miraculously just enough for that—but the need inside his father, the need for money, and for money to make money, and for that money to make more money, and for the lost money to reappear as borrowed money and the whole thing to start over again.
“ I’ve been doing some hard travelin’, I thought you know’d ,” Daniel sang in a nasal country-Western voice.
“Daddy,” Ruby said. She tugged at his arm. Things about him had started to embarrass her.
“ Hard travelin’, hard ramblin’ …”
“ Hard gamblin’ ,” Cora joined in.
“You both make me sick,” Ruby said. But she joined in eventually, too. There was no one to hear them. Just an old man with the same red walker Aaron had, and by the time he reached the bench, the song was over.
16
Freddie could not decide whether or not to go to New York for Christmas. She loved going East for the holidays, it was still a novelty for her, it always would be—the snow, the cold, the lights on Fifth Avenue.
“Everything you hate about it,” she said to Molly, “like the crowds, for instance—I love that. I love being a tourist there.”
“You go to New York and see my father, I’ll stay here and see your father. They won’t know the difference.”
As soon as she said it, Molly wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s so easy to dine out on them. Cheap joke. Why don’t we both stay here this year?”
But Freddie knew that Molly’s family Jewish Christmas was somehow their most important holiday. They celebrated Hanukkah in a haphazard way, lighting candles on the nights they remembered. But Christmas was a time they all got together, all of them, even Molly’s ex-husband and his current wife.
“And Ben will be there,” Freddie said. She had said the magic word, the defining word, the name of the son. She watched Molly’s face grow almost beatific.
“Ben,” Freddie said again, just to see the effect, to see the benignity intensify.
Then Molly caught her at it. “Oh shut up,” she said.
Freddie started to laugh. “The idea of you staying here for the holidays—it’s pretty funny, Molly. Go see your cockamamie family and I’ll stay here and look after my cockamamie father. We will long for each other across the wide continent.”
17
In her parents’ bedroom, it was dim and cluttered with medical apparatus. Her father sat in his leather recliner, a blanket spread neatly over his knees. He grabbed Molly’s hand and motioned for her to lean down, then put his lips close to her ear.
“There’s a black man in the house,” he whispered, obviously alarmed.
“That’s Walter, Mom’s nurse’s-from-when-she-broke-her-ankle-ten-years-ago’s son-in-law’s cousin’s mother’s friend from church. Or some such thing. He’s from Ghana.” He was a very gentle man with a beautiful smile and a staccato, musical accent. He knew how to change a colostomy bag. He was strong. He was kind.
“What’s he doing here? There’s a black man in the apartment, I tell you,” he whispered again, sputtering now. He pulled on her arm.
“Walter. From Ghana,” she said, louder.
“No one from Ghana is named Walter,” he whispered. “He’s a fraud. Get him out.”
She straightened up and looked down at her father. His beard was trimmed. His hair was combed. Even the hairs in his ears had been trimmed. His nails were clean. His shirt was unstained and buttoned properly. And that blanket on his lap—he could have been a gentleman taking in the salt air on an ocean liner.
“Daddy, he’s here to help you.”
“I don’t need help. What are you talking about? Help? I don’t need help. You’re the one who needs help.”
“Well, Mom needs help. You don’t want her back in the hospital, do you?”
“Hospital? Nobody tells me anything. Where’s your mother?”
“She’s resting. Do you want her to drop dead from exhaustion? Then who would take care of you?”
He looked pointedly at her.
“ Me? ” she said. “I wouldn’t
“ I’ve been doing some hard travelin’, I thought you know’d ,” Daniel sang in a nasal country-Western voice.
“Daddy,” Ruby said. She tugged at his arm. Things about him had started to embarrass her.
“ Hard travelin’, hard ramblin’ …”
“ Hard gamblin’ ,” Cora joined in.
“You both make me sick,” Ruby said. But she joined in eventually, too. There was no one to hear them. Just an old man with the same red walker Aaron had, and by the time he reached the bench, the song was over.
16
Freddie could not decide whether or not to go to New York for Christmas. She loved going East for the holidays, it was still a novelty for her, it always would be—the snow, the cold, the lights on Fifth Avenue.
“Everything you hate about it,” she said to Molly, “like the crowds, for instance—I love that. I love being a tourist there.”
“You go to New York and see my father, I’ll stay here and see your father. They won’t know the difference.”
As soon as she said it, Molly wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s so easy to dine out on them. Cheap joke. Why don’t we both stay here this year?”
But Freddie knew that Molly’s family Jewish Christmas was somehow their most important holiday. They celebrated Hanukkah in a haphazard way, lighting candles on the nights they remembered. But Christmas was a time they all got together, all of them, even Molly’s ex-husband and his current wife.
“And Ben will be there,” Freddie said. She had said the magic word, the defining word, the name of the son. She watched Molly’s face grow almost beatific.
“Ben,” Freddie said again, just to see the effect, to see the benignity intensify.
Then Molly caught her at it. “Oh shut up,” she said.
Freddie started to laugh. “The idea of you staying here for the holidays—it’s pretty funny, Molly. Go see your cockamamie family and I’ll stay here and look after my cockamamie father. We will long for each other across the wide continent.”
17
In her parents’ bedroom, it was dim and cluttered with medical apparatus. Her father sat in his leather recliner, a blanket spread neatly over his knees. He grabbed Molly’s hand and motioned for her to lean down, then put his lips close to her ear.
“There’s a black man in the house,” he whispered, obviously alarmed.
“That’s Walter, Mom’s nurse’s-from-when-she-broke-her-ankle-ten-years-ago’s son-in-law’s cousin’s mother’s friend from church. Or some such thing. He’s from Ghana.” He was a very gentle man with a beautiful smile and a staccato, musical accent. He knew how to change a colostomy bag. He was strong. He was kind.
“What’s he doing here? There’s a black man in the apartment, I tell you,” he whispered again, sputtering now. He pulled on her arm.
“Walter. From Ghana,” she said, louder.
“No one from Ghana is named Walter,” he whispered. “He’s a fraud. Get him out.”
She straightened up and looked down at her father. His beard was trimmed. His hair was combed. Even the hairs in his ears had been trimmed. His nails were clean. His shirt was unstained and buttoned properly. And that blanket on his lap—he could have been a gentleman taking in the salt air on an ocean liner.
“Daddy, he’s here to help you.”
“I don’t need help. What are you talking about? Help? I don’t need help. You’re the one who needs help.”
“Well, Mom needs help. You don’t want her back in the hospital, do you?”
“Hospital? Nobody tells me anything. Where’s your mother?”
“She’s resting. Do you want her to drop dead from exhaustion? Then who would take care of you?”
He looked pointedly at her.
“ Me? ” she said. “I wouldn’t
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