brought with them from New Rochelle when they retired and moved here to the country to be near him. Vincent had thought: They won’t need that upstate. But as it turned out, they did. Even on cool country nights, their bedroom was freezing, and they’d lie on the king-size bed, watching TV, slightly lizardlike and slow. Vincent’s father used to talk about his boyhood: hot nights on Elizabeth Street, his whole family on the fire escape, wrapped in wet sheets like mummies. He never got over his pleasure in being able to make his nights so cold. Now all that has changed. Vincent’s father and Laurel are also slow, but differently, not lizards but dancing bears as they stagger in the heat.
Vincent can’t remember ever seeing his father dance. He does recall his walk—the dignified, slightly stiff walk of a man who feared he was clumsy and from time to time would trip; but when he thought no one was watching, he moved with astonishing grace. What astonishes Vincent now is that any of them can stand this . At least when Laurel’s here, his father seems—literally—in good hands. For that hour, Vincent feels somehow lighter, as does his mother, who uses Laurel’s visit to sneak off to the kitchen and cook.
Vincent follows her, and sitting on a step stool, just watches. There is nothing to say. Until a few weeks ago, Vincent could distract her with stories about his kids. Now Rose has lost interest in the grandchildren. Vincent can’t blame her, but is troubled that Rose should act so much warmer toward Laurel, who’s been coming only six months. When Laurel bounces in, Rose grabs her shoulders and holds her. With Vincent, Rose kisses the air and says, “Go see Dad.” Yet this, too, has come to seem right. Laurel touches Vincent’s father in ways Vincent can’t. It would never occur to him to kneel behind his father and prop him against his thighs and tell him to reach for the bedrails. Though Vincent is in pretty good physical shape, he’d be scared to.
Last week, in the bookstore of the college where Vincent teaches, he heard a woman ask for a book called The Healing Touch . Now Vincent wonders if that’s what Laurel has. For by the time Laurel has got him back in bed, Vincent’s father has perked up some; his face is flushed with blood.
“All right, now, you be good,” Laurel says. “See you tomorrow, Mr. DiStefano.” Vincent’s father smiles and waves. While Rose walks Laurel to the door, he motions Vincent close to his bedside and whispers, “That Laurel is some hot tomato.”
Vincent would like to see this as a sign of his father being more “like himself,” except that he was never like that. For most of his life, he was a high-school principal with formal, old-country good manners, a Louis whom no one ever called Lou. When Laurel calls him “Mr. DiStefano,” she could be one of his New Rochelle High kids, come to him for a talking-to—and whom he would never have called a tomato. But in some more basic way, calling Laurel anything is more like him. At least it shows some notice of, some interest in, some hanging on to this world. Most of the time he just drifts.
So Vincent times his own daily visits to coincide with Laurel’s. Right after she leaves is when his father is most likely to ask about the kids or Vincent’s wife, Marianne. Vincent used to bring grandchildren stories and conversation about the new oil burner or minor car trouble—news, such as it was. It depresses him that his father is no longer interested. Now, though it’s no longer true, Vincent says what he’s been saying all summer: “Marianne’s got a great garden this year.”
“Kids keep her busy?” says Vincent’s father, and Vincent, as always, says, “Yup.”
What news could he give him? Marianne and the kids have taken up fishing; at least twice a week they paddle a friend’s boat out onto the reservoir and sit there, casting. As far as Vincent knows, they haven’t caught anything. Vincent has never
Vincent can’t remember ever seeing his father dance. He does recall his walk—the dignified, slightly stiff walk of a man who feared he was clumsy and from time to time would trip; but when he thought no one was watching, he moved with astonishing grace. What astonishes Vincent now is that any of them can stand this . At least when Laurel’s here, his father seems—literally—in good hands. For that hour, Vincent feels somehow lighter, as does his mother, who uses Laurel’s visit to sneak off to the kitchen and cook.
Vincent follows her, and sitting on a step stool, just watches. There is nothing to say. Until a few weeks ago, Vincent could distract her with stories about his kids. Now Rose has lost interest in the grandchildren. Vincent can’t blame her, but is troubled that Rose should act so much warmer toward Laurel, who’s been coming only six months. When Laurel bounces in, Rose grabs her shoulders and holds her. With Vincent, Rose kisses the air and says, “Go see Dad.” Yet this, too, has come to seem right. Laurel touches Vincent’s father in ways Vincent can’t. It would never occur to him to kneel behind his father and prop him against his thighs and tell him to reach for the bedrails. Though Vincent is in pretty good physical shape, he’d be scared to.
Last week, in the bookstore of the college where Vincent teaches, he heard a woman ask for a book called The Healing Touch . Now Vincent wonders if that’s what Laurel has. For by the time Laurel has got him back in bed, Vincent’s father has perked up some; his face is flushed with blood.
“All right, now, you be good,” Laurel says. “See you tomorrow, Mr. DiStefano.” Vincent’s father smiles and waves. While Rose walks Laurel to the door, he motions Vincent close to his bedside and whispers, “That Laurel is some hot tomato.”
Vincent would like to see this as a sign of his father being more “like himself,” except that he was never like that. For most of his life, he was a high-school principal with formal, old-country good manners, a Louis whom no one ever called Lou. When Laurel calls him “Mr. DiStefano,” she could be one of his New Rochelle High kids, come to him for a talking-to—and whom he would never have called a tomato. But in some more basic way, calling Laurel anything is more like him. At least it shows some notice of, some interest in, some hanging on to this world. Most of the time he just drifts.
So Vincent times his own daily visits to coincide with Laurel’s. Right after she leaves is when his father is most likely to ask about the kids or Vincent’s wife, Marianne. Vincent used to bring grandchildren stories and conversation about the new oil burner or minor car trouble—news, such as it was. It depresses him that his father is no longer interested. Now, though it’s no longer true, Vincent says what he’s been saying all summer: “Marianne’s got a great garden this year.”
“Kids keep her busy?” says Vincent’s father, and Vincent, as always, says, “Yup.”
What news could he give him? Marianne and the kids have taken up fishing; at least twice a week they paddle a friend’s boat out onto the reservoir and sit there, casting. As far as Vincent knows, they haven’t caught anything. Vincent has never
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