After Carl leaves, I putter around the great room, not so much decluttering as moving the clutter from place to place. I rearrange some of the bookshelves that surround the fireplace; I dust the standup piano; I reset the pieces on the backgammon board; and I twirl the burnished wooden globe on its stand. “Adventure calls. Where should I travel next?” I ask as I spin the orb. Then I close my eyes and drop my finger like a pin. I take a deep breath and look: the Adirondacks. My finger has landed exactly where I already am, and I have to smile at the anticlimax.
I look out the window and see my father’s head resting against the back of his chair, his hair puffing in the breeze. After a moment, he begins to stir. He stands up and starts for the door, but then seems to reconsider or forget what his aim was, and he moves back to the chair, where he sits and trains his gaze on the pond. I wonder what occupies his mind in this moment. I didn’t used to think of “sitting” as an activity, but we do a lot of it these days. Sometimes just watching the busyness of a squirrel can fill an hour. The anticipation of a rainstorm can occupy a whole afternoon. I’ve never been into meditation, but I think this is what meditators are after: the ability to do nothing but feel everything, to hold on to life so lightly that it has a chance to bowl you over.
As I watch my father watching the water, I am hit with a future-ache about the time when he will no longer be here. I’ve heard itcalledanticipatory grief, but that’s too clinical for me. There’s no adequate label for this feeling of something eating away at you, the growing realization that someday you will be devastated—so why not start now? Get ahead of it. Beat your heartbreak to the punch.
I retreat to the kitchen and cut up two of Carl’s tomatoes—one that is streaked with orange and yellow, and one that is so red it’s almost purple. I sprinkle them with olive oil, a little salt, and then carry the plate out to the porch.
For a moment, my father is surprised. He looks as if he’s trying to place me. “Well, hello.”
“Hi, Dad,” I say, hoping to reorient him to who he is, who I am, who we are to each other. “Did you have a nice snooze?”
“Did I ever!” he says, clapping his hands onto his thighs. “What do you have there?”
“You were right again. Carldidstop by, and he brought these,” I say, holding the plate out to him.
“Well, will you look at those beauties! You know, you can spend all summer waiting for one sensational tomato.”
He pops a slice into his mouth, contemplates the flavor, and then nods. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
Chapter 13
A few days later, I wake to find my father already up and at his writing desk, which is strewn with papers and abandoned drafts. His handwriting, once neat and artful, is now large and wobbly.
“What are you working on, Dad?”
“Some correspondence,” he says. He seems to have forgotten all about email and smartphones. In his new mind, the telephone (a landline, naturally) and the post office are his only portals to the outside world. He sometimes becomes preoccupied with “staying in touch,” but it’s unclear with whom. He occasionally mentions specific people—a man named Rip Chastain, an acquaintance named Beverly Hauser—but I have no idea who they are, if they’re still alive, or if they ever existed. I peer over his shoulder and see that he has started a few letters.
Dear Gillian, Are you still…
Dear Antoine, How are you? I think…
Dear Leonard, Has it really been…
He hasn’t gotten very far on any of them, and when I inquire about their recipients, he isn’t quite clear on who they are.
“I really need to get to the post office today,” he says with some urgency. We were there just two days ago, but I have no reason not to indulge him. I suggest we write to Nina.
“Nina?”
“Your daughter. The one who used to live here with you.”
“Right. Yes. Where has she gone?”
“To Stockholm.” The truth no longer upsets him, which I hope means he has grown comfortable with me as his main “person.”
“Stockholm! Good for her.”
We make some coffee and English muffins and then install ourselves on the porch. There’s a slight wind, and the water is rippling westward as if it has somewhere to be, unlike us. We rarely have anywhere to be, other than where we are. I’m not sure if that’s sad or ideal.
I grab a pen and begin to craft our own clumsy version of Mad Libs. I provide the narrative arc of the letter, prompting my father to fill in the descriptive details as we go.
Dear Nina,
We’re here on the porch, andwe couldn’t be happier. The sun isstill there, where it usually is. The woods arefresh and fitful. We miss you very much and we hope youmiss us too. Did we tell you about the loons? We think they area handsome couple. They seem tohave the world on a string, and they sing likeMaria Callas. Their young loonlet isfinding her way in the world. The most exciting thing that happened this summer wasthat tomato. You know the one. All is well here. We are looking forward togoing to the post office. And we hope tohave a visit from our friend Seth.
This last fill-in-the-blank stops me in my tracks. “Did you mean Carl?”
“No,” my father says matter-of-factly. “Seth.”
