face it, the liquor makes her feel good. And to me, all that’s important; there’s little risk, and I’m sure it only makes her healthier rather than the reverse,” and she says, “I’m for that. But understand, you’re the son, I only work for her, and you both pay me through the agency, so with most things I’m not going to stop you. But if the doctor asks, I got to tell the truth.” “Don’t worry, and I’ll call you later. I really didn’t give her enough time today,” and she says, “She’ll appreciate it. She always appreciates seeing you,” and he says, “And I like being with her. And it gives you a break, right? because your job can’t be easy,” and she says, “That too.”