Fear of Fifty by Erica Jong Page A

markers, no books about these last developmental stages, and no comforting rituals. At the beginning of the journey, a baby has a loving mother thumbing through volumes of Dr. Spock for clues and cues. But in the seventh age of woman, there is no loving mother (long since dead), no designated caretaker, no books. We make this backward journey all alone, in Chinese slippers.
    Kitty was dressed. Frank, Adrian, and I put on our coats.
    â€œWhat about her dinner?” Kitty said of Chloe, who still sprawled before the TV.
    â€œDon’t worry about me, I ate already,” Chloe said, the flickering TV reflected on her shiny round face.
    â€œAren’t you hungry?” Kitty persisted, trying to caretake the caretaker—a trait that runs in my family.
    â€œNo, dear,” said Chloe. “Go have your dinner.”
    Kitty’s round brown eyes stared.
    â€œBut she should eat too,” she said. “It’s only fair.”
    â€œDon’t worry, hon,” said Frank, “she’s eaten.”
    â€œShall we bring you an egg roll?” I asked Chloe, to appease Kitty.
    â€œOkay,” said Chloe.
    â€œWhat did you say?” said Kitty. “I don’t need an egg roll. Why does everybody think an egg roll will make a difference?”
    We trudged down Twenty-third Street in the cold. Two young men, one with AIDS and one afraid to check the results of his blood tests, and an old woman who kept saying, “It’s too cold, it’s too cold” and “Where are we going?” and I, in the midst of my fear of fifty.
    At the Chinese restaurant, I sat opposite Frank’s beloved, who told me the story of his recent life.
    â€œWhat do you do?” I asked.
    â€œI’m on disability,” he said, “for AIDS.”
    â€œWhat did you do before?”
    â€œI went to Juilliard and studied the flute, then worked as a musician and supported myself as a personal assistant to Leonard Bernstein—a difficult job,” he said.
    â€œWhen were you diagnosed?” I asked.
    â€œOh—five years ago.”
    â€œDid it change your life?”
    Adrian’s handsome, square-jawed young face grew pensive.
    â€œI suppose it did,” he said. “I started to think about how I really wanted to live. I quit working for Bernstein because it was just too stressful—he was very demanding—and I began to play music for myself and to think and to meditate. It did change my life. I decided love was more important than wild sex. I decided I wanted to really love someone before I died.”
    â€œThen what happened?” I asked.
    â€œThen I met Frank,” he said, smiling at his beloved.
    â€œWho ordered this for me?” Kitty asked when her food came.
    â€œYou did, hon,” said Frank.
    â€œI did not,” said Kitty, her argumentativeness reassuring her of her existence.
    â€œYes you did, hon,” Frank said kindly.
    â€œWell, I suppose I might as well eat it,” said Kitty, digging into her fried dumplings.
    â€œYou might as well,” I said. I was thinking how strange this scene was and how strange all gatherings in life are if you let yourself dwell on them. What a curious Last Supper this was. Two very young men with perhaps not long to live, my aunt with not much to live for, and me in the middle as always, observing and trying to figure out how to make a story of it. Would the story help someone? I hoped so. Even if that someone was only me.
    â€œWho ordered these?” Kitty asked again.
    â€œYou did, hon,” said Frank.
    Later, when Kitty was tucked in bed, and Frank was reading to her, I took a cab uptown, clutching Papa’s book of drawings.
    â€œYou’re late,” my daughter said. “Was it horrible?”
    â€œActually, it was less horrible than staying home and thinking about Kitty and doing nothing. She’s still a person. But her memory is threadbare in places, like the knees of your