“But guys like the guys he shot are everywhere. Hoods. Gangs. Toughs. Whatever you want to call them.”
“I would not resist if young thugs approached me for money,” I say. “I would acquiesce. I agree with Governor Cuomo that a vigilante spirit is dangerous. Rude, too.”
“Rude?” he says.
“Yes, Gian. Incivility is not incivility’s antidote. I don’t know whether I believe that vigilante really had reason to think those young men were going to harm him. It sounds to me like he planned to shoot someone regardless—like he’d seen those I Want Death movies one too many times.”
“Death Wish?” says Gian.
“One of those young men is paralyzed. Eighteen years old. Never going to walk again.”
“Maybe they deserved it, Ma. The city’s a sick place. People are sick.”
“This city may be a rotten egg,” I say, “but I’ll still be the last one out. What have I got to lose?”
“Ma, you sound depressed again.”
“Of course I do. This time of year is depressing. New Year’s Eve is a bigger thug than any mugger, the way it makes people feel. Being old is depressing. The Subway Vigilante is depressing. But I love it here, this big rotten apple. I’m near my old haunts, my sycamore trees, my trusty R.H. Macy’s.”
“I will never understand,” Gian says, “why living near Macy’s is more important than living near your grandkids. You haven’t written an ad for them in twenty-five years.”
“It’s not just R.H. Macy’s, Johnny,” I say, though I’d miss the department store like I’d miss a parent; the company gave me a life that I would not have lived otherwise. “In Murray Hill I don’t have to drive. I don’t have to rely on anybody. If I came to Brunswick, my brain would waste into a raisin and I’d break both my hips.”
He goes on, and I listen, but he won’t persuade me. I’m not leaving this city no matter how far it falls in its hellward slide. Over the years I have entertained the idea of moving. I adore my son, the kids, adore the idea of usurping the fake mother. And yet.
“Gianino, darling,” I say. “I thought this call was about Julia, not your old ma. What will you do with the evening? I imagine this heart attack has quashed your plans?”
“We’re going to let the kids stay up until midnight this year. They’re all old enough. Even though I’ll be at the hospital—just being awake will be enough of a treat for them. What are your plans?”
“Same as always. Dinner at Grimaldi at five, and then early to bed with a book.”
“Veal rollatini with green noodles?” he asks.
“As ever,” I say. “Alberto’s specialty.”
The Grimaldis were family friends of Max’s family. Max, whose full name was Massimiliano Gianluca Caputo. The restaurant is just around the corner on Madison Avenue, and I’ve been going there since they opened in 1956. Max and I had divorced—why say it that way? Max had divorced me—before then, but because I got to keep the apartment, got to keep the city, I also got to keep the restaurant and that set of friends. It’s been my New Year’s Eve standard since the late seventies, back before pasta became the rage of the age.
“Tell Alberto that Massimiliano Gianluca Caputo, Jr., sends his regards,” says Gian. “Tell Al junior that I say ciao.”
“I will to Alberto,” I say, “but I can’t to Al. He absconded to Palm Beach to serve tortellini to the snowbirds.”
I think of my rollatini, and I don’t feel hungry.
“I bet his new place won’t require jackets in that Florida heat,” says Gian.
I’d bet he’s right, and though I’ll never set foot in Florida, I resent that, just as I resent our summertime tourists who underdress, who take no pride in looking any better than bovine, in their shorts and their neon hues and their fanny packs. Even were Alberto no longer to require it, I would dress for dinner.
“If I’m out when you have news, I’m at Grimaldi,” I say. “So don’t worry and just leave a message.”
I used to use a service, but Gian and the kids set up an answering machine last week, one of their Christmas presents. The leave-a-message message speaks in the voice of Lily, my youngest granddaughter—my favorite voice, and not just because they named her after me, but because she’s musical, a singer like her father. She’s called me every day since they left, to record a reply to her own recording before I pick up and we talk a bit. Our new game: Lily ringing Lily, then speaking to Grandma Lillian.
“All right,” says Gian. “Be careful out there. Love you, Ma.”
I replace the Bakelite receiver in its cradle and look down at the kitchen table, where I’ve been sitting.