Chapter 47 Only A Minute

My father glides in on his new motorized wheelchair. He rams into my mother’s three-thousand-dollar mahogany china closet filled with her precious collection of Rose Medallion china. Miraculously, he doesn’t break the glass or damage the china, but when he disengages the wheelchair there is a long scratch in the dark wood that is shaped like a scythe. Then, standing behind my father, the angel of death appears, his grey hooded burnoose stained with blood. With infinite care, he brings his scythe down towards my father’s neck. I draw back, horrified, shutting my eyes tight. When I open them again the grim reaper is gone. “You look just like your mother, honey,” my father says. I have repeatedly asked him not to call me honey because that was what he always called my mother. He has repeatedly ignored me. “But,” he goes on and his eyes stray to my breasts. I remember the day when he told me, a shy, scrawny teenager proud of my new tiny boobies, that I would have a good figure if only I had bigger breasts. I shudder, but when my father continues he surprises me, “You’re even prettier than your mother.” Maybe he is mellowing because it is the New Year and this is the time that the Midrash says we must make amends to those we have slighted. Maybe he just wants love like me and everyone else. I look at my father in the scooter. He’s gotten so skinny but he has a big belly as if his once fine physique has melted down around his waist. He used to swim a mile a day. He is wearing a baseball cap as he always does to conceal the fact that all that that is left of his once thick, dark hair is a few silver strands. Today it is his Baltimore Orioles cap, a bright red flag above his pallid face. It must be so hard for him now, careening around these four rooms in his little cripple’s cart, struggling to change his diapers. “Hey, Dad,” I ask, “You want to have tea and cookies? I need to take a break.” His face brightens. “Sure, honey,” he says. We sit together drinking tea and eating Oreos. My father starts to tell the story about how my mother wouldn’t take off her nightgown on their wedding night. I don’t want to hear this story, certainly not for the twentieth time. I recite Kubla Khan to myself and pretend to listen. My father has stopped talking and is looking at me expectantly as if he is waiting for an answer. “I couldn’t hear what you said, Dad,” I tell him, “because I was chewing. What did you say?” “Will you do something for me, honey?” my father asks. “Bring some books up to Mr Tom? He has some books for me.” My father and Mr Tom are both mystery fans, sharing a preference for the contemporary thrillers of Lawrence Block. They trade books back and forth. “Er, um, sure,” I say. “Thanks, honey,” my father answers. “I’ll call Mr Tom right up.” My father drives off eagerly to the telephone in his bedroom. He soon calls in to me, “Tommy says come up in an hour.” I’m standing in front of Mr Tom’s door holding three paperback books. The top one is The Sins of Our Fathers. As I knock on the door, I feel nervous. Mr Tom answers immediately. He is wearing a maroon satin smoking jacket with a white cravat. The smell of Brut surrounding him is very strong. I fight the impulse to run back into the elevator. “Here, Mr Tom,” I say as I hold the books out to him. ‘If you’ll just give me the books you have for my dad, I’ll be on my way.” He shakes his head, “Oh, no, no, you can’t do that, you just can’t. You must come in, you must. I have something special to show you. Please, please come in.” He looks at me so imploringly that I cannot refuse. “Okay,” I say, “but only for a minute.” I follow him into a spacious living room with fancy furniture in white and gold. A big white sofa dominates the room, a low gold coffee table in front of it. “Do me the honor of sitting down,” says Mr Tom and I do. “Take a look at this,” he says, “I’ve made a little display for you.” Standing on the coffee table, there are perhaps a dozen framed pictures of Mr Tom, a much younger Mr Tom, Mr Tom in uniform, Mr Tom the soldier. There is also an open cigar box filled with medals and brightly colored war ribbons. In the center of the table sits a pink porcelain candy dish piled with Hershey’s kisses. “These are the souvenirs of my military career,” says Mr Tom. “I wanted you to see me when I was a young warrior fighting for my country. I enlisted again after the war. Now in this one, I’m in front of my plane, we were liberating Belgium, bet you didn’t know Tommy was a pilot.” He picks up a picture of a handsome young charmer with large, luminous eyes, his light hair combed into an old style pompadour. One by one he shows me the photos, recounts their histories.