He tells her he’ll be in the city in a month to see his mother and if it’s all right he’d like to come by to choose a painting. She says to call her a week before so they can make a definite appointment. “I don’t want to pretend I’m a busy person or that dealers are batting my door down to get his works, but occasionally I do see a friend for lunch.” Three months later she calls him. “I got your number from the woman taking care of your mother. She said you were in New York last month. If you were, it’s possible you called and I missed you,” and he says, “I’ve actually been there twice since I spoke to you, but only for a day — in and out, by train. I’m sorry, I forgot. But we’re all coming in for two weeks in June. I’ll call before we drive in, or just get me at this number in New York,” and gives it and the day they’ll be there. She says, “Incidentally, you never said what you were interested in of Bolling’s: the drawings, pastels, satirical pen and inks — they’re of Lyndon Johnson and his cronies; I don’t think he was ever better, satirically, than with those — or his Majorca watercolors: the sunrise series, the sleeping cat sequence, another one of just beach stones — there were these enormous boulders along the shore, some like the Easter Island ones, though not carved — and of course the oils.” “The oil paintings. Something like what he gave me, since the last time we spoke you said you hadn’t sold any for a long time,” and she says, “What I said then was ‘never.’ Not one. Not in his lifetime or mine. Not even a single drawing. Whatever he did that’s not here has either been given away or donated to a school’s art sale, but I think even those came back.” “So,” he says, “one of those, the oils. I hate to sound dumb about it — because, you know, I really admire most of them — but one to sort of complement, for another wall in the same room, the one I already have of the sun and sky and such of that island and town … I can never remember the damn name. I know it starts with a D—the island, of course, is Majorca — but the town. I know I also said the same thing one of the last times we spoke — that it starts with a D and I can never remember its name. But my mind can’t be that bad off if I’m able to remember almost verbatim, and maybe even verbatim, what I said about not remembering the town’s name and that business about the initial that last time, some — well, I don’t know how many months ago, but several,” and she says, “Deja, De-ja, D-E-J-A, though the Spanish spelling of it is different and not just with a little diacritic,” and he says, “Don’t tell me it; one’s enough, and I wouldn’t want to confuse things even more. I should write it down, but I know I’ll lose the paper I write it down on. That has less to do with memory loss than absentmindedness. In my address book, under your name and number, I’ll put it, and then I’ll just hope I remember it’s there when I want to recall the name, if I don’t from now on recall it automatically. As for the address book, somehow it just turns up whenever I look for it. Anyway, I’ll call you the day after we get in.”
She calls him in New York. “Damn, how’d I forget?” he says. “I won’t even say I was going to call you. I mean, I intended to but we’ve been so busy: my mother, whom I see every day, and taking the kids around — movies, museums, shopping sprees, you name it. When they’re out of school and too old for day camp — they think — it’s ‘What’re we gonna do today, Daddy?’” and his older daughter, who’s beside him, says, “I don’t talk that way, Daddy. And you don’t let us shop.” “If you’re no longer interested in buying one of Bolling’s paintings,” Grace says, “that’s all right too, Gould. People are allowed to—” and he says, “No, I want one, very much so,” and to his daughter, with his hand over the mouthpiece: “Only kidding, sweetie. Just making talk…. When shall we meet? Tomorrow at one, maybe? I think I can be free then,” and she says, “No good. I’m a dog walker now — a professional one; I have no animals of my own — and I’ve four dogs to walk between one and three.” After that, she’s busy too. “Thursday?” and she says, “I’ve dog-walking jobs from eight to twelve, and the last one, for an hour, is five at a time, so would two o’clock be okay? I need some rest, and also a shower, after a long spate of walks — picking up all that doodie, and they can slobber over you when they get playful. And it’s hard sweaty work, getting pulled forward, holding them back, really straining at the reins when some outside dog barks or jumps at them. But I’ve got to make money somehow; I’m really short.” “Two, then,” and gets her building number — the street he knows, since he had once lived around the block from them and it was how he’d met them more than twenty years ago: in the stationery store at their corner on Columbus where Bolling bought most of his art supplies and he bought things like typewriter ribbon and reams of paper, and he said, when they were on line to pay, “You must be an artist,” and Bolling said, “And you? It’s obvious what you do too, unless you have an unusually extensive correspondence going and you mail all your letters in those manila envelopes,” or something like that.
He’s at his mother’s when the phone rings. It’s Grace: “Your wife told me you were there — I’m not following you, I want you to understand. You don’t remember we had an appointment at two?” “Oh, my God”—and looks at the wall clock—“it’s twenty to three and someone’s picking me up here at three-thirty. How can I be such a dunce. I’ll be right over, should take me no more than ten minutes if I run,” and she says, “You won’t have time to look at the paintings.” “I’ll have time, don’t worry; I know what I want and it won’t take long,” and she says, “Really, we can make it another day,” and he says, “No. I don’t know what the hell our schedule is the next few days before we leave, and I want a painting and won’t let my being a forgetful blockhead stop me. Are you free now?” “Yes. I set aside two hours for you to look at his artwork,” and he says, “Good, then we have enough time; just tell me your building number again.” He finishes making his mother coffee, puts it in front of her with some cookies he brought over, apologizes that he has to leave early but he’ll see her tomorrow when he’ll take her out for lunch, gives Grace’s name and address to the woman who looks after his mother, and says, “Tell him to ring the vestibule bell for me there — it’s only six blocks away — and I’ll come right down, or in a few minutes, and he can stay in the car,” and she says, “I can’t remember all that, can you write it?” and he says, “Just tell him to ring the bell and ask for me,” and runs and walks fast to Grace’s building, rings her bell downstairs, and she says, “Gould?” and he says, “Yes, at last, I’m sorry,” and she buzzes him in.