Morningside Heights

by Joshua Henkin

  “Sounds good to me,” Rafe said when Pru told him about their trip. “I’d like to travel around the world.”

  “If you’re able to afford it,” Ginny said, “be my guest.”

  “I’ll be able to afford it. And if you’re nice to me, you can come, too.”

  “I’m always nice to you. In the meantime, take a look at this forest.”

  But it wasn’t much of a forest, if you asked Rafe, just a smattering of denuded trees in their glass terraria, like something you’d bring home from a fair. “What good is a Christmas tree if it’s going to be miniature?”

  “You know what they say,” Pru said. “Good things come in small packages.”

  “They may say it,” Rafe said, “but it isn’t true.”

  Outside the Palm House, Pru said, “Does this look familiar?” and when Spence didn’t respond, she said, “We got married here.”

  “Yes,” he said, unconvincingly. It had been a warm Sunday in August, decades before everyone had started to move there, but she and Spence had spent the first few hours of their married life in Brooklyn before decamping for the more familiar climes of the Upper West Side. Spence had wanted a small, simple ceremony. Pru had wanted that too; she just had a different idea of what was small and simple. Spence suggested City Hall, the clerk’s office, but Pru thought that was too close to eloping. In the end she prevailed because she always prevailed with Spence, and they got married in front of thirty guests, where they were standing now.

  “What about you?” she said to Ginny. “Where did you and Rafe’s father get married?”

  “In a church.”

  “Where?”

  “In Kingston.” And that was all Ginny was going to say. She lowered her hat over her brow.

  Outside the Garden’s entrance, Ginny said, “It was a lovely outing, Pru. Thank you for taking us.”

  And Rafe said, “I’m going to try to learn to appreciate small trees.”

  Rafe and Ginny turned to go, but Pru said, “Not so fast, you two.” She’d borrowed a friend’s car and would drive them home. “It’s your birthday,” she reminded Ginny. “I baked a cake for you.”

  Ginny and Rafe lived in the basement of a brownstone, down half a flight of steps that had been suctioned of weeds. “We’ll come inside and sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” Pru said. “We’ll stay just long enough for you to blow out the candles.”

  “I don’t have birthday candles,” Ginny said. “Also, the apartment’s a mess.”

  Rafe snorted. “I wish that apartment was a mess. I leave a shirt folded on my chair, and my mom’s bugging me to put it away.”

  “We all have our standards.”

  Rafe snorted again.

  “I’ll bring you the leftovers tomorrow,” Ginny said. “Rafe and I can’t finish this cake on our own.” She lifted the cake box in gratitude.

  She was halfway out of the car when Rafe said, “Do you know why my mom doesn’t want you to come in? Because we have all your stuff.”

  “What stuff?” Pru said.

  Rafe listed the items Pru had given them: the bread maker, the toaster oven, the clothes, the VCR. “My mom doesn’t want to be a charity case.”

  Ginny just stood there, one foot in the car, one foot out of it, looking mortified. Then she reared back and slapped Rafe across the cheek.

  Pru was so startled, her breath caught. Even Spence blanched. Ginny herself looked shocked. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and Pru didn’t know whether she was apologizing to her or to Rafe, and Rafe, still stunned, stood beside his mother, the blood rising to his face, while Pru sat there a moment longer before she stepped on the gas.

  * * *

  —

  On Monday, Ginny arrived early to apologize. “There’s no excuse for what I did.”

  Pru tried to object—what parent didn’t do things they regretted?—but Ginny wouldn’t tolerate excuses from others and she certainly wouldn’t tolerate them from herself. People said if you spared the rod you spoiled the child, but she’d never subscribed to that way of thinking. “You won’t see me doing that again.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I apologize,” Ginny said. “It was inexcusable.”

  41

  Pru came home one day to find Spence agitated, tapping out some rhythm she couldn’t decode.

  “Who’s that?” he said, pointing at Ginny.

  “Darling, you know who that is.”

  “Who is she?”

  “It’s Ginny, darling. Come on.”

  “It’s okay,” Ginny said. “Don’t embarrass him.”

  “Your shift’s over,” Pru said. “You should go home.”

  But once Ginny was gone, she felt no better.

  It was cold out, and as she wheeled Spence down Broadway, she touched her mitten to his face, trying to keep him warm, while she navigated the wheelchair with her other hand. But the wheelchair zigzagged along the street, like a sled gone loose down a hill.

  At West Side Market, she wheeled him around like one of the grocery carts, and it was into the basket at the bottom of his wheelchair that she placed lettuce, oranges, bananas, avocados, grabbing whatever she passed. She wedged a carton of milk between the wheelchair and his ribs.

  In the dairy section, by the rounds of Gouda, she saw Walter. He was standing with his grocery cart. “Pru.”

  She just stood there.

  “I’m going shopping.” He pointed at his grocery cart.

  “This is my husband, Spence,” Pru said, forgetting that Walter had met him.

  “And these are my sons,” Walter said. Two young men materialized from the produce aisle.

  It must have been Jeremy who stepped forward, drum-chested like his father, but without the beard. “Professor Robin,” he said. He shook Spence’s hand.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Spence said.

  “And this one,” Walter said, putting his arm around Saul, “says he’s planning to make me a grandfather.”

  Saul pointed at his cart. “It’s like they say. My wife is eating for two.”

  They stood there for a few seconds, Pru holding on to Spence’s wheelchair, Walter with his grocery cart. Behind Walter, a woman was tasting the cornichons. A man walked by clutching a fistful of mustard packets. A cat emerged from behind the avocados and ran across the aisle.

  Pru laid her hand on Spence’s shoulder. “We probably should get going. Spence has had a long day.” Spence had had a long life, she wanted to say. Though not, at the same time, nearly long enough.

  She wheeled him toward the exit, nearly colliding with another shopper, and it wasn’t until she was outside that she realized she hadn’t paid for her groceries. The produce was still in Spence’s wheelchair, the carton of milk still wedged to his side. But it was too late—she couldn’t go back—so she moved quickly up Broadway, hoping she wouldn’t get caught.

  * * *

  —

  She was in the kitchen, making Spence his tea, when she heard a thunk in the living room. “What happened?” she called out, but by the time she got inside, Ginny was already bent over him. “The professor tripped,” Ginny said helplessly. She was kneeling next to Spence, and now Pru was beside him, kneeling, too. “I was trying to get him into his wheelchair, and he tripped over my feet.”

  Pru took one of his arms and Ginny took the other, but he just lay there. “Let’s try from a different angle,” Ginny said, but she couldn’t lift him up.

  “I’ll go get help,” Pru said.

  But Ginny insisted they could do it on their own.

  Spence flipped over like a fish.

  Pru bent down as low as she could, reminding herself the body’s strength was in the legs, and she got him halfway up before she lost purchase.

  “Elaine will be here soon,” Ginny said. “I’m sure the thr
ee of us…”

  “Elaine will be here in an hour. What’s he going to do until then? Lie on his back?”

  “He lies on his back all day.”

  But he didn’t lie on his back as he was lying now, didn’t lie there without recourse.

  Ginny returned from the bedroom with a stretcher. She tried to slip it under Spence, but he wouldn’t move his legs. Pru lifted one leg and Ginny lifted the other. They raised him six inches off the ground, but he teetered like a canoe.

  “We can’t do this,” Pru said. “He’s going to fall again.” She lowered the stretcher onto the floor.

  “Be careful,” Ginny said. “You’re going to hurt him.”

  “I’m going to hurt him?” She wasn’t the one whose feet Spence had tripped over; this hadn’t happened because of her.

  “What’s wrong with you, Professor?”

  “What do you mean, what’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with you, Ginny?”

  “I’m tired,” Ginny said. “That’s what’s wrong with me. This job isn’t easy. My back keeps giving out.”

  “I thought you did shot put.”

  “I did shot put thirty years ago.”

  “You lifted me,” Pru said. “That’s why I hired you—because you were strong.”

  “Well, I’m not strong any longer.”

  Over Ginny’s objections, Pru called the porter, and he lifted Spence and deposited him in his chair.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, Ginny kept her distance, but an hour before she was supposed to leave, she sat Pru down. “I can’t do this job anymore.”

  “Of course you can. There’s not a person on earth who’s better at this job than you.”

  “I’m giving you my notice.”

  “Ginny, come on.” She hadn’t meant what she’d said yesterday. She hadn’t hired Ginny because she was strong. She’d hired Ginny because she was Ginny.

  Ginny shook her head.

  “Was it because of what happened the other night? When Spence didn’t recognize you?”

  Ginny shook her head again.

  “Is it money?” Pru had raised Ginny’s salary to twenty-two dollars an hour, but she could raise it even more. Did Ginny want back pay? Name your price, she thought, and she would give it to her.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Ginny said. She and Rafe needed to get out of the city. They’d moved to New York, planning to stay for a couple of years, and now they’d been here for more than a decade.

  “And I’ve been here for three decades,” Pru said. “With any luck, I’ll be here for three more.”

  “Listen to me,” Ginny said. Her mother was still living in North Carolina. She was getting older—she’d be eighty next year—and she’d fallen, too, just like Spence. It was time for Ginny to move back to North Carolina, time for her to be with her mother as she aged. And it was time for Rafe to be with his grandmother; she wanted him to get to know her while he still could.

  What could Pru say? That Rafe shouldn’t be allowed to get to know his grandmother? That she herself hadn’t really known her grandmother and she’d turned out all right?

  “Also, I need to keep Rafe out of trouble. There are gangs in East New York.”

  “And Rafe’s in a gang? What kind of gang? A chess gang?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  No, Pru said, she supposed she didn’t, but she didn’t believe Rafe was in a gang.

  “Rafe’s not in a gang,” Ginny admitted, but there had been little things, and little things could become bigger ones. She wanted Rafe to go to college, and then to medical school.

  “It will happen,” Pru said. She wasn’t a betting person, but she would bet on Rafe.

  “I can’t just bet on him,” Ginny said. “I have to make it happen.”

  “And you have,” Pru said. “You will.”

  “There’s also my husband,” Ginny said.

  “What husband? You’re divorced.”

  Ginny shook her head. She was separated from her husband, but they’d never officially gotten divorced. He was starting to tire of Kingston, and he was open to returning to North Carolina. If that was how Rafe would get to know his father, she was willing to give it a try.

  “So when do you leave?” Pru said.

  “I can give you three weeks’ notice.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “If it wasn’t for the professor, I’d leave tomorrow. I can’t wait anymore.”

  All at once, Pru understood. Ginny had been waiting for Spence to die. And all the while she’d been doing her burrowing and reconnoitering, sending out her flares into the night.

  “Spence is going to die soon.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ginny said. “The professor’s will is something else.”

  Pru thought, He’s going to die when you leave, Ginny. He’s going to die of a broken heart. “So what happens now?”

  Pru expected Ginny not to have an answer. But Ginny always had an answer. Elaine had said she could take over during the day and someone else could cover the night. Or Elaine could continue with the night and someone else could do the day. And if that didn’t work out, Ginny would help Pru find someone else. It was a big city.

  * * *

  —

  Until Elaine could switch her schedule, Pru hired someone to cover the day. But Pru came home one afternoon to find Judith asleep in the front of the apartment and Spence calling out in back.

  Another time, Judith was on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

  “There’s no smoking in the apartment,” Pru said. Judith was supposed to be taking care of Spence, and how could she be doing that if she was out on the balcony, smoking?

  “I’m a smoker,” Judith said. “Do you want me to go outside and leave your husband alone?”

  No, Pru said. She wanted Judith not to smoke.

  She replaced Judith with someone else. That person didn’t smoke, but she showed up late, and she treated Spence with barely concealed truculence. So Pru switched her to nighttime and had Elaine do daytime. But Elaine was more suited to nighttime, to the curt efficiency that accompanied diaper changes, to the silent negotiations between two people who wanted to go back to sleep. Daytime required conversation, and Elaine was a brusque conversationalist, especially with Spence, who couldn’t keep up his end of the deal. “You should try talking to him,” Pru said, but she knew what Elaine was thinking: why talk to someone who wouldn’t talk back?

  “The professor enjoys your company,” Pru said. She was starting to refer to Spence the way Ginny referred to him. Maybe this was her way of reminding Elaine who Spence was. Or maybe this was her way of missing Ginny.

  But no matter how many times Pru called Spence the professor, Elaine kept calling him Spence.

  And she handled him roughly, like a flank of beef.

  “Go easy on him,” Pru said. “He’s delicate.”

  “He’s fine,” Elaine said.

  “The professor enjoys your company,” Pru said, hoping if she insisted on it, it would become true.

  Spence, meanwhile, had started to call Elaine Ginny. He called the nighttime person Ginny. A woman who came on weekends he also called Ginny.

  “It’s okay,” Pru told Elaine. “He calls me Ginny sometimes. Half the time he talks to me he thinks I’m Ginny.”

  “It’s fine,” Elaine said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  But it did bother her, and one day, Elaine threw down her dish gloves and said, “Call me by my right name for once, goddamnit!” and Spence started to cry.

  42

  Pru was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, certainly not Arlo, but there he was, standing on the threshold when she opened the door.

  She’d been hoping he’d visit, e
ven as she hadn’t dared hope. She hadn’t seen him since she and Spence had left D.C. “Dad’s in the dining room,” she said. “You can go inside. I’ll give you some time alone.”

  Spence was seated at the table. The New York Review of Books lay beside his plate. “Pop.”

  Arlo’s father was silent.

  “What are you reading?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Arlo picked up The New York Review of Books and read aloud to his father from an essay by a man named Ronald Dworkin about another man named Leszek Kołakowski. But his father wasn’t listening, so Arlo put the journal away. “It’s me, Dad. It’s Arlo.” Then Arlo called himself by the name his father used to call him whenever Arlo entered the room. He called himself Butchy. Arlo’s father was the only person allowed to say that word. And now Arlo was saying it for him, hoping to jar something loose.

  A flutter of recognition crossed his father’s face, a flicker of candlelight, but then it was doused.

  Arlo returned with his father’s lunch, but his father paid no attention to it. “Don’t you want to eat, Dad?” He had an image of his father feeding him as a toddler, spinning the spoon around like a propeller, saying, “Zoom, zoom, zoom, into the landing field,” as he inserted the food into Arlo’s mouth. Arlo forked bananas, applesauce, hard-boiled egg, and crackers onto his father’s plate. He kept each item separate, recalling a cartoon about childhood horrors, a drawing of a plate with all the food touching. That was what he was like: to this day, he hated having his food touch. His father had been the same way—fastidious, compulsive—but now he was raking his fork through the food, mixing it all together. “Eat up, Dad.” But his father just sat there. Arlo placed the mashed bananas onto the fork and moved them toward his father’s mouth. He did the same with the applesauce and hardboiled egg, the macerated crackers, feeling revulsion at the smell of the food, at the smell of his father, but he kept on scooping it up. “Sit up straight, Dad.” But his father just sat there, limp as a linguine.

  Arlo handed his father his pills, and his father squeezed them so tight, it was as if he were trying to mash them up too.