ASHER BLUM

Despite his exhaustion, Asher couldn’t nap, no matter how many sheep he counted. He dragged himself out of bed and found some yogurt in the refrigerator. Iris’s voice was stern in his head, telling him how unhealthy it was to add chocolate syrup to yogurt, so he didn’t. Carrying the bowl to the front window, he felt virtuous for the first time in weeks.

Opening the curtains enough to see the green center of Azalea Court—he thought of it as Iris’s Circle—he watched Lexi talking with the two detectives, wishing he could hear their conversation. The male detective, the quiet one, not the boss, stood up and turned his back to Lexi. He talked on his phone for a couple of minutes, waving his free hand in the air. Then Lexi got up too and started walking slowly towards his house. Her face was red and puffy.

He put the bowl of unfinished yogurt in the sink, wondering for a moment if Iris would be home to clean up the kitchen like she always did. He sat in Iris’s chair and hugged her knitting basket. He hoped Lexi wasn’t going to cry. He couldn’t stand watching her cry. When she was little and cried, he simply left the room and let Iris take care of it.

He listened to the murmur of voices on the porch. How could his life have come to this? People being logged in to enter his home. It was inexcusable. Indefensible. After everything he had given to this community. But not a huge surprise, perhaps. For years he had waited in vain for people to acknowledge his contributions to the state hospital and the town in a tangible way. There was Prince Street, and Earle Street, but no Blum Street. Even the Haskell Building was named for a colleague who had been a decent physician, but why should she be honored that way and not him? Was it anti-Semitism? Whatever the reason, his four decades of service were largely unappreciated.

He cradled his head in his hands, elbows resting on Iris’s yarn basket with the half-finished gray cardigan she was knitting for him on top. Try as he might, he would never understand people. That was a peculiar thing for a psychiatrist to admit.

“Dad?”

Lexi stood in the doorway. Her face was more composed now, tears wiped from her eyes. She walked to his chair and leaned over for a hug. They didn’t hug much in their family. He held her as long as he could without seeming pathetic.

“Sit with me,” he said.

Lexi sat and took his hand. “I love you, Dad.”

Anything else would have been fine. If she had asked how he was, or where he thought Iris had gone, or what on earth the detectives were doing, he could have handled it. Even if she yelled at him, blamed him. But this? He felt his throat swell and ache and then he couldn’t stop the sobs.