“Are you ever going to be able to walk again?” I said.
“Not many have.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“That you could stand up like that.”
“And what? Lurch?”
“Walk.”
“I can’t walk.”
“All right.” By now, I was guiding the car over the ruts at the dark end of the cove. Night had fallen and the rain still hadn’t hit, but across the lake, lightning was flaring the horizon. At the mailbox, I tapped the horn a couple of times before I turned in to the drive. I was distracted, and maybe for that reason, I said, “Well, it could have been worse.”
He spared me by not answering. We pulled up to the cabin, and I’d already shut off the engine by the time I noticed what the headlights were shining on: Dad and Cle, still sitting together down by the dock. They hadn’t even come up yet to start dinner. I couldn’t find the light switch, so I tried opening the door. But the lights stayed on. Next to me I could hear Earl’s steady breathing. He just sat there, looking implacably down at the two of them, until finally, with a click, they disappeared back into the night.
—
THE NEXT MORNING, when we sat down to breakfast, I looked out the window and saw that the ramp had been removed. “Where’s Earl?”
“Back in New York,” answered Cle. “He has a busy week.”
Dad looked up from his plate and smiled.
The Sum of Infinitesimals
SO THAT WAS how we lived, at the beginning of that summer. Just Cle and Dad and I, out in the woods in that tumbledown cabin, now nicely furnished. I called New York and extended my leave. What could Physico say? They’d have a pretty hard time replacing me.
The cherry orchards across the lake turned from white to green. In the mornings and evenings, I built a fire in the small hearth whose walls were black with soot; then soon, I was building one only in the mornings. Puffs of warm air arrived from the south like trumpet blasts ahead of an army. Geese crossed overhead. At the bench along the dock, Dad and Cle sat watching them.
Right before lunch each day, Dad and I would go down to the water together. Cle would use the time to drive into town for groceries. This was my hour with him. We’d sit on the dock or walk on the paths. I have to say, the days took on a malleability that I’d almost forgotten. The geese. The mergansers. The minks, scrabbling in the crags on sunny mornings. For a time, I called the office every day; but after a while, I just stopped.
Our dinners were quiet — the two of them sitting beside each other the way they did on the dock, but with me at the head of the table now, passing the food. Dad was eating, which pleased Dr. Gandapur. He could finish a whole steak. And though in the afternoons he still grew tired, his nap always seemed to revive him, and in the evenings he grew alert. There was the long, ruddy light. The sharpness of the cedars against the water. He would rise on the new sofa and look from Cle’s face to mine.
—
ONE MORNING, I watched Dad dress himself. I could see that he was feeling good. Pressed slacks from the closet. A sweater from the drawer. The polished wing tips. Standing at the mirror, he combed his hair carefully and splashed cologne onto his collar.
When he noticed me watching he said, “Will you smell this?” He stepped forward. “What’s happened to it?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“I’m only asking you what the cologne smells like.” He pulled the collar toward me.
“It smells like lime, Dad. Same as it always has.”
“What?” He sniffed the cloth. “It stinks. Don’t you smell that? It’s gone putrid.”
“What? No, I don’t. It smells the same.”
He stepped away. In front of the mirror he busied himself with his cuffs, then leaned forward to examine the stubble on his neck. I could see that he was actually trying to smell his collar again. After a time, he said, “Isn’t it amazing?”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know what’s happening to me.”
—
HE BEGAN GROOMING himself like that every day now — like a dandy. The shined shoes. The combed hair. Sometimes he’d put on his old black Princeton jacket with its oiled leather sleeves. It had always been small for him, but now it fit. Cle pinned the cuffs so that they wouldn’t hang over his hands. He wore it during the string of cool mornings that arrived midway through the month. The zipper halfway closed, the collar turned up against his neck. She would take his arm: together they would make their way down to the water.
He seemed to be entering the first turns of a maze.
It was hard to know why some days were better than others. In the mornings, he’d walk with her, his step a pace or two ahead. A glance over his shoulder, as though if she stumbled on the path he might still help her. Their spot was the bench at the tip of the dock. A couple of the boards halfway out had cracked, and he’d step past them, then reach back for her hand. His daily gentility. She would take his thin arm and step over. Then they would continue out to the end.
There’s a moment I remember so clearly from that time. One of my father’s spells of energy. A clear morning. A coat of dew. He and Cle making their way along the dampened boards. At the gap, she takes his elbow. Then the rest of the way out to the spalted bench, arm in arm. His bony fingers. Her pale knees. Her face turned to his.
I was washing the breakfast dishes. My mother’s old chore.
Then: a small movement. A quick, upward tilt of her chin.
And suddenly they’re kissing. Her hand comes up and touches his neck.
—
EMMY PICKED UP the phone saying, “Daddy!” She was packing her own lunch for school. She told me about a pyramid she’d built the night before from matchboxes. The number of boxes on each level was determined by a Lucas sequence. Did I know what a Lucas sequence was? I did. She recited the function anyway. She informed me that the Lucas numbers were only one example of a Lucas sequence. I told her I was proud of her. Of course, I was also touched with dread.
I asked her how everybody was getting along. She said, “I don’t know, just a minute.” She got off the line. Now Niels came on. He asked me how I was doing. He asked about his grandfather. He asked about the lady who was with us. He told me that Emmy was misbehaving a little bit, but only at bedtime, and that he missed me, although not so badly that he wanted me to come home. If I needed to stay with Grandpa, that was fine. He said he would understand. He would understand. He said he imagined I loved my own father the way he and Emmy loved me. I told him that this was really kind of him to consider. I told him that I loved him very much, too. He said that Mom was good and New York was fine. He’d already made himself a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich for school. If Mom asked him to, he would make one for Emmy. She had a book report due that day. “Social studies,” he said, lowering his voice. “Not a good subject for her.” I told him she’d already made her own lunch. Then he said goodbye and went downstairs to load his backpack.
Audra came on. She asked me how I was. I told her. I asked her how she was. She told me about a fundraiser at the kids’ school and about a contractor down the block who’d been sandblasting a brownstone that belonged to a sheikh. She told me about a weekend playdate she’d arranged for Emmy with a new girl from the neighborhood.
When she finished, I said, “So, how’s Mom doing?”
“Oh, she’s good. She’s really good. She seems to have a lot of energy. She’s gone out to visit Paulie.”