His father’s eyes closed and opened in assent, as if nodding were too tiring an effort.
David turned over the first of the small sheaf of envelopes in his hand and looked at the return address.
“This is from R. Zimmerman,” he said. “Do you know anybody by that name? In the Bronx?”
The eyes closed and opened again.
“Shall I read it to you?”
His father blinked permission. David opened the envelope and began reading the letter.
“My dear Morrie, I hope everything is well with you. Myself I feel fine. The weather is good here. I would love to know when you are coming to New York. I am anxious to see you. I miss you very much. Two ladies have called me up to find out if you were at my house. I told them you were supposed to come but I did not know when. I am supposed to go on a trip which is not important so please let me know when you are coming so I would know what to do. Keep well. Take care of yourself. Rose.”
He put the letter back into the envelope.
“Do you know someone named Rose Zimmerman?” he asked.
His father nodded.
“Were you planning to go up to New York again?”
Another nod.
“Well, you’d better hurry up and get out of here,” David said, smiling, and turned over the second envelope in his hand. The return address was printed on one of those stickers the veterans’ organizations sent when soliciting funds. “This is from Mrs. L. Di Marco,” he said. “Shall I read it to you?”
His father nodded.
The letter was dated May 16. It was written on lavender stationery with a small printed drawing of a butterfly in the lower right-hand corner.
“Dear Morris,” David read. “A few lines to let you know I was worried that you did not write to me. You can still write to my niece in Scarsdale, she will mail me your letter until I let you know where to send it. The doctor said I am OK but have a very bad case of arthritis in my right hand and I cannot use it yet. The pain is so terrible that I cry sometimes. Let me hear from you. I miss your letters. You are the only one I think about a lot. I am glad that you are OK. I will be by my cousin in Brooklyn for a few more days as my niece in Scarsdale works. I will let you know where I will be when my niece finds an apartment or house when I will go back to Scarsdale. But I will let you know where to send my mail. Love, Lucy.”
His father opened his eyes wide, as though in surprise. He brought his hand to his belly. He opened his mouth. It seemed he would scream out in pain. His mouth and his eyes remained wide open. His belly seemed to ripple under the sheet.
“Are you all right?” David said at once. “Shall I get a nurse?”
His father shook his head. His hand was resting flat on his belly. His eyes returned to what was now their normal look, moist and somewhat glazed, unfocused, bewildered.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” David said.
His father nodded.
David looked at the next envelope.
“This is from Mrs. Di Marco, too,” he said. “Shall I open it?”
His father nodded.
The same lavender stationery, the same printed butterfly drawing in the lower right-hand corner. The letter was dated May 17, the day after she’d written the one David had just read.
“Dear Morris. Received your letter of Sunday. I sent another letter before this one as I thought that you did not write to me. I feel a little better now, but I still can’t pick up anything with my hand. Sorry I never send you any pictures. Maybe someone else will. I’ll close with love as I cannot write as my fingers hurt. I am very, very glad that you are OK. Love, Lucy.”
His father sighed.
“Are you all right?” David asked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get a nurse?”
He nodded.
“This is the last one,” David said, and turned over the envelope. “From a Mrs. J. Klein in Brooklyn. Shall I open it?”
His father nodded and then lifted his hand. His forefinger moved.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Pop.”
His father pointed at the letter. His finger made a jabbing motion.
“Do you want me to read it?”
His father nodded. In exasperation, he dropped his hand to the sheet again.
David opened the envelope. There was a Father’s Day card inside the envelope. He remembered all at once that Sunday would be Father’s Day and suddenly felt guilty for not yet having bought his father a present. He always sent him a box of good cigars on Father’s Day. I’m wise to you, Davey. You send the old man a box of cigars on his birthday, and you think that’s enough. There was a separate handwritten note folded into the card, but David first read the inscription on the card itself, “Dear Morrie,” and then the printed rhymed sentiment, and then the words “Love, Josie.”
His father lifted his hand. He jabbed at the air with his finger again.
“What?” David said, puzzled.
His father kept jabbing his finger at the card.
“Oh,” David said. “Is this the woman you were telling me about the other day? Josie?”
His father nodded slowly, patiently.
“The one whose address you wanted me to have?”
Another patient nod. His son the lawyer had finally understood. Four years of French, David could imagine him thinking, and he finally understands what I’m trying to tell him.
“I have her address now,” David said. “It’s on the back of the envelope. There’s a note here, too, shall I read the note?”
His father nodded.
“Dearest Morrie,” he read. “What happened to you? I did not hear from you since your postcard in April. I believe I wrote two letters to you explaining all that had been going on. To top it off, the Post Office lost some of my Hold mail and did I have more headaches and problems. Therefore I don’t know how much of my mail went astray. Nothing in this world is right anymore. God help us with all that is going on and no system anymore. You stated in your card that you would be up early in June. Where are you? I made one phone call to the number you gave me in March and I asked the lady who answered the phone if you were there. She said you did not come to New York yet. That’s it. Please write to me soon and let me know what’s going on. I miss you very much. Love, Josie.”
Bessie, who had been standing silently by the bed until now, cleared her throat and said, “You’d better hurry up and get well, Morris. All these ladies waiting for you.”
His father simply nodded.
“He is going to get well,” David said quickly. “Aren’t you, Pop?”
His father nodded.
The Cuban nurse appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, swee’heart,” she said, “your visitors ha’ to go now.”
David looked up at the clock. It was eleven-fifteen. He went to the bed and kissed his father on the forehead. The same damp, hot flesh. “I’ll be back at two,” he said. “That’s less than three hours from now. Two o’clock, Pop, okay?”
His father nodded.
Bessie kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll come later,” she said. “I’m not sure two o’clock.”
He looked up into her face. He seemed to want to say something to her. David wished he would not look so bewildered. At last, he simply nodded again.
In the corridor, waiting for the elevator, Bessie said, “This must have been happening a long time. Longer than we know. Could something like this happen overnight? Still, how long could it be? We had a party for him at the hotel, before he went up to see you in March. He was fine. Dancing, walking into doors — you know how he walks into a door and makes believe he broke his nose? He was fine. That was only in March, before his birthday, what could it be, three months ago? So who knows? All at once, he’s a very sick man, all at once he’s dying.” She sighed deeply. “The way he looks,” she said. “Such a change,” she said. “Such a change.”