Sometimes, when I’m in bed, I close my eyes and remember the look—and especially the feel—of a woman’s naked body. Usually it’s my wife’s, but not always. I was completely faithful to her. Not once in more than sixty years did I stray, except in my imagination, and I have a feeling she wouldn’t have minded that. She was a woman of extraordinary understanding.
Dear Lord, I miss that woman. And not just because if she were still alive, I wouldn’t be here, although that’s the God’s truth. No matter how decrepit we became, we would have looked after each other, like we always did. But after she was gone, I didn’t stand a chance against the kids. The first time I took a fall, they had it sewn up as quick as you can say Cracker Jack.
But Dad, they said, you broke your hip, as though maybe I hadn’t noticed. I dug in my heels. I threatened to cut them off without a cent until I remembered they already controlled my money. They didn’t remind me—they just let me rail on like an old fool until I remembered of my own accord, and that made me even angrier because if they had any respect for me at all they would have at least made sure I had the facts straight. I felt like a toddler whose tantrum was being allowed to run its course.
As the enormity of my helplessness dawned on me, my position began to slip.
You’re right, I conceded. I guess I could use some help. I suppose having someone come in during the day wouldn’t be so bad, just to help out with the cooking and cleaning. No? Well, how about a live-in? I know I’ve let things slip a little since your mother died . . . But I thought you said . . . Okay, then one of you can move in with me . . . But I don’t understand . . . Well, Simon, your house is large. Surely I could . . . ?
It was not to be.
I remember leaving my house for the last time, bundled up like a cat on the way to the vet. As the car pulled away, my eyes were so clouded by tears I couldn’t look back.
It’s not a nursing home, they said. It’s assisted living—progressive, you see. You’ll only have help for the things you need, and then when you get older . . .
They always trailed off there, as though that would prevent me from following the thought to its logical conclusion.
For a long time, I felt betrayed that not one of my five children offered to take me in. No longer. Now that I’ve had time to mull it over, I see they’ve got enough problems without adding me into the mix.
Simon is around seventy and has had at least one heart attack. Ruth has diabetes, and Peter has prostate trouble. Joseph’s wife ran off with a cabana boy when they were in Greece, and while Dinah’s breast cancer seems to have gone into remission—thank God—now she’s got her granddaughter living with her, trying to get the girl back on track after two illegitimate children and an arrest for shoplifting.
And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don’t mention because they don’t want to upset me. I’ve caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn’t upset Grandpa, you know.
Why? That’s what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?
I’ve decided it’s not about me at all. It’s a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah got there, I knew it wasn’t her fault—it was programmed into her.
But despite bowdlerizing content, my family has been entirely faithful about visiting. Someone comes every single Sunday, come hell or high water. They talk and they talk and they talk, about how fine/foul/fair the weather is, and what they did on vacation, and what they ate for lunch, and then at five on the nose they look gratefully at the clock and leave.
Sometimes they try to get me to go to the bingo game down the hall on their way out, like the batch from two weeks ago. Wouldn’t you like to join in? they said. We could take you there on our way out. Doesn’t it sound like fun?
Sure, I said. Maybe if you’re a rutabaga. And they laughed, which pleased me even though I wasn’t joking. At my age, you take credit for whatever you can. At least it proved they were listening.
My platitudes don’t hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik—that’s all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.
But I shouldn’t complain, this being circus day and all.
ROSEMARY RETURNS WITH a breakfast tray, and when she pulls off the brown plastic lid I see that she’s put cream and brown sugar on my porridge.
“Now don’t you go telling Dr. Rashid about the cream,” she says.