— A very solid firm, sir.
— You invest there, Dandinho?
— Oh, no, sir, not me, Mr. Mendelssohn. I just know some people.
— Don’t we all? says Elliot.
Dandinho nods and backs away.
The menu-flip. The napkin unfold. The usual pleasantries. Great to see you, son. Terrible weather. Sorry I’m late. A drone of excuses, more sound than meaning — he got caught in work, was waylaid on Lexington, some business deal fouled up along the way, he’s just swamped these days, time, time, time.
A fine wine of a man to make excuses: he gets better with age.
— I took the liberty.
— Thanks, Dad.
— A Cabernet for you, sir.
Elliot pretends not to take an eyeful as Rosita leans across him and places the wine down. She stands with her hands on the low of her stomach as she enumerates the specials. Quite a pose. That little speck of blue on her wrist: such a perfect addition, like the wrongly tied knot on a Persian carpet.
— Thank you, Rosita.
Salmon with dill sauce for him. A porterhouse steak, medium rare, with mango sauce for Elliot. No appetizers. Straight to the heart of the matter. She scribbles it down on a small blue pad, bats her eyelids, moves away, yes, an artist, no doubt. Salmon indeed. Watch her sway upriver, a fine expanse of flank.
— L’chaim, says Elliot.
So often the boy for the opportune word, there has recently been talk of Elliot running for office, a disastrous move, no doubt, even for a macher like him — they would chew him up and spit him out and freeze-dry him in the process — but who’s to fault ambition? And here we go, clinking glasses and diving into the old murky water, father and son, and how is Jacintha, and what’s happening at home, any news from Katya, all smooth with Sally, do you ever use the motorized chair, are you eating well enough, have you seen Dr. Marion?
They are halfway through their wine when Elliot’s phone rings.
— Excuse me.
A woman’s voice from the sound of things. Elliot is quick and curt. Yes, no, I can’t talk right now, absolutely not, she doesn’t have a case, forget it, I said I can’t talk right now.
He shuts the phone and says: Jesus H.
And why in the world is the H always thrown in there? Our Father, who art in Heaven, Harold be thy name. Eileen once said: Why not A for Art? Our Father, who is Art in Heaven. Or sling them both together? Jesus H. A. Christ.
Elliot presses the phone down on the table, fingers some buttons, a piano player, even with his big meaty hands, a Richter of the keyboard.
— You’re a busy man, Elliot.
— Just work stuff, sorry. It never stops.
— Lady problems?
— Aren’t they all?
He deserves a good clip on the ear for that one. Good thing Eileen’s not around, she’d whip him silly, march him into the bathroom and soap his mouth out.
— My secretary.
— I see.
— Had to fire her.
— Sorry to hear that.
— She’s trying to sue me.
— That’s not good.
— Give them an inch, they take a mile. Bitcharita.
A sting of a word. A shot of Patrón. Salt on the wound. Bitcharita. An immigrant to the language. Beyond the blonde wives, Elliot always had a bit of an eye for the Latin girls.
— Sounds complicated.
Elliot flicks a look off into the distance. A little tremble of his eyelid and a twist of the mouth. Impossible to forget that he was once six years old, out on the beach in Long Island, blue shorts, a patch of dry sand on his shoulder, leaning against his mother’s shoulder, a sandwich in his hand, Eileen’s arm around his waist, the waves rolling up to shore, when he was the boy he seemed destined to be.
And there it is again, shimmying and shaking, vibrating on the table, what is this, Candid Camera?
— Sorry, Dad.
— Oh, that’s okay, go ahead, take it, really, it’s okay.
Though it’s not okay, it’s far from okay, it’s light years from okay — just do the right thing and turn the phone off, would you, please, son, keep Allen Funt locked in the kitchen, smile, you’re the star of the show, oh, the mind is a trampoline today, it was Allen Funt, wasn’t it? They were good years, uncomplicated, or so they seemed anyway, we gathered around the television together for the nightly shows, a long thin Elliot sprawled out on the carpet, Katya curled into her beanbag, he and Eileen in matching armchairs, the room was cozy, the fire was lit, there were belted ashtrays that hung around the arm of the chairs, and he smoked a pipe then, I haven’t touched a pipe in I don’t know how long, haven’t even smelled a cigarette for years.
A strong insistent whisper this time: I told you, I’m having lunch, don’t call me with this bullshit again.
Then a dip towards his wineglass: Sorry, Dad.
— Do you remember when they used to allow you to smoke in restaurants?
— Excuse me?
— I was just thinking about how everyone used to smoke. I still have the pipe, you know. In the bedroom.
— Nobody smokes pipes anymore, Dad.
— You can still smell the smoke in the bowl. If you put it to your nose. It lingers.
Elliot glances down at the phone again. And what is it that lingers anymore? Really what I want to talk to you about is those old days with your mother, when we were all together, and life rolled along, slow enough, day to day, and why is it that we complicate the past, is it simply just pipesmoke? But here we are, listening to you prattle about the bitcharita and yet another excuse for being late, and surely there’s something else, son? Should I have another try at my memoirs? Should I give Sally James a raise? Would you like another glass of Cabernet? How in the world are you going to fill that five-car garage? Could a man even poison himself with carbon monoxide in a place that big? No, no, tell me this and tell me no more: Do you miss your mother, son? Or tell me this: Do you recall the days we spent at the beach in Oyster Bay? Or tell me this: Do you ever return to the thought of her with the hint of a sigh?
And there it is again, the goddamn phone bronco-bucking on the table. From across the room come a few darting looks. He’s not mine, I promise you, he’s an alien — they make them big and blue-eyed and American now. A tut-tut from one of the Ladies Who Lunch, and a sympathetic tilt of the head from the waitress.
Rosita, Maid Marion, come rescue me, cart my son out into the snow, deposit him there, bring your bow and arrow, take careful aim, and shoot the fucking Apple off his head like Robin Hood, or indeed William Burroughs.
Elliot leans across and with the charm of which he is sometimes capable says: Do you mind, Father? I really have to take this one.
Do I what? Of course I mind. Here we are, breaking bread, and all you want to do is jabber on endlessly. There was once a time when you’d sit in the kitchen alcove, and we’d lean together over mathematics, quadrangles, quadratics, as close as any two could get, multiplied by one another. How long has it been since we actually looked at each other, tell me that, son. I’m a sentimental old fool, I’m dripping with nostalgia, but cynics bore me, and I might as well wear my heart on my sleeve, I’d like to talk to you without interruption, can you give me at least that?
— No problem, Elliot.
— Thanks, Dad.
He turns sideways in the chair, cups his hand over the phone, his big gold wedding ring shining. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. A silver bracelet on his wrist. To keep the vampires away. Didn’t work with Jacintha, that’s for sure. There is something afoot with Elliot, he can hear bits and pieces coming in his direction, a male voice this time, he jigsaws them both together, she was fired, fair and square, that’s extortion, there’s just no way, I’ll sue her, how dare she, who does she think she is, she’s a goddamn secretary, I don’t give a fuck what she calls it, look, Dave, I’m in a restaurant with my father, she just can’t, can you give me an hour, it was fair and square — goddammit, just take care of it, would you? — that’s what I pay you for, she wants a lawsuit she’ll get a lawsuit, executive assistant my ass, bring it on.