30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  Fritz

  MAN LOOKS AT him and Gould thinks, Oh, no, is he going to do it again? and the man looks at his face even harder with the look I-know-you-from-someplace, and Gould says, “Hi,” and the man says, “Fritz?” and he says, “You know, you did the same thing last summer when we first saw each other, and I was almost going to head you off this time when you looked at me as if you knew me from a long time ago.” “I did it before? I thought you were Fritz?” and he says, “Yeah, at the market in town … really, maybe the first week after I got up here, just like now. And I asked you who you meant and you told me and I said what a coincidence because he was my music teacher at City College in New York. Not so much my music teacher but the head of the chorus, and I had tried out for it when I heard they were doing the German Requiem. And though—this is what I told you then—I had wanted to be a tenor in the chorus, he—” and the man says, “Have people done this to you before? Not just me but do others mistake you for him?” and he says, “No. I mean, why would they? Excuse me, it could be you haven’t seen him for years, but he’s got to be thirty years younger than me—I mean, of course, older.” “Not thirty, I don’t think. And I saw him recently, or maybe not recently, but certainly in the last five to ten years, and closer to five, and he can’t be thirty years older than you,” and he says, “You’re the violist for the quartet at the Hall,” and the man says, “One of two of them—we alternate on the programs—and for trios, quartets, duos, anything we do, and I’m part of the faculty in the summer program there too. So, nice to see you, sir,” and he says, “Not at all,” and the man—who’s been holding a tray with two fried clam rolls on it and a can of soda and what’s probably an iced coffee, since the drink is dark and there are two half-and-halfs and some sugar packets and a stirrer next to the cup—goes to an outside picnic table where a woman’s sitting. Gould recognizes the woman from some of the Sunday afternoon concerts he went to last summer with his wife and a couple of times with his kids.

  “Why’d you say, ‘Not at all,’ when the man said, ‘Nice to see you’?” his older daughter says, and he says, “Did I? I’m sure he knows I meant, Yes, it has been—you know: ‘Thank you very much…. Not at all,’ meaning—well, ‘You don’t have to thank me,’” and she says, “That’s different; then you’re answering him. I’m sure he felt insulted, that you were saying it wasn’t at all nice to meet him,” and he says, “And I’m sure he didn’t feel that and that he didn’t even hear my response to his ‘So nice to see you, sir.’ He’s probably now telling his wife, ‘I can’t believe it. For the second summer in a row I thought that man—you see him standing there with the girl, waiting for his order to be called?—was Fritz Sepulska. You remember, the pianist who has a summer home around here or, for all I know, now lives here full time. Fritz looks just like him, or did till a few years ago, when I last saw him. The resemblance is remarkable: same hairline, long face, the nose, height, slender build, narrow eyes. You’d think he’d be mistaken daily by people who know Fritz up here—he’s very well known, particularly because of all the musicians around—and that if Fritz ever saw him he’d think he was seeing his long-lost never-known twin brother, or his brother a couple of years younger than him. But this guy says he’s thirty years younger, or at least twenty-five. He can’t be. Maybe he doesn’t take care of himself and Fritz does; I know Fritz used to work out rigorously and was pretty much a teetotaler. And somehow because of that—well, other than for disease and drugs, nothing ruins you faster than heavy drinking, right?—and though there might be a vast age difference, they’re physical look-alikes. Now you can see him; he’s picking up his order. But actually, with a child that age … no, she’s probably his granddaughter, not his own kid. In fact, maybe it is Fritz and he doesn’t want to talk to me for some reason, or to anyone. But he said I made the same mistake last year, and I remember it, though not as well as he; he says it was in the market in town. But he could still be Fritz, and last year when he told me that it was also because he didn’t want to speak to me or anyone. I haven’t heard anything about this, but maybe Fritz has become a recluse of sorts, or simply gone nuts or lost his memory through some disease, so he doesn’t even remember who he is. But then why wouldn’t the girl have said something? “Excuse me, sir, but Grandpa Fritz has had some trouble the last few years….” Anyway, if he isn’t Fritz—and really, he can’t be; Fritz would have to be seventy-five by now, possibly eighty; he’s been retired from teaching for ten to fifteen years, if my memory’s right—then what do you think this man does, something in music or a related field? Certainly not a violist or violinist—no permanent abrasion under his chin from years of pressure of the instrument’s body. He has the slumped posture and slight pot of a pianist, and I didn’t look at his fingers and hands, but they could be as long and strong as a pianist’s too. He also has the face of a musician—the unhealthy complexion and head lost in sounds. And, like most of us, not a very deep intellectual look, since I have to admit we don’t read much but music scores and occasional escapist literature when we have the time, or have much interest in any other art or interpretive form or theory or even news but music. In other words, we’re typically not big thinkers. We feel and express—that’s us—and without that and the hours of practice we have to put in a day, what would we be? I bet that he’s a high school music teacher who was trained as a serious pianist for a number of years but loves jazz and hated practice and rehearsals and in college where he got his education degree to teach music he played in an extemporaneous ragtime band and might even have been a disc jockey on the college radio station. And that those two kids—you see the second one who just joined him? Even younger than the first—are from a second marriage. And that he also has two from his first marriage, but they’re grown up and maybe in college or past it and are interested in becoming, just as these two will be, anything but musicians or music teachers because of their father’s meager income and displeasure with the profession. And his wife, the present one. Well, I don’t know what she does; usually they’re opera singers or musicians, or have been trained to be, or music teachers too. But for some reason I think she’s very much like the first—in looks, build, hair color, and the way the hair’s combed—and that both of them resemble his mother. But I see her reading a lot of serious books—women musicians are different that way from men—that she checks out of the library in town, every so often firing a piece she’s made in some pottery class and cooking gourmet meals from recipes she’s cut out of the New York Times. What he must be thinking of me, though? “Is that guy clear out of his head? Does he forget notes and whole musical passages when he plays as much as he forgets faces and potentially embarrassing mistakes from year to year?” Well, I can tell him I didn’t forget his face; that I actually remembered it but put the wrong name to it, not that if he told me his a dozen times I’d remember it. I’m saying, I bump into him by mistake once a summer, so why should I be expected to remember his name or not to mix it up with someone else’s every now and then? While he must see my name and photo in the program notes if he goes to the Hall’s concerts, and I’m almost certain he does: a Sunday-goer with the wife—kids left with friends—rather than the Friday night concerts, since they don’t want to leave their children with friends too late or at home alone. Or he’s saying, “You see that gentleman over there?” Saying this now to his kids. “He’s one of the two violists for the Hall’s artist-faculty concerts and also a viola teacher of young student artists who come up to the Hall’s chamber music school for seven weeks. He’s pretty much a hotshot in his field, having helped found the Razumovsky Quartet, which was one of the best in America for many years. And from what I read in the local newspaper last year and in the area’s arts free weekly just last week, he’s made a couple of recordings and been a soloist over the last thirty years with some of the leading orchestras and chamber ensembles in this country and abroad, as well as being the principal violist for the Metropolitan Opera. Now why he thinks I’m Fritz Sepulsk
a is a mystery to me. But you kids like to read mysteries—Nancy Drew and such—so maybe you can solve this one for me. Because do I look so old? Sepulska’s got to be approaching eighty. So let’s say this violist’s eyesight isn’t too good … so because of that we’ll add ten years to the Fritz he sees. In other words, and not to get too confusing, though he thinks of me as eighty, he sees me as seventy but feels that’s what a healthy eighty-year-old man looks like … but do I look that? Even sixty? I thought I looked pretty good for my age—fifty, maybe; possibly forty-five. I haven’t lost all my hair and my jaw hasn’t begun to slack, and my neck, in only the last year, I think, is beginning to get wrinkled and also a little hollow in front the way the necks of most older people do. And that pot that people past fifty-five seem to have no matter how thin they are and how much they purge themselves and exercise—well, that’s starting to show despite every countermeasure I take, including sucking in my stomach while holding my breath. And the gray, if not even the white hair in places, like the sideburns and on my chest; and those webbed feet, I think they’re called, off the ends of my eyes, and that deep quarter-moon gash running around both sides of my mouth … you know,” and, as would seem with this guy, because of the inarticulate way he spoke to me, he shows with his fingers what he means, since he doesn’t have the words to explain it. “But my posture’s pretty good—sturdy, straight, I’m not bent over at all—and my ankles are still strong and not turned in and my legs don’t wobble and shake. And my arms because of the stretch band and ten-pound dumbbells I work out with are as solid if not solider than they were when I was twenty or thirty and never exercised. How old do you two think I look? Be honest,” and his younger daughter says, “When will they be ready with our order?” and he says, “Everything’s freshly made here, though maybe a little preprepared, so if it had come out in a minute or two I’d have wondered how far in advance the dishes had been cooked,” and the older one says, “Shouldn’t we have ordered the large portion of potato skins? It’s only fifty cents more and you get twice as many pieces,” and he says, “Listen, last time we did, you left half of it here,” and she says, “We had what was left wrapped and took it home with us,” and he says, “And threw it out several days later. This time, you finish the small order, you can get another small order, and the second one will come out hot like the first one, just the way you like it, and with a new container of sour cream. But my biceps,” he says to them, “my forearms and arms—I mean, they’re not, they couldn’t be—the arms of a seventy-five- to eighty-year-old man. No man that age could have arms as solid and thick as mine, and if he did—well, it’d be highly unusual. And I just don’t see a musician—and a pianist, no less, who has to take such delicate care of his hands and arms, and one still playing as I’m sure Sepulska does. Those guys never stop practicing and performing, with some of them in their nineties, and one of them—Mishaslavski or something—a hundred, but still banging away onstage when they’re long past remembering their own names, even, or at least the names of their children. Anyway, I don’t see any musician my age, except maybe a bass player or tympanist, and both of them mostly from dragging their instruments around, having the arms I do,” and his younger daughter says, “Show us your arm muscles. You always say you will someday but never do,” and he says, “It’s too silly. I did it as a young boy and later as a joke to girlfriends, but I couldn’t do it anymore and for sure not here,” and she says, “You can say we’re now your girlfriends. Just show them once and we’ll never ask again, agreed?” she says to her sister, and the older girl says, “Okay, agreed,” and he says, “When we’re in the car maybe, or sitting down here, if no one’s around or looking, and very quickly,” and the younger girl says, “Good,”’” when a woman in the enclosed stand where they take the orders and make the food yells over the loudspeaker, “Ninety-two!” and Gould says, “That’s us, or maybe she’s saying how old she thinks I am … anyone want to bet?” and Fanny says, “Don’t be funny, Daddy,” and goes to the pickup window in the stand, their tray’s waiting, and she carries it to a picnic table—the man’s at the next table and looks at them and smiles and turns back to his wife—and Gould says to his daughters, “Ready?” and Josephine says, “Ready what?” and he says, “The muscle thing,” and Fanny says, “But people are around, and that man who called you Fritz is looking,” and he says, “Shh, don’t rub it in by repeating it so he hears; I don’t want him thinking something’s wrong with his memory—older people get very sensitive about that, think maybe their mind’s going or something,” and raises his arms and flexes his biceps, and Fanny touches one and Josephine the other, and Fanny says, “Oh, they’re big, like the poster I saw of a big hockey star without his shirt,” and Josephine says, “Where’d you see that, in one of your teen magazines?” and he glances at the next table, and the man and his wife are looking at him and the man shakes his head, not disapprovingly, really no expression whatsoever that says anything, and looks away, and the woman nods while she smiles and seems to mouth something to him like, “Very pretty girls.”

  “I don’t know why I did that with my muscles before,” he tells the girls a minute later. “I’ll have to think about it,” and Fanny says, “You wanted to get it over with because we’ve bothered you about it for so long, that’s all,” and he says, “No. Anyway, enjoy your food,” and Josephine says, “Why don’t you ever have something but black coffee? You never eat anything when we come here or go out anywhere for snacks,” and he says, “I have a good time just watching you two eat it all up.” When he looks over again, the couple’s gone. “I know why,” he says to the kids. “So the man won’t call me Fritz again, not that I didn’t like it—I’d love it as my name,” and Fanny says, “But what about?” and he says, “These,” crossing his arms at the wrists to point to his biceps.

  His Mother Again

  HE CALLS UP his mother. He’s in the country; she’s in the city. Said he’d call the day he got here, and it’s been three days and it’s the first time he’s called. Her helper answers, and he says, “Hi, it’s Gould,” and she says, “How are you, sir?” and he says, “Fine, thanks, how’s Bea?” and she says, “Who?” and he says, “Bea, this is her son,” and she says, “I know that, sir, she’s told me about you, but I didn’t know she went by that name. I thought ‘Beatrice.’ She’s well as can be expected,” and he says, “Why, anything wrong? I tried calling a couple of times yesterday but nobody answered, so I suppose you were out,” and she says, “No, yesterday we didn’t leave the house. It was too hot; she only wanted to rest inside,” and he says, “Is it still hot? It was quite warm up here the last two days—humid, even, which we don’t get much—but cooled off today, strong winds and a cloud cover, so no hot sun,” and she says, “Very hot: steaming, the TV said.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I know how miserable it can get there,” and she says, “It’s New York, the summer, so you live with it. Your mother—what an attitude!—she keeps saying it can’t last forever. Here, I’ll get her,” and she says, away from the receiver, “It’s your son, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “Who?” and the helper says, “Your son, unless you have two alive ones, and you told me he’s your only one,” and his mother says, “What?” and the helper says, “Beatrice, listen carefully. He’s on the phone waiting, and long distance—your son, Gould; speak to him,” and his mother gets on and says hello, this slow hello, not sickly, just weak, and he says, “Mom, hi, how are you?” and she says, “I could be better … who is this?” and he says, “Don’t you recognize me? Gould. I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well; what’s wrong?” and she says, “What?” and he says, “I said what is it that’s bothering you?” and she says, “What?” and he says, much louder, “Do you have your hearing aid in?” and she says, “I heard that. Yes, I think so. Is my hearing aid in?”—away from the phone—and the helper says, “I put it in before and checked the battery; it’s all working,” and his mother says to him, “This nice girl—I don’t know what I’d do without her, she’s a rea
l doll—she says my hearing aid’s in,” and he says, “Good. Now, is it anything in particular that’s bothering you—any ailment?” and she says, “Yes, I can hear you normally now. I don’t know why; we didn’t do anything new to it,” and he says, “Maybe you’re concentrating better, because after a minute or so you’re more used to the phone. So tell me, why aren’t you feeling well?” and she says, “No, not particularly. I just feel weak, which I should expect, I guess, when you get this old,” and he says, “Why do you say that? You have lots of good days, when you’re out and around and your voice is strong and peppy. But today, what is it specifically that’s ailing you?” and she says, “What?” and he says, “Ailing, bothering you,” and she says, “I heard that too. I have no energy. I just want to rest in bed; that’s not so bad,” and he says, “But unless you’re really sick, which you don’t seem to be, you should try to be up, exercise, walk around some, and in regular clothes. Are you still in your bedclothes?” and she says, “Yes, I know, maybe you’re right, I’m not sure. But how are you and the kids?” and he says, “We’re fine, thanks, and Sally too,” and she says, “Yes, how’s Sally? She’s all right? And where are you, in the city where you live?” and he says, “No, nor in New York. I left you, said goodbye, me and the kids, two days ago, or three. But we got here in Maine two days ago,” and she says, “How was your trip?” and he says, “Without incident,” and she says, “What happened?” and he says, “The trip to Maine was fine, easy, fast, no problems,” and she says, a little alarmed, “You’re not holding anything back from me? Something in your voice says you are,” and he says, “No, really, the trip was … it was easy, smoother than usual,” and she says, “You didn’t drive too fast?” and he says, “I never do. I listen to you. You tell me not to, that it could be dangerous, so I don’t,” and she says, “I feel better, thanks for asking. Just hearing your voice does that. But I still think something must be wrong with this hearing aid. No matter how many times the company fixes it for me, they can never get it right. Here … miss,” she says, away from the phone, “could you see if this thing’s in right?” and the helper says, “It’s in fine, I saw to it. And I turned it on, checked everything, the little battery screeched, so unless you switched it off since then …” and his mother says, “I don’t think I did. Is that what you said? But could you check it?” and the helper says, after about a half minute, “It’s fine, look, it’s on, my finger just felt it,” and his mother says to him, “I don’t know what’s wrong. I know it’s not working properly. Usually my hearing’s much better. But everything in this house is falling apart, including me. At my age, the eyes, the ears go; sometimes I don’t know what the hell the use is in living. But it’s nice hearing your voice. That for me always makes everything okay. But I haven’t seen you and your family for a long time; is anything the matter?” and he says, “I saw you just three days ago. I came with the kids; we took you out to lunch,” and she says, “We had lunch? Seeing you I sort of remember, but not the lunch,” and he says, “At Ruppert’s. You pushed your wheelchair almost the entire way, but not back. And you had your usual, eggs and bacon, the eggs turned over, and a Jack Daniels with a lemon twist and water—before the meal or during it—but you finished everything,” and she says, “If I finished the drink then I must have been feeling good, because they make a strong one there. But then I always feel good with you and the girls. How’s Sally—did I ask about her?” and he says, “She’s okay, preparing her course for next semester, or starting to, since we only just got here … she sends her love to you,” and she says, “I know, I’m not my regular self today, but I’ll get better. And the girls … they back in school? Did it start yet?” and he says, “It just ended for them, Mom. It’s the beginning of summer. Don’t even mention school to them; they’ve two months off from it,” and she says, “I didn’t know; what month we in?” and he says, “July second; in two days it’ll be the Fourth,” and she says, “July? God, where have I been? Well, I was never sharp with dates. And Sally?” and he says, “She’s fine, really, working hard, feeling okay,” and she says, “That’s all that matters,” and he says, “What about you? Is there anything you can do to feel better?” and she says, “What can you do? It’s just a case of no get-up-and-go. Mostly, I just feel weak,” and he says, “You mean most of your waking time you do?” and she says, “But I’m not so bad off compared to most people my age. When I go in the park with the girl and see them sleeping in their wheelchairs where we stop, they look more dead than alive. But maybe I do to them too, though I tell the girl if my mouth opens and doesn’t shut when I’m asleep outside, to close it for me. It’s no good to be vain, it’s no good to have once been considered pretty, but that’s the way I was. Everybody told me and boyfriends entered my photo in beauty shows, and now I look at myself in the mirror and I’m such an old hag I don’t want to be seen on the street. I can see how everybody stares at me,” and he says, “Not true. You’re still very pretty and elegant. Listen, maybe you’re only feeling weak because you just got up from a nap. Is that what you did?—though you are speaking more clearly than before,” and she says, “No, it’s all right, thank you, dearest. I hate to complain and I don’t like complainers. And anyway, it’s not that,” and he says, “What isn’t, the nap?” and she says, “I forget. What were we talking about before? I think it was leading to something,” and he says, “What about your eating? It’s okay?” and she says, “I was never an eater. Even as a girl, food never meant anything to me. But don’t worry, I’ve enough of an appetite for the little I do all day,” and he wants to say, Mom, I wish there was some way we could get you up here for a couple of weeks, but I don’t see any way to do it, and says instead, “Mom, I wish I was in New York to come by every day, take you out to lunch, things like that,” and she says, “That’s all right, I could feel better, but you have a good time,” and he says, “Did you hear what I said?” and she says, “Sure, why do you think I didn’t? I’m not stone deaf. But the air conditioner here. Maybe you can use it,” and he says, “No, I bought it for you, and why would we need it in Maine, if that’s what you’re saying?” and she says, “Then take it with you when you come back,” and he says, “Come on, you’ll need it for September and next year. Is it on now?” and she says, “I think so. Just a minute,” and says, “Miss—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, what is it?” and the helper says something and his mother says, “Angela. Thank you. Is the air conditioner on?” and the helper says yes and his mother says to him, “She says it’s on. It does feel cool, so I should have been able to tell. But it’s not that. I don’t know what it is. I just don’t feel like getting up,” and he says, “But you should. For a walk or in the wheelchair, if it’s not too hot, or to sit in front of the building awhile,” and she says, “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure,” and away from the phone, “Have I been out today?” and the helper says, “You said you didn’t want to, didn’t have the energy, but if you want to go I can get you dressed and outside,” and she says to him, “No, I haven’t been out today, this nice woman says. But I’ll get there yet; I’ve time,” and he says, “Do it now before it gets too hot. Take a shower first. Tell Angela you’d like a shower and to get dressed and go outside. It’ll be okay out there if you get right to the shade or the park,” and she says, “The park can be so nice, very beautiful. We go to the spot you always take me to, with plenty of shade and long benches,” and he says, “Good, just so you do something different. You need that variety; you can’t just stay inside. Or have lunch out with Angela—at Ruppert’s. I won’t mind if you go there with someone else. Or go out just for an ice-cream bar at the corner. But you can’t stay in your bed or your room all day, it isn’t healthy for you. You can get bedsores, if anything. The fresh air outside, even if it’s a bit humid—” and she says, “You’re right, you always make good common sense for me. I’ll try, dear, but I don’t know if I’ll be successful at it. Excuse me, is it all right if I get off the phone now? I’ll call you later. I hav
e your number? Wait, the girl will take it down for me,” and he says, “You have it, in the address book on the side table by your bed,” and she says, “What’s the best time to reach you?” and he says, “Anytime, we’re in Maine, I’m not going anyplace,” and she says, “Mornings or evenings better?” and he says “Really, Mom, anytime you want. If I’m not in, one of the kids or Sally could be and they’ll give me your message and I’ll call you right back, but I’m never out for that long,” and she says, “No, you call all the time; I’ve gotten lazy at it, so I’ll call you,” and he says, “Okay, fine; evenings, after six, is probably better and you get a better rate too,” and she says, “I have your number?” and he says, “In your address book by your bed. Do you see it? It’s pretty big, has an Impressionist painting on the cover—Renoir, I think; we gave it to you last Christmas, it’s from the Met,” and she says, “Is my address book here with my son’s phone number in it?” and he yells, “An address and daily calendar book, actually. And it’s a Pissarro on the cover—Camille, Camille Pissarro—last year’s was the Renoir, I think,” and the helper says to her, “Is this it?” and his mother says, “It must be; was it on my side table?” and the helper says, “Your regular helper said all your important phone numbers are in it: doctors, ambulance service, everything. And your son’s, wherever he is; so if he’s in Maine, it’s in there, by alphabet, his last name,” and his mother says to him, “You in Maine?” and he says yes, and she says, “When did you leave?” and he says, “Three days ago. I came over with the girls the day before; Sally had a last-minute doctor’s appointment, but she saw you the day before that,” and she says, “Tell me, how’s the family?” and he says, “We’re all okay, Sally too; nothing’s changed with her,” and she says, “With me, seems as though everything’s going wrong,” and he says, “What particularly? That’s what I want to know,” and she says, “I can’t even point it out. A time comes for everyone; I think that’s what they say,” and he says, “Don’t think like that, Mom. You’re just tired, or a little weak today—maybe from the heat—but the next time I call I’m sure your voice will be bouncy and chipper again and you’ll feel—” and she says, “I remember now you going. You came over with the girls. You see, I can remember when I want to. But I have to go now, sweetheart. Give my love to everyone,” and he says, “I will, and much love from us to you, and I’ll call tomorrow,” and she says, “Oh, one more thing. Usually before they go I give them each some money for their birthdays,” and he says, “Their birthdays aren’t till November, same month as yours,” and she says, “Did I this year?” and he says, “Yes, in November, you were very generous. We came in especially for your birthday and you gave them each ten dollars,” and she says, “Only ten? Usually I’m a much bigger sport. Why’d I give so little?” and he says, “Because that’s all I wanted you to give. You’re trying to cut down your expenses, and besides, I don’t want them getting too much money at one time. They’ll just spend it,” and she says, “So, they’re girls, what’s wrong with that? They like to buy pretty things,” and he laughs and says, “I’m glad your sense of humor’s back,” and she says, “Why, did I lose it? I’m losing everything these days,” and he laughs and says, “Good, you’re feeling better. And you’re right—next time give the girls what you want; from now on that’ll be just between you and them,” and she says, “But did I before you left?” and he says, “Mom, their birthdays are in November; November, same as yours. You have more than four months to think about giving them a birthday gift, just as we do for you,” and she says, “I don’t want anything; what could I need? But November. What month are we in now?” and he says, “What month do you think?” and she says, “I think I know; I’m just not sure. You tell me and we’ll see if I’m right,” and he says, “The beginning of July,” and she says, “July? Don’t fool me,” and he says, “You mean you don’t think so?” and she says, “No, I mean how could it be?” and he says, “Look, maybe your apartment’s so cool you think it’s also cold outside or something, late fall weather—is that it?” and she says, “But it just doesn’t look anything like July,” and he says, “What do you mean? The sun, when the sun’s out; just the brightness, which you never get any other time,” and she says, “Not to me,” and he says, “Mom, stop, think; how could it not look like it? All right, so your eyes aren’t what they used to be. But when you go outside, then: the heat, the humidity, the intense sun, the kids off from school and that you go to the park in light clothing, but also that I’m calling from Maine. So more than just looking and feeling like summer, you know we never come up here except around the first of July. And you’ve been here maybe ten times, so you know we only come to Maine during the summers. And I said goodbye to you day before we left, came over with the kids, and Sally saw you the day before that,” and she says, “So what are you saying, that I’m crazy?” and he says, “Of course not; I meant nothing like that. I was only saying that it’s got to be July. The summer, the park and trees and weather. The kids off from school and my being on vacation and the light clothing everyone wears and so on. These are all things to help you remember what month, or season, at least, we’re in,” and she says, “Well, they’re not doing such a good job. And don’t talk to me as if my mind’s gone. It’s not perfect, but it’s far from finished. I remember most of it; it isn’t that I don’t. It’s summer, and July. You said so, so it has to be, and not only that, it is, and not just because the newspaper I read every day says so too. And that’s right, I remember now too. How sorry I was to see you go, for my sake, but glad for yours—that you’d all be away from the heat. But I have to get off the phone now,” and he says, “Look, I’m very sorry; I don’t want to leave it like this,” and she says, “Like what?” and he says, “That you, you know … I don’t want you to feel bad over anything I said,” and she says, “Why do you think I do? I don’t, I just feel tired, suddenly; I have to rest. Goodbye, dear,” and he says, “Me too, goodbye, and my love to you, and I’ll call again soon,” and she hangs up.