Wednesday
“If a heart attack doesn’t get me, the Medicare paperwork will,” my father said that afternoon. “You wouldn’t believe the mountain of paper on my desk.”
We were in a booth at the kosher-style deli in Skokie that my father loves: a place with black-and-white square tiles on the floor, a giant menu that goes on for eight laminated pages, and a tantalizing aroma of garlic pickles and fresh-baked pumpernickel. Dad always orders the same thing: kreplach soup, corned beef on rye, coffee. He’s nothing if not consistent. He’s also over ninety, so he’s earned the right to be in whatever mood he wants. He continued to grumble.
“You just wouldn’t believe it.”
“What’s the problem, Dad? You’ve got your Part A and B, your supplemental, and your Part D, right?”
My father leaned across the table. He’s never been tall, and age has stooped him. He looks frailer every year, very much like a wizened Ben Kingsley. But his mind is as sharp as a box of tacks, and his heart, which has grown bigger and kinder over the years, makes up for what he’s lost in stature. “They send me reports of every doctor’s visit, every prescription, every time the home gives me a pill, practically every time I cough, for Christ’s sake. Then they tell me how much they’re covering, and what they may pay. Then when they actually do pay, they send it all over again. When I die, you’re gonna have to dig through the papers just to find my corpse. Emmes.”
I sipped my coffee. I’m used to his rants. “So, why don’t you just trash them?”
“What…and screw up the environment?” He straightened up. “Plus, who knows? One of those papers might save you a lot of money someday.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My father was a lawyer, and he tends to be a hoarder. His case files from fifty years ago are still in my attic. “I can always ask for duplicates,” I said.
“Then there will be another mountain of paper to get rid of. I’m saving you the trouble.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Since when have you become green?”
“Green?” He looked puzzled. “Oh. That.” He lifted his coffee cup. His hand shook, but he didn’t spill.
“And anyway”—I reached for a sugar packet—“you’re not dying.”
“I’m gettin’ there.”
I don’t argue with him anymore. Having reached a certain age myself, I suppose I’m more sensitive to his. Even though there’s a steady stream of new acquaintances in his assisted living home, he’s lost most of his close friends. He’s even outlasted the previous owners of the facility. I keep imagining the new owners slipping arsenic into his food, hoping for his demise so they can double the fees and screw some other old soul. But, as I told Luke, over my dead body.
“And his, it would seem,” Luke shot back.
Now, though, I kept my opinion to myself. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with bottle-blond hair and a toothy smile, brought our sandwiches, along with an extra plate of sliced garlic pickles.
“You take good care of us, Shirley,” Dad said with a smile.
Shirley winked. “You, Jake. I take care of you.”
He beamed. “Will you marry me?”
“Sorry. Been there, done that.”
“Haven’t we all?” My dad took a bite of his sandwich.
Shirley retreated. As if on cue, a male voice called out, “Well, fancy meeting you here!”
We looked up. Gorgeous blue eyes, silver-streaked hair, a great body. I hadn’t seen him in months, so it took an instant to realize it was Barry, my ex-husband and Rachel’s father. I’ll say one thing for him: he always manages to look incredibly sexy. Another man, presumably his lunch partner, lurked in the background.
“Barry!” I got up and gave him a hug. We’ve been divorced for more than fifteen years, longer than we were married, and time had conferred an equanimity on our relationship. We’d both moved on. No one was more surprised at that than I.
Barry turned his attention to my father. “Jake…” He reached out his hand. “You don’t look a day older.”
My father took his hand and covered it with his other. “And you’re still full of it…” But Dad was grinning.
Barry didn’t miss a beat. “So how have you two been?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Terrible,” Dad said.
Barry turned to me. “How’s Luke?”
“Great.” I wanted to change the subject. It’s still uncomfortable for me to talk about my new love with the old one. “You look terrific…as usual.”
“Thanks…” His smile was just a bit smug, reminding me that he’s only too aware of his effect on women. Which he proved during our marriage. Repeatedly.
“You seeing my granddaughter enough?” Dad broke in. He gets right to the point.
“Dad…”
“It’s all right, Ellie. I get it,” Barry said. He turned back to Dad. “Rachel and I had dinner two nights ago. In Wrigleyville.”
“Good. A girl needs her father. No matter what age she is.” Dad directed his comment at me.
My cheeks got hot.
Barry nodded. “Well, this was a terrific surprise. Please stay well, both of you. Call me sometime, Ellie. I think we can actually talk to each other now.”
I didn’t know what we would possibly talk about, but I kept my mouth shut. He backtracked and walked away without introducing the man he was with.
Which of course was the first thing my father asked. “Who was that masked man?”
“No clue, Kemo Sabe. Business associate? Tennis partner? Golf buddy?”
Dad thought about it. “Probably not a bad thing.”
“What wasn’t?”
“You two splitting up.”
I recalled how upset he’d been at first and pasted on my Martha Stewart smile. “It was a good thing.”
“Even though what’s-his-name isn’t Jewish.”
“What’s-his-name has a name. More important, he makes me happy.”
“So when are you getting married?”
I yanked my thumb toward Barry, who was at the counter paying his check. “As Shirley, our wise waitress, said, ‘been there, done that.’”
Dad frowned.
“I like the fact we’re not with each other all the time. We give each other space.”
He snorted. “We didn’t need space when I was young. You live together, you live together, know what I mean?” He paused. “Then again, I guess I’m getting too old for this world.”
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. He was supposed to be ageless.