wouldnât become like that? You, difficult? Instead, I find you defeated, apathetic, resigned. Suzie doesnât at all agree. She gives me a portrait of you devoid of kindness. âMolly has changed a lot, and really not in a good way. Itâs as if the world owes her a living, and everybody has to bow to her needs. For example, sheâll arrange to be with you and then cancel at the last minute without excuses. Or else when youâve taken the time to come and see her, sheâll get rid of you just like that, without even offering you a glass of water, just because she feels tired. She doesnât make any effort, leaves her TV on all the time, and watches it out of the corner of her eye even when youâre with her. You can imagine how much fun that is. No, I can assure you, she expects a lot of other people, with the excuse that sheâs housebound â¦â
Iâm shocked to discover that your American friends are slowly but surely dropping you. Theyâre sick of your demands, which always include the need for some favor from them. They find your humor more and more wounding, yourcompany less and less pleasant. They think youâve become rather stingy and that youâre always talking about money.
Tom, whom I call the next day from the airport to tell him about this conversation, tries to soften the portrait, but does admit that you can sometimes be difficult. âSheâs not always perfectly nice, you know.â
I donât get over my anger during the entire trip back. And why should you be nice? Illness doesnât make people better. Living in a wheelchair hasnât transformed you into Mother Teresa. And Iâm glad it hasnât. Youâre still the same, probably more acidic, more brutal, more curt, more radical, more impatient, more intransigent. I understand you. Now that you know youâre condemned to passivity, youâre fighting with the only weapon left to you: your brain power.
ITâS THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, AND NEW YORK IS ALREADY HAVING MILD SPRING WEATHER . This time youâve told me to come to your place. The building is welcoming with its silver canopy on the outside and its thick blue carpeting, as is proper for homes in the nicer neighborhoods.
The uniformed doorman bows as he opens the glass door for me; with the same gesture and without ever being discourteous, he inquires about my identity and goes to check the register to see if Iâm really expected, then smiles and finally looks me in the eye. âI see, youâre the French woman? Iâm Mr. Dennis. Let me welcome you.â He walks ahead of me to the elevator, pushes open the heavy iron door, and presses the button for your floor, as if he were receiving me in his own home.
The heat that pervades the apartment attacks my throat as soon as the door opens on a stoutyoung black woman squeezed into a white T-shirt and sparkly red tracksuit. She shakes my hand without warmth before leading me behind her softly undulating backside to the living room, where she announces me in too loud a voice. âMolly, your friend is here.â She turns to me and adds incredulously, âDid you really come
all the way
from Paris?
I love French men, theyâre gorgeous!
â Exploding into laughter, she plants herself right there with crossed arms while you kiss me, moved as we are to see each other again, and while I whisper a few tender words into your ear. She ends up interrupting us. âIâm Dinah, want something to drink?â
Iâm dying for a nice cold Coke, but I tell myself that tea will take the longest to prepare. She goes to work in another room, from which she emerges less than two minutes later with a tray on which sheâs hurriedly placed a kettle that is barely warm, a cup, and a tea bag. She puts all of it on a low table without taking the time to push aside a pile of magazines. She joins us quite peremptorily, standing there, her arms crossed,
Iâm shocked to discover that your American friends are slowly but surely dropping you. Theyâre sick of your demands, which always include the need for some favor from them. They find your humor more and more wounding, yourcompany less and less pleasant. They think youâve become rather stingy and that youâre always talking about money.
Tom, whom I call the next day from the airport to tell him about this conversation, tries to soften the portrait, but does admit that you can sometimes be difficult. âSheâs not always perfectly nice, you know.â
I donât get over my anger during the entire trip back. And why should you be nice? Illness doesnât make people better. Living in a wheelchair hasnât transformed you into Mother Teresa. And Iâm glad it hasnât. Youâre still the same, probably more acidic, more brutal, more curt, more radical, more impatient, more intransigent. I understand you. Now that you know youâre condemned to passivity, youâre fighting with the only weapon left to you: your brain power.
ITâS THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, AND NEW YORK IS ALREADY HAVING MILD SPRING WEATHER . This time youâve told me to come to your place. The building is welcoming with its silver canopy on the outside and its thick blue carpeting, as is proper for homes in the nicer neighborhoods.
The uniformed doorman bows as he opens the glass door for me; with the same gesture and without ever being discourteous, he inquires about my identity and goes to check the register to see if Iâm really expected, then smiles and finally looks me in the eye. âI see, youâre the French woman? Iâm Mr. Dennis. Let me welcome you.â He walks ahead of me to the elevator, pushes open the heavy iron door, and presses the button for your floor, as if he were receiving me in his own home.
The heat that pervades the apartment attacks my throat as soon as the door opens on a stoutyoung black woman squeezed into a white T-shirt and sparkly red tracksuit. She shakes my hand without warmth before leading me behind her softly undulating backside to the living room, where she announces me in too loud a voice. âMolly, your friend is here.â She turns to me and adds incredulously, âDid you really come
all the way
from Paris?
I love French men, theyâre gorgeous!
â Exploding into laughter, she plants herself right there with crossed arms while you kiss me, moved as we are to see each other again, and while I whisper a few tender words into your ear. She ends up interrupting us. âIâm Dinah, want something to drink?â
Iâm dying for a nice cold Coke, but I tell myself that tea will take the longest to prepare. She goes to work in another room, from which she emerges less than two minutes later with a tray on which sheâs hurriedly placed a kettle that is barely warm, a cup, and a tea bag. She puts all of it on a low table without taking the time to push aside a pile of magazines. She joins us quite peremptorily, standing there, her arms crossed,
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