At the Oceana Apartments, he follows a daily routine. He has always sought stability. He thrives on the habitual, on control, even as his comedy relied on its usurpation.
Ida gets up first. Ida goes to bed late—she likes to watch her shows—but still she rises earlier than he. He requires a test each morning for his diabetes, and this task falls to Ida. He breakfasts on toast and tea, or coffee if the mood strikes him. Lois, his daughter, keeps him supplied with jellies from the Farmers Market. He could have a different flavor every day of the week, if he chose.
Such small pleasures, such simple delights.
When he is done with breakfast, he ventures to the lobby to pick up his mail. He moves slowly. His stroke has left him with a limp, and he is hugely self-conscious about its effects. Only here, in the safety of the Oceana Apartments, where his neighbors are familiar with his ways, is he comfortable to be seen in decline.
There is always mail. Mostly it is a handful of letters, but sometimes it comes in sacks, and he tips the doorman to help him carry them up to his desk. And then he sits, for hour upon hour, and composes his replies. A blood vessel has burst in his left eye. It makes it difficult for him to read books, but he can cope with letters easily enough, and the stories in the trade papers. He once calculated how much he spends on stamps every week, and it is an exercise he chooses not to repeat; there are some expenses it is better to ignore. He pauses only to take telephone calls—from friends, from strangers, and always, always from his lawyer, Ben Shipman, who continues to look after his business affairs, and ensures he never has so much money that he is in danger of becoming a playboy.
He stops for lunch. If he is feeling strong enough, he and Ida go out to eat at Madame Wu’s, or The Fox & Hounds; otherwise, they order in. He naps. He looks out upon the ocean. He watches television. He plays canasta with Ida and her friends, or poker with Buster Keaton.
He goes to bed.
He repeats the cycle.
This is how he spends the days, the days without Babe.