Hm, my father said.
Do you know what she does now? John said. She lives in Afghanistan and exports rugs.
One way to make scratch, my father said.
She’s a millionaire. She lives in a castle. An actual castle, a medieval stronghold. She’s got connections everywhere. Embassies, Afghan government, she knows everyone. She’s got fixers, she’s in with the banks. What a piece of work. They must have blown a million dollars on therapy for her.
That which does not kill us, I guess.
Yeah. Strange my father never mentioned you. He talks about your kid enough.
Does he? my father said.
Hazel, right?
The one and only, my father said.
She’s got potential, according to him. You know how he is, always scouting for self-reliance. He can tell you who’s going to be a bum, just from looking into the crib. It’s very scientific. Cynthia? Right from the start, there was no hope for her. You want to turn out like Cynthia Mellin? he’d say, and this was when I was, you know, a kid. How the hell had she turned out? She was eight!
And what’s his prediction for Hazel? my father said.
World domination, of course. He says she has a skeptical eye. I don’t even know what that means.
Means she’s from Manhattan, I suppose.
Condolences, John said.
He told me you two hadn’t talked in years, my father said.
Probably not the only fabrication he laid on you, John said.
He told me you lived up the street and that you hadn’t talked in years.
True and false, John said. I go by to see him once a month, John said. Maybe we don’t talk all that much, but I go. It’s like being in a waiting room. Toughing it out until we get the bad news. Maybe we watch a game or something. He was never much of a sports fan and he can’t keep track of who’s who on the field, anyway. We sit there and watch the game and every two minutes it’s, Who’s that? Who’s got the ball now? Who’s that in red? Who’s that in white? If he’s not soused, we have the carousel conversation. He asks me about my wife, and I tell him she’s not my wife anymore, then he tells me Fil and Tracy are saints, which is just teeing up for telling me about what pieces of shit their husbands are, then he goes on about Nixon for a while, then Carter, then he asks me about my wife, so I tell him again, and we’re back to Fil and Tracy being saints and their husbands being pieces of shit. Those boys figured it out years ago. They’re the ones who haven’t laid eyes on him in years.
He’s an uncompromising critic, my father said.
An uncompromising critic? Are you kidding? He’s an asshole.
Arguably, his behavior owes something to his condition.
It’s a sieve, his condition, John said. It’s clarified him. This test you gave him. How’d it work?
My father paused to consider the legal jeopardy he might be putting himself in, then considered the fact that he deserved his fate. Names and dates, he said. I’d ask him—you know, I’d ask him for the date of an event, and he’d tell me.
Clinical as ever. Of course he’d enlist a near stranger. Did he give you his bank account numbers, too?
He wanted an impartial judge. Someone who wouldn’t give him hints.
Jesus, what a stonehearted— He really said he never saw me?
He’s not well.
How many times do I have to say this? He’s no different than he ever was.
That’s a convenient thing to believe, my father said. Keeps the fires burning, but it can’t be strictly true, can it?
John detected the challenge in my father’s voice, and at that moment recognized that my father felt some warmth toward Albert.
I’d wager that by any standard, he’s the same man he’s always been, John said. Eats at the same diner every day. Talks about the same damn things he always talked about. His core hasn’t been affected a bit.
Well, now you’re talking about the soul, my father said. That’s above my pay grade.
How often? John asked.
Sorry? my father said.
To the shrink. You.
Oh, my father said, laughing. Three. Three sessions a week.
That’s the spirit. Don’t let them get you in there every day. It’s not your day job. Five days a week and you’ll never get cured.
Let’s say I’m in semi-retirement, then.
Your idea or the shrink’s?
To go to three a week? Mine.
Bravo. He’s dependent on you, not the other way around. Just make that your mantra and you’ll survive.
Spoken like an old pro.
Trained courtesy of the Albert Caldwell Foundation for Assholic Children. John tugged at his scarf. So how’d he do?
My shrink?
My old man. On the test.
Some weeks better than others. The last couple of times, though. Not so great.
He’s still sharp in a lot of ways, you know, he knows how to cover, John said.
I know.
Have you noticed he’ll get polite when he doesn’t know what you’re talking about? Nice change of pace. So maybe there’s an upside.
How old are you? my father said.
Thirty-one.
He moves like an old man, my father thought, especially when he talks about Albert.
My father said, When I agreed to proctor the evaluation, he gave me a packet of mimeographed sheets and a letter. He told me to hold on to the letter until he failed the test. So I did. Then, last Monday, he failed it, so I went upstairs to my place and got the letter. I don’t know what it said, but he told me we were done.
Done as in don’t come back?
Yes, my father said.
Hm. Mostly dates of naval battles, I assume, the questions?
Family dates. Other highlights. But mostly family.
Like what?
What year he made partner. What year he got married. That sort of thing.
What other family questions? John said.
Names. Dates of birth.
Date of death?
My father blinked. Yes. Of course. That was the only question that mattered.
How long has this been going on?
About a year. I’m a quarter through the stack of mimeos. I don’t know if that meant he thought he’d last longer.
You know the important dates.
I suppose.
Okay. So at this point you’re a more reliable family historian than my father.
If an encyclopedia’s better than a novel, maybe.
And what’s the most important date? John asked. If there was any challenge in his voice, my father didn’t hear it. He heard only genuine curiosity.
The day your son died, my father said.
An important question.
Yes, my father said. When I said it was the only one that mattered, I mean it was the only one that mattered. None of the other questions counted toward the final score.
Only the last one.
And he never missed it?
No.
Not until the last time?
That’s right.
So that letter, John said.
Instructions to himself, I suppose, my father said, and he understood that John had reached the same conclusion, the only possible conclusion, and he watched the younger man with apprehension. What had he done?
I’m sorry, my father said quietly, as though he couldn’t bring himself to speak so useless a sentence.
That’s what they say. John cleared his throat.
How could any person survive it? my father thought. If you’re young, maybe you have a chance, by the grace of ignorance. You’re young and you think, Maybe I can go on, maybe I can persevere and fight my way out of the grief, and by some accident of memory if I live long enough the images will fade and… But of course you can’t. This is a thing that’s inscribed on your bones. An old man knows you can’t.