“Mel!” Jane lurched forward and grabbed his hand.
“Dearest—”
“No jokes, Mel. Please. Not now—no more jokes.”
Abbot’s eyes bugged. His crushed-crepe face bore the humiliation of a child caught masturbating.
“My wife,” he said to us. “I’d say take her, but I wouldn’t mean it. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without— State trooper stops a fellow on the highway, fellow says, I wasn’t speeding, Officer. Trooper says, Didja notice a mile back your wife fell outta the car? Fellow says, Oh, good, I thought I was going deaf.”
Jane must have squeezed his fingers because he winced and said, “Ouch!” She moved around to the front of the wheelchair and kneeled before him.
“Mel, listen to me. Something bad has happened—something terrible. To me.”
Abbot’s eyes hazed. He looked to us for rescue. Our silence made his mouth drop open. Oversized dentures, too white, too perfectly aligned, emphasized the ruin that was the rest of him.
He pouted. Jane placed her hands on his narrow shoulders.
“What’s wrong with a little levity, dearest? What’s life without a little spice—”
“It’s Lauren, Mel. She’s—” Jane began weeping. The old man stared down at her, licked his lips. Touched her hair. She rested her head on his lap, and he stroked her cheek.
“Lauren,” he said, as if familiarizing himself with the name. His eyes closed. Movement behind the lids—flipping through a mental Rolodex? When they opened he was smiling again. “The pretty one?”
Jane shot to her feet, and the chair rolled back several inches. Gritting her teeth, she inhaled, spoke very slowly. “Lauren, my daughter, Mel. My child, my baby—like your Bobby.”
Abbot considered that. Turned away. Pouted again. “Bobby never comes to see me.”
Jane shouted, “That’s because Bobby—” She stopped herself, murmured, “Lord, Lord.” Kissed the top of the old man’s head—hard, more of a blow than a gesture of affection—and covered her face with her hand.
Abbot said, “Bobby’s a doctor. Big-shot plastic surgeon—Michelangelo with a knife, big industry practice, knows where all the wrinkles areburied.” He brightened, turned to his wife. “What do you say we go out for breakfast? All of us? We’ll pile into the Caddy, go over to Solly’s, and have some . . .” A second of confusion. “. . . whatever, with onions. . . . Omelette? Maybe with lox?” To us: “That means you, gents. Breakfast is on me, long as you don’t give us a ticket for the false alarm.”
Jane Abbot lied to him as she wheeled him back to the elevator. Making breakfast plans, telling him they’d have lox and onions, maybe pancakes—she needed some time to straighten up, he should think about what he wanted to wear, she’d come back in a few minutes.
The lift arrived, and she pushed him in.
“I’ll wear a cardigan,” he said as the door closed behind them. “One of the good ones, from Sy Devore.”
Milo said, “My, my,” when we were alone again. He made another trip to the bookshelves. “Look at this. Groucho, Milton Berle—the guy knew everyone. Here’s a photo from a Friars Club Roast they did for him twenty years ago. . . . The fires sure dim, don’t they. Gives me hope for the future.”
I inspected the signatures on the artwork. Picasso, Childe Hassam, Louis Rittman, Max Ernst. A tiny Renoir drawing.
The elevator vibrated the walls, the door groaned open, and Jane Abbot ran out, as if escaping suffocation. Her eyes were sunken and inflamed and she looked old, and I tried to think of her as a young flight attendant, smiling easily. “I’m sorry, he’s just—it’s been getting worse. Oh, God!”
She collapsed on the sofa, cried softly. Stopped and talked to her lap. “Bobby—his son—died ten years ago. Skiing accident. He was Mel’s only child. Mel’s wife—Doris—had been ill for a while. Bad arthritis, she bound up to the point where she couldn’t move. Bobby’s death made her worse, and eventually she needed round-the-clock care. After my divorce I went to nursing school, got my LVN, hired out for private duty. I took care of Doris until she died. Terrific lady, never lost her spirit. For five years I cared for her, sometimes I did two shifts a day. Basically, I moved in here. Mel was older than her, but back then he was in great shape. We all got along great. He had the best sense of humor—they both did.”