He looked up. “Sorry.” He looked back at the phone.
“People are going to forget how to talk to each other. That’s all.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
Joy could feel the tears welling up. She took a deep breath. Danny was dog-tired, he was overburdened at work, he had so much on his mind. The changing climate, the melting polar ice, droughts and floods, the girls getting into decent schools …
“How are the girls?” she asked.
Danny gave her a suspicious look.
“They’re very busy, Mom. They have a lot of homework.”
And birthday parties, Joy thought. It was mathematically impossible, the number of birthday parties those little girls went to. Homework and birthday parties, a balance of a sort. “I know, sweetheart. They work so hard. So do you.”
“Yeah,” he said, mollified. “We do.”
Joy hadn’t seen or heard from her grandchildren in over a month, but that was not why she asked about them. Danny was prickly about his family, as if any inquiry were a veiled criticism. She had asked about the girls because she had suddenly pictured them, like two kittens, their big eyes and silky hair, the way they snuggled into each other like kittens, then batted each other away. They were beautiful, sweet, eccentric girls. It was only natural that she missed them. Only natural that she asked about them. She understood they had their lives and that their lives were imperative and irresistible in that way that a child’s life is.
“I’d love if they called. You know, just to say hello.”
He laughed unkindly. “You sound like Grandma Bergman. Your finger broken? You can’t dial a phone? I mean, you can call them, too, Mom.”
Joy could not explain this to her son, would have been too ashamed even to mention it, but when she did call his house, everyone there was always so busy. It made her feel awkward and intrusive, out of step.
“Grandma Bergman,” she said. “Them’s fightin’ words.”
But there were circles under his eyes, his shirt was wrinkled and his tie rumpled, he’d been up since five, and still he made time for this visit. She got up to spoon out his ice cream herself.
She stood at the door watching as Danny, large and wilted and fiddling with his phone in his pocket, waited for the elevator, and she was glad for once that the elevator was so slow. She could not take her eyes off him.
“Your briefcase is so heavy, Danny. You should get one with wheels.”
He laughed, walked back, gave her another hug. Over his shoulder she could just make out the elevator door opening. She said nothing, holding her big, tired son in her arms. The door closed and the elevator began its slow ascent to some other floor. A high floor, she hoped, her face against his chest. Maybe the penthouse.
That night, Joy pressed her back against the cushions of the sofa. It was late, after 3 a.m., but it was not dark. It was never dark in New York, and tonight the cloudy sky reflected the city lights in a pale green glow. It was quiet, though. Those few hours when all the creatures of the city, the screeching, roaring buses, the howling ambulances, all seemed to take their rest, when the garbage trucks had not yet trundled out of their caves. She could hear Walter changing Aaron’s colostomy bag. God bless you, Walter, she thought. May the lord bless you and keep you and shine his countenance upon you.
But who will pay you? Not the lord. And there was no version of arithmetic in which Joy and Aaron’s social security was sufficient for the parade of helpers each day. It seemed almost Victorian, having caretakers. As if she and Aaron were large estates. She would have to go back to work soon, that’s all, maybe go back to full time to help make ends meet at Bergman House. How she would find the strength she did not know. Even with the caretakers there was so much she had to do for Aaron. She wasn’t complaining, she told herself stoutly, just being honest, though how she longed to complain sometimes, to let loose and curse the gods. She had tried it out on the children. The response had not been entirely satisfactory.
“I’m lonely,” she had said. “Even though Daddy is right here and even though I never feel as though I get to be alone.”
“You should get a dog!” Danny had said. “That would be perfect!”
Oh, Danny, another helpless creature to tend to? Yes, dear, perfect. And Molly! When Joy said her head was muddled and she sometimes was so tired she could not breathe, but so worried about the cost of the caretakers that she could not sleep, Molly suggested she go to the 92nd Street Y’s poetry readings. Poetry. They meant well, they did. But they fuck you up, your son and daughter, Joy thought, pleased with her clever Philip Larkin allusion, 92nd Street Y or no 92nd Street Y. They may not mean to, but they do.