“California”—even the name had become ugly to Joy, like “Lee Harvey Oswald” or “Sirhan Sirhan.”
Joy’s parents had moved several times during the Depression, first to places where someone could take them in, then to places where they took others in. Each move was a shock to Joy, an almost physical jolt. So many people left behind—shopkeepers, neighbors, the policeman on the corner, the ladies sitting on their stoops. They were what made a place a home. There were so many things one had to give up in this world. Why would you choose to give up your home? For California?
Perhaps she should move to California, too. Aaron might not know the difference.
“Would you like to move to California, Aaron?”
“Come if you dare, our trumpets sound,” he sang. “Come if you dare, the foes rebound…”
He could not tell you what day it was, but he remembered his Purcell.
It was Sunday and she had ordered him a dinner of French toast from the coffee shop. New York was good for the elderly in that way, the deliveries. She had come to include Aaron in the category of “the elderly,” she realized with a pang. And where does that leave me, she wondered vaguely. At any rate, it was too difficult sometimes to herd Aaron and his walker out of the apartment and down the street to the coffee shop. She could have made French toast, she supposed. If there had been eggs. Or bread. If she still cooked.
“Isn’t there a joke, we could have ham and eggs if we had ham…”
“… and we had eggs!”
They laughed, repeated it, “We could have ham and eggs…”
Aaron took a bite of French toast and made a face.
“You love French toast, Aaron, so stop it.”
“Do I?”
He was hunched over the dining-room table. There was a bath mat on the seat of his chair as well as a blue chux pad. Joy leaned over and straightened them.
“You going to work today?” he said.
“No, dear, it’s Sunday.”
“Oh yeah?”
He took a bite of French toast and made another sour face.
“Stop that,” she said. “Anyway, you need a haircut.”
“You going to work today?” he said.
Sometimes Joy thought he was doing it on purpose. “No, not today. Today is Sunday.”
“Oh yeah? What is this, anyway?” he said, poking at the French toast.
“Your dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Joy grabbed his plate and brought it to the kitchen and scraped the French toast into the garbage.
“Joy! Joy!”
She stuck her head back into the dining room.
“You going to work today?” he asked.
“If you ask me that one more time, I’m putting a bag over your head,” she said mildly.
Aaron brought his face down to the teacup and took a sip, then looked fondly at his wife. He pointed to the cup of almost colorless liquid. “Join me, sweetheart?”
He began to sing in his once clear voice, now heavy and hoarse. “Tea for two, me for you…”
He sang pleasantly to himself while Joy fetched herself a cup of tea, and they sat looking out at the traffic’s red brake lights, something they’d both always found festive as the evening drew in.
2