tests go. But she’s not what she used to be.”
“We’re not so young anymore, are we?” said his father comfortably. “I’ve had these tension headaches lately.”
“Headaches,” repeated T.
“Aspirin does nothing for me. Ibuprofen either. The only thing that does anything is Tylenol with codeine. That stuff is sheer magic.”
T. stared at him, but he played with his fork and smiled vaguely.
“I’m sorry about the headaches,” said T. slowly, “but I’d really like to think you felt some concern about my mother. That when I tell you she almost died, that you—you know— actually care.”
“Sure, sure I do,” said his father lightly, but was looking past him again, smiling and waving.
A woman in a straw hat descended on them. “Davy! Darling!” she said.
She was nut-brown, like his father, and wore shimmering peach-colored lipstick. She was draped in scarves.
“I haven’t seen you for weeks it seems like,” she said, and kissed his father on the top of his head. “I’m over there with Boolie. He can barely keep down his coffee. He overdid it last night.”
“This is Carol,” said his father. “A friend. Carol, my son
T.”
“Well hi!” squealed Carol, as though she’d won the lottery.
T. nodded curtly. Clearly his father wanted her there. “When did you start going by Davy?” he asked. “It was
always Dave or David, my whole life.”
“That was the old me,” said his father. “The new you is more jaunty,” said Carol.
“Well, Carol,” said T., “it’s been nice meeting you.” “Join us!” said his father, and put his hand out to grab the
back of a chair.
“Are you kidding?” asked T., incredulous.
“Not at all. Here, take a load off,” said his father, and patted the chair.
“Just for a minute, while Boolie’s in the little boys’ room.” “I was telling my father how my mother had a stroke recently,” said T. resolutely. He would not be diverted. “But
he doesn’t seem to be interested.”
“Florentine?” inquired the waiter, plate-lifting.
“That was so speedy!” enthused his father. “Right here.” The waiter tried to put the other plate down in front of Carol. “No, I’m the huevos,” said T.
“I’ll say,” said Carol. “What?”
“It’s important, when you’re starting fresh, to let go,” said Carol with a therapeutic lilt. She reached out and patted the back of T.’s hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said T.
“Your father is like a beautiful butterfly,” said Carol. “For him to spread his wings he had to leave the dusty old cocoon behind.”
T. stared at her and she stared back, smiling and blinking. Her two front teeth were different shades of white.
His mother had no knowledge of any of this, yet he felt hurt for her.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he repeated finally, and turned back to his father. Who seemed not to be listening; he was carving into his mound of spinach and egg with a fork as though he had been starving for days. “Are you there? This
was a person who spent thirty years with you. This is your wife. My mother .”
Carol played with her rhinestone-studded watchband and his father continued to eat, patting neatly at his mouth with his still-folded napkin.
“Your son is an angry person,” she whispered finally, and his father shook his head ambiguously as she turned back to
T. “You know, honey, that resentment is just like a poison. It will just eat away at you. You should work on it.”
“Carol? This is a family conversation. Give us a minute, if you would,” said T. “Please.”
She looked at his father and got up reluctantly. T. watched as she flowed over to a table in the corner, where a fat man in a baseball cap sat sucking a bright red drink from a straw.
“That was very rude,” said his father.
His father waved at the waiter and made a check-signing gesture in the air.
“I have to admit, I really feel like hitting you,” said T. “I’m used
“We’re not so young anymore, are we?” said his father comfortably. “I’ve had these tension headaches lately.”
“Headaches,” repeated T.
“Aspirin does nothing for me. Ibuprofen either. The only thing that does anything is Tylenol with codeine. That stuff is sheer magic.”
T. stared at him, but he played with his fork and smiled vaguely.
“I’m sorry about the headaches,” said T. slowly, “but I’d really like to think you felt some concern about my mother. That when I tell you she almost died, that you—you know— actually care.”
“Sure, sure I do,” said his father lightly, but was looking past him again, smiling and waving.
A woman in a straw hat descended on them. “Davy! Darling!” she said.
She was nut-brown, like his father, and wore shimmering peach-colored lipstick. She was draped in scarves.
“I haven’t seen you for weeks it seems like,” she said, and kissed his father on the top of his head. “I’m over there with Boolie. He can barely keep down his coffee. He overdid it last night.”
“This is Carol,” said his father. “A friend. Carol, my son
T.”
“Well hi!” squealed Carol, as though she’d won the lottery.
T. nodded curtly. Clearly his father wanted her there. “When did you start going by Davy?” he asked. “It was
always Dave or David, my whole life.”
“That was the old me,” said his father. “The new you is more jaunty,” said Carol.
“Well, Carol,” said T., “it’s been nice meeting you.” “Join us!” said his father, and put his hand out to grab the
back of a chair.
“Are you kidding?” asked T., incredulous.
“Not at all. Here, take a load off,” said his father, and patted the chair.
“Just for a minute, while Boolie’s in the little boys’ room.” “I was telling my father how my mother had a stroke recently,” said T. resolutely. He would not be diverted. “But
he doesn’t seem to be interested.”
“Florentine?” inquired the waiter, plate-lifting.
“That was so speedy!” enthused his father. “Right here.” The waiter tried to put the other plate down in front of Carol. “No, I’m the huevos,” said T.
“I’ll say,” said Carol. “What?”
“It’s important, when you’re starting fresh, to let go,” said Carol with a therapeutic lilt. She reached out and patted the back of T.’s hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said T.
“Your father is like a beautiful butterfly,” said Carol. “For him to spread his wings he had to leave the dusty old cocoon behind.”
T. stared at her and she stared back, smiling and blinking. Her two front teeth were different shades of white.
His mother had no knowledge of any of this, yet he felt hurt for her.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he repeated finally, and turned back to his father. Who seemed not to be listening; he was carving into his mound of spinach and egg with a fork as though he had been starving for days. “Are you there? This
was a person who spent thirty years with you. This is your wife. My mother .”
Carol played with her rhinestone-studded watchband and his father continued to eat, patting neatly at his mouth with his still-folded napkin.
“Your son is an angry person,” she whispered finally, and his father shook his head ambiguously as she turned back to
T. “You know, honey, that resentment is just like a poison. It will just eat away at you. You should work on it.”
“Carol? This is a family conversation. Give us a minute, if you would,” said T. “Please.”
She looked at his father and got up reluctantly. T. watched as she flowed over to a table in the corner, where a fat man in a baseball cap sat sucking a bright red drink from a straw.
“That was very rude,” said his father.
His father waved at the waiter and made a check-signing gesture in the air.
“I have to admit, I really feel like hitting you,” said T. “I’m used
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