Late Stories (28 page)

“These beautiful young ladies yours?”

“My daughters, Freya and Miriam.”

“How do you do, young ladies. I'm Philip. And if I may say so, you're a great help to your mom.” And to her: “I doubt you remember me. It was so long ago. We talked a little at one of these Christmas parties, but in Brad's old apartment. Have you been injured?” touching her walker.

“No, it's for an illness. This is what I've quickly been reduced to.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. And I didn't mean to pry.”

“And I didn't mention my illness to elicit sympathy. I'll be fine. I trust life has been good to you since we last spoke, though I have to admit I have no recollection of our conversation.”

“No reason you would. Party talk. And I'm much the same. Still not married and no kids. Still writing and teaching and going to Christmas parties and stuff like that.”

“Doesn't sound so bad to me, the last part. But I'll have to cut
this off, Philip. I'm a little tired.” And to her girls: “I know it seems we just got here and you're going to be disappointed, but would you tell Daddy I'm ready to leave? If he wants, he can put me in a cab, though one of you will have to come with me.”

“Nice to meet you again. ‘Abigail,' it was, right?”

“Your memory's better than mine. Perhaps we'll see each other at next year's party, if there's one, and can talk some more.”

“I look forward to it. And I'm sure there'll be a party next year.”

The girls have left the room. She starts after them.

“Can I help you in any way?”

“No. This has to be done alone. It's slow but I get there. Thank you.”

Half an hour later he sees her and her husband and daughters at the front door, hats and coats on, saying goodbye to some people. He smiles at her when she looks his way, and she smiles back. At least, or so it seems, she doesn't have any bad feelings toward him anymore. Maybe because she actually doesn't remember anything about what he said the last time they talked.

He calls Brad the next day. “Once again, great party. I forgot how much I missed it. Christmas parties weren't the same in California. You need the cold and threat of snow. But tell me, how bad off is Abigail Berman? She sure seemed weak. Though maybe she was just tired, as she said. The holidays and all. It can get to anybody.”

“I wish it was that. The worst kind of MS. Went downhill very fast, and still sliding. Exacerbating—something else. Chronic progressive. I forget the medical term. At our party last year she was able to get around with only a cane. The one before, she didn't even need that and showed no signs of it except for her eyes, which were a little off.”

“The poor dear. I feel so sorry for her. I only wish I was the one married to her, so I could take care of her.”

“That's nutsy, Phil. Don't repeat it to anyone else. And Mike seems to do an excellent job.”

“Of course.”

He's invited to the next Christmas party, but is out of town and can't go to it. Very much wants to, mainly to see her again and have a real talk. About a year after it—Thanksgiving weekend—he sees her in a movie theater on the East Side. The movie ended a minute ago. He has his ticket and is waiting on line in the lobby to go into the theater and she's in a wheelchair, on the other side of a rope separating them, being wheeled out of the theater into the lobby by her older daughter.

“Abigail. Stop,” and he climbs over the rope and goes over to her. “Hi. Philip Seidel. From Brad and Susan's Christmas party.”

“Yes. How are you? And I remember you this time.”

“I'm fine, thanks. Haven't seen you for a couple of years. Nor your daughters. Hi, kids. Freya and Miriam. I'm almost sure that's right. I hope you're all doing well.” And to her: “I don't know what to say. And I usually end up saying the wrong thing, so excuse me beforehand. But this chair. I hope it's only temporary.”

“It will be if they come up with a miracle cure for me. And I'm impressed you remembered my daughters' names. As for the Christmas party. We've been invited, as I'm sure you have, and don't embarrass me by telling me you haven't, but I won't be going to it. I've become a traffic problem, being in a wheelchair at a crowded party, people tripping all over me, besides other more personal inconveniences. My daughters will be there if their father takes them. It's become a nice tradition for them, and they've even made friends with some of the other children there. So, if you go, give Susan and Brad a big hello from me. Now we should get home.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? It's pouring out.” The doors in front of the waiting line open and people start going inside. “None of you have raincoats and maybe not even an umbrella.”

“We'll manage. My daughters know how to look after me.”

“No. I don't want you to. You'll catch cold. The kids too. Here. It's wet, but take my umbrella. It's large enough for all of you.” He gives the younger girl his umbrella. “Wait. What am I doing? You stay here and I'll get you a cab. There's a whole fleet of wheelchair-accessible cabs now running around New York. At least let me try.”

“Thank you but we were planning to take a bus. The crosstown here and the number 5 uptown. They're all handicapped accessible now and they let the wheelchairs on first. You're going to miss the beginning of the movie. Are you seeing the same one we saw?”

“I doubt it. One I'm seeing's not for kids. But the hell with the movie. Heck with it, I mean,” covering his mouth and smiling. The girls and she laugh. “And I only came to it to get out of the house. Anyway, I'm getting you a cab and paying for it. My idea, so my expense. It's the least I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to help you and the kids out best as I can. Stay here. I'll signal you when I get one. But I'll take the umbrella till I get a cab and get you into it.”

“You're a stubborn man, Philip. Okay. We'll wait here.”

“One question, though. If I can't find a cab that can't take a wheelchair any other way but folded up in the trunk, are you able to get out of the chair and into the rear or front passenger seat with a little help?”

“No. Not without the danger of falling. And getting back into the chair from the seat would be even worse.”

“I understand.” He goes outside, opens the umbrella and stands in the street in front of the theater looking for a cab that can take
someone in a wheelchair. He's out there for about fifteen minutes. Several regular cabs slow down or stop but he waves them on. Give up. He's never going to find one. Shouldn't have been so confident. Should have known it'd be tough. Now he has to go back there and tell her, but he knows she won't mind. Not the kind of person to. She might even blame herself. Goddamn rain. If only it wasn't coming down so hard. He goes into the lobby. “Sorry. No luck. Rainy night. I should have known. And now I've wasted your time. Here, let me walk you to the crosstown bus shelter. You three will get under the umbrella. As I said, it's abnormally large, so you can all fit—and I'll hold the umbrella over you.”

“Please. You should see your movie. Go. Enjoy it. We'll make do.”

“I told you. That's out. I just want you to get home as dry as you can be. I'll even take the crosstown bus with you and then transfer to the number 10 downtown. I live right off Central Park West.”

“Okay, if you want. I can't thank you enough. For my daughters and myself.”

Should he try to redeem his movie ticket at the box office? That'll just waste more time and he also doesn't want her to think he's petty or cheap. Anyway, no. They walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Her daughters take turns pushing her and he keeps the umbrella over the three of them. Thank God the rain's now only a drizzle. Still, he's soaked, feels chilled, but he'll be all right once he's home. Few seconds after they get to the bus shelter, he sees a cab that can take a wheelchair and runs out into the street and flags it down. The cabby stays in the driver's seat, releases the liftback door, and he pushes the chair up the rear-entry ramp to the one empty place where a seat would be. Then the cabby, without leaving the cab, goes in back to strap the chair down till it can't move. The younger girl sits beside her and the older one is in the front passenger seat.

“I guess I can take my umbrella now. I don't think you'll need it anymore. Actually, keep it. To get into your building from the cab. I've got another just like it. Promotion ones, from a bank,” and he folds up the umbrella and puts it on the floor next to her.

“Maybe you can come with us as far as your downtown bus stop.”

“I'd love to, but doesn't seem to be room. And I'm getting wet, standing here, even for me. Bye-bye, my friends.” He shuts the door. She says something to the driver. Probably their address. Cab starts up. “Wait.” He runs around the front of the cab and knocks on the driver's window. Window's lowered, and he gives him a twenty and a ten. “That should take them anyplace in Manhattan. And help them into their building.” Cab drives off and she and the kids smile and wave at him. He waves back and gets in the bus shelter. Damn, should have gone with them. Even diverted the cab first to his building, which isn't too far from the Central Park West crosstown bus stop. Made room some way. Just to be with her more. Even with one of the girls on his lap. Nah, she might have minded that and the girl too. But get home fast. He goes into the street and flags down a cab.

He gets a teaching job in Baltimore. Two years later he's in New York for the Christmas holiday and goes to Brad and Susan's party. He hopes she's changed her mind about not going to it, if she's in town, and is there and this time they can really talk. That night it rained and the movie theater and he had so much trouble getting her a cab. Did any of them come down with a cold, after? What's he thinking. She wouldn't remember that. “But how are you? It's so good to see you again. And your kids,” if they're there. He gets to the party early, just in case she gets there early and is planning to leave early. Hangs his coat in the coat closet and gets a drink and looks around for her. Easy to spot too, if she's still in a wheelchair.
Even if she's with people or seems deep in a conversation with someone, he's going to go right over to her. He sees her husband. “Mike Seltzer. Phil Seidel. Maybe you remember me. We spoke here a few years ago. You were with your wife and kids. I don't see them. Is she here? How is she?”

“Jesus, another one. I can't believe it. You're number four.”

“Four of what? I don't get it.”

“The fourth person to come over to me—and how long have I been here? Fifteen minutes?—and ask after my wife and doesn't know she died.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a shock. She was such a wonderful person.”

“Please don't say anything.” He looks like he's about to cry. “I knew I shouldn't have come. Goddamn fucking mistake,” and he walks away.

Goes over to Brad. “You didn't tell me Abigail Berman had died.”

“I didn't know you knew her that well.”

“I didn't. But you knew how I felt about her.”

“No. I must have forgot. How did you?”

“Come on. You even criticized me for it. Thought I was acting like a love-sick fool. I was completely taken by her. You're probably the only one I told.”

“So something did once happen between you two? Even once snuck in a kiss or something?”

“Nothing. I told you. It was all in my head. Was I in dreamland? You bet. Not that she would have been interested in me. Well, now that I think of the last time I saw her . . . It was at a movie theater on the East Side. I guess before she really got sick. She was with her kids. I got them a cab because it was pouring out and I was afraid she'd catch a cold and even worse. And she might have. She was in a wheelchair and her kids were pushing her and she said something
that seemed to indicate she'd be in that chair the rest of her life. What a loss. I mean, I can't believe it. What I'm saying is . . . well, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm glad, though, Mike was a good husband to her. Looked after her when she got sick. Couldn't have been easy.”

“It wasn't anything like that. He only did so much for her at the beginning and then couldn't take it anymore when she could only get around in a wheelchair and had her first bout with pneumonia. He left her. Probably around the time you saw her at the movie theater. Her teaching days were over, so she became entirely dependent on him. He gave her enough to keep her comfortable. And kept giving it, though he didn't have to for too long, so she could stay in the apartment with the kids and have an aide when she needed one, which eventually became round-the-clock. He quickly got hooked up with someone and got Abigail to agree to a divorce so he could remarry. She's here. Nice woman. Quiet, but accomplished. A pediatrician. Abigail didn't want the divorce, she told Susan. She thought she'd lose some of his benefits, but he took care of that too.”

“What a scumbag. Why'd you even invite him to the party?”

“Why wouldn't I? You're an old friend, he's an old friend, and he's always been a terrific dad. What went on between Abigail and him was their business. Who knows what I'd do if I was in the same situation?”

“I would have become even closer to her, if it were me. If I were Mike. If I were married to her and she had got the same disease. Any disease. I could kick myself that I didn't move faster that night.”

“What night?”

“The first Christmas party you invited me to. What was it, twelve, fifteen years ago? A long time, when I first saw her at your old apartment. And maybe when I bumped into her at the movie theater, she was already split from him.”

“It's possible. Everything went very fast.”

“So I could have made a move on her then. She needed someone like me. Got her phone number. Called. Taken her out for lunch. Pushed her in her wheelchair to it. Later, taken care of her. Even married her. Put her on my health plan.”