oak desk and tumbled into his chair. When the chair was full, the pages filled the corner of his office. And if not galleys, then crossword puzzles.
“What’s a six-letter word beginning with ‘a’ for a ‘large South American rodent’?” I asked, mouth half-full of Cheerios, as I sat doing the NY Times Sunday edition. A requirement every Sunday since I turned ten.
“Agouti,” he said, absentmindedly, not even having to look up from the manuscript he pored over. His brilliance overwhelmed others. He never forgot a name or a face. He remembered the birthdays not only of his assistants and the mail boys and our housekeeper and the doorman, but also all the birthdays of their children and spouses andgrandmothers. He knew the birthday, I reasoned, exponentially, of every person in the 212 area code.
Where had that mind gone? I remember I had just returned from a trip with Lou to California. Dad called me. He had lost his keys and needed to change all his locks. Age, we both said. And then he couldn’t find his way home from Oggi’s, his favorite Italian restaurant. And then he forgot Tony the doorman’s birthday. And then Tony’s wife’s name. And then, one day, my name.
“I’m sick, Cass,” he looked up at me, his face stricken as he both recalled my name and realized something was profoundly wrong in the same instant.
“I know,” I whispered. And I became his Mother Confessor. Roland’s poem wasn’t far off from my own life.
I moved to Florida because Lou wouldn’t have it any other way. New York was too full of Helen’s memories wafting through their brownstone like a ghost. I went because he asked and also because we all knew someday I would need to find a place for my father. A beautiful, quiet place with gentle people who would remind him where his room was if he needed reminding. And so we came to a pink little dot on the map, the land of beach bunnies and buffed bods, and my father went to Stratford Oaks. And he began to tell me everything he could remember, to tell me it all before it was lost forever.
My first lost tooth. My first bra (relived with great humor). His legendary Christmas parties back when he and my mother were a couple. His lunches at The Four Seasons and Le Cirque. The time he fought with E. L.Doctorow. His feud with the editor of Harper’s. His secret three-day fling with Ava Gardner. His days at Yale. How he wanted me to have all his books and all his possessions. How he wanted to die before he got too bad. I listened to his confessions. The time he almost considered remarrying to Lois Wharton, but he didn’t because she never let me mess her hair when I hugged her.
And I would go home after each confessional and collapse. With each story, I felt my insides slipping away with the tide outside my balcony. Slipping away until I was so steeled against the pain, I wasn’t sure anything was left. Suddenly, there on Roland Riggs’s island, I desperately needed to hear my father’s voice.
“Stratford Oaks.”
“Please ring Jack Hayes for me.”
Four rings, and then his tired voice. “Hello?” So feeble.
“Daddy? It’s Cassie,” I said slowly, deliberately, loudly.
“Cassie…” I could picture him thinking, trying to place the name, my face. I heard the confusion. And then, thankfully, “Cassie. My daughter. Cassie. Yes, Cassie.”
“Daddy, I just want you to know I love you. I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you this week, but I’m away. I wasn’t sure if you remembered that.”
“You haven’t been to see me?”
“No, Dad. I’ve been away.”
“Away where?”
“On business, Dad. About a book. A bad book. Not bad, really, just not anything I can publish. Dad?”
“Yes, Cassie?”
“Do you remember the way you used to edit my English papers? And you always made me do them over…but once I did you always gave me an ‘A.’”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. Thank you, Dad. That’s all. I better let you go.”
“Cassie?” His voice was
“What’s a six-letter word beginning with ‘a’ for a ‘large South American rodent’?” I asked, mouth half-full of Cheerios, as I sat doing the NY Times Sunday edition. A requirement every Sunday since I turned ten.
“Agouti,” he said, absentmindedly, not even having to look up from the manuscript he pored over. His brilliance overwhelmed others. He never forgot a name or a face. He remembered the birthdays not only of his assistants and the mail boys and our housekeeper and the doorman, but also all the birthdays of their children and spouses andgrandmothers. He knew the birthday, I reasoned, exponentially, of every person in the 212 area code.
Where had that mind gone? I remember I had just returned from a trip with Lou to California. Dad called me. He had lost his keys and needed to change all his locks. Age, we both said. And then he couldn’t find his way home from Oggi’s, his favorite Italian restaurant. And then he forgot Tony the doorman’s birthday. And then Tony’s wife’s name. And then, one day, my name.
“I’m sick, Cass,” he looked up at me, his face stricken as he both recalled my name and realized something was profoundly wrong in the same instant.
“I know,” I whispered. And I became his Mother Confessor. Roland’s poem wasn’t far off from my own life.
I moved to Florida because Lou wouldn’t have it any other way. New York was too full of Helen’s memories wafting through their brownstone like a ghost. I went because he asked and also because we all knew someday I would need to find a place for my father. A beautiful, quiet place with gentle people who would remind him where his room was if he needed reminding. And so we came to a pink little dot on the map, the land of beach bunnies and buffed bods, and my father went to Stratford Oaks. And he began to tell me everything he could remember, to tell me it all before it was lost forever.
My first lost tooth. My first bra (relived with great humor). His legendary Christmas parties back when he and my mother were a couple. His lunches at The Four Seasons and Le Cirque. The time he fought with E. L.Doctorow. His feud with the editor of Harper’s. His secret three-day fling with Ava Gardner. His days at Yale. How he wanted me to have all his books and all his possessions. How he wanted to die before he got too bad. I listened to his confessions. The time he almost considered remarrying to Lois Wharton, but he didn’t because she never let me mess her hair when I hugged her.
And I would go home after each confessional and collapse. With each story, I felt my insides slipping away with the tide outside my balcony. Slipping away until I was so steeled against the pain, I wasn’t sure anything was left. Suddenly, there on Roland Riggs’s island, I desperately needed to hear my father’s voice.
“Stratford Oaks.”
“Please ring Jack Hayes for me.”
Four rings, and then his tired voice. “Hello?” So feeble.
“Daddy? It’s Cassie,” I said slowly, deliberately, loudly.
“Cassie…” I could picture him thinking, trying to place the name, my face. I heard the confusion. And then, thankfully, “Cassie. My daughter. Cassie. Yes, Cassie.”
“Daddy, I just want you to know I love you. I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you this week, but I’m away. I wasn’t sure if you remembered that.”
“You haven’t been to see me?”
“No, Dad. I’ve been away.”
“Away where?”
“On business, Dad. About a book. A bad book. Not bad, really, just not anything I can publish. Dad?”
“Yes, Cassie?”
“Do you remember the way you used to edit my English papers? And you always made me do them over…but once I did you always gave me an ‘A.’”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. Thank you, Dad. That’s all. I better let you go.”
“Cassie?” His voice was
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