“She only hugged you, not her patients. Also, my patient wants a psychiatrist to write prescriptions. He thinks he needs sleeping pills.”
“And you approve?”
“I’m hoping the genius you recommend will see through my patient.”
“I’m looking at the map. Toni can’t be more than half an hour from this guy. Why don’t you tell your patient that if Toni thinks he needs downers, you’ll write the prescription?”
“I thought of that. But I assumed you’d call me a control freak.”
“What’s wrong with being a control freak?”
Toni was a good choice, in many ways a better choice for Gene than I was, certainly now that Gene was an adult. I tried her, but she was out. Getting to her and then to Gene would have to wait. It was time to drive into the city to gather with what was left of the Rabinowitzes at New York Hospital. More to the point for me, I needed to make what might be my farewell to Bernie.
When I got off the elevator on Bernie’s floor, Aunt Sadie was there, leaning on a cane. She had broken her hip two years ago in Palm Beach, chasing after Daniel’s firstborn near the pool. She walked without a limp, using the cane when she felt tired. She feared another fall; it offered security more than support. “Oh, Rafe,” she said. “I was just going for coffee. They won’t allow any food in there.”
I hugged her. Her cane tapped against my side. She was clear-eyed when I first saw her. While we embraced, I felt her head tremble against my chest. Sure enough, as we broke the clinch, there were tears.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she said.
“Of course I was coming.”
“I thought you’d get stuck somewhere with your work.”
“Sadie, what’s wrong?”
Her old face was soft and benign: padded cheeks, eyes uncertain, mouth slack. Uncle Leo had died suddenly five years ago, a massive coronary. Her sons and grandchildren lived in Houston and Chicago. She saw them only a few times a year. And the hip, too, of course. She was sarcastic: “You’re asking what’s wrong?”
“I mean, is there something new?”
“She’s here.” Sadie said the pronoun with scorn. “She” was my uncle’s second wife, Patricia, about twenty years his junior, a sharp-tongued real estate broker who sold Uncle his home in Palm Beach and then sold herself to him. The family, meaning Sadie and Bernie’s daughter, believed Pat was more interested in Uncle’s money than in him. They had been married for a decade, and happily so far as I knew.
“Well, she is his wife.”
“Can’t stand her. Not now,” Sadie added, pulling away from me, brushing lint off her blue blouse.
“Don’t you see her all the time in Florida?”
“Not if I can help it.” Sadie narrowed her eyes. The look reminded me of my mother. “She’s counting his money right now.” But here was a difference between my mother and her sister. The stern, suspicious look evaporated and Sadie laughed at herself. “Don’t listen to me. I’m crazy. Old and crazy. She deserves his money. She’s been good to him.” She moved to the elevator, focused on her cane, which she wielded more like a toy than an aid, jabbing the floor, using its handle to press the button. “He’s my baby brother,” she said, her throat clutching on the word baby.
I studied her face. It was placid. “He’s a strong man,” I said. “He could make it through this.”
“Doctors are crazy. They like to torture you before you die. What do they care? It’s all about money.”
“You sound like a communist, Aunt.”
“I didn’t mean you, dear. You’re a saint,” she said with absolute seriousness.
I laughed and then sang softly, “El veinticuatro de octubre, el dia de San Rafael.”
Sadie smiled. “What’s that?”
“The twenty-fourth of October is the day of Saint Rafael,” I translated. “My saint’s day. My grandmother Jacinta used to call me on the twenty-fourth and sing it.”
“Was she religious?”
“No.”
Sadie frowned. The elevator arrived. She entered. Behind her was a tired orderly in a dirty smock, a mop and bucket beside him. He leaned against the back, eyes closed, ignoring us. Sadie pressed a button, still frowning, preoccupied. “Your mother used to say she was a sweet lady.” The doors closed on her.
I found Uncle in a huge corner room, commanding a sweeping view of the East River and Manhattan. His wife, Pat, was with him. She was tanned and fashionably skinny, dyed black hair brushed back flush to the scalp, and dressed with understated elegance: white blouse, black skirt, and a rope of simple but expensive pearls around her neck. She said, “Here he is,” as I entered. She kissed the air near my cheek, a hand squeezing my forearm. “He’s been driving me crazy waiting to see you.” She went to the door. “I’ll keep everybody out until you’re done with Rafe.” She left, shutting it behind her.
Although his face was still full, Uncle had already lost fifty pounds. His hair had receded halfway back and was all gray, but the skin had amazing youthfulness — few lines and the translucent glow of a newborn. He sat in a chair by the windows, wearing a long navy blue robe, a glass of water beside him. There were piles of legal documents on a table. He stood up and that’s when the frailty of his torso became obvious. His head was too big for his skinny neck and wasted chest. I hugged him. He patted my back tentatively. “You look great,” he said and pushed away. He seemed unsteady. I took his left hand and held it while he carefully settled back into the chair. My eyes fell on his knuckles. The tufts of hair were white now, still seemingly brushed into an elegant knot, but looking sparser because of their color. There were several liver spots, a big one under his thumb, another beneath his pinky. There was a persistent tremor in the wrist that vibrated to his fingers and kept them perpetually animated. He gestured for me to pull up a chair opposite him.
When I did, he handed me a letter. “Read it.”
It was from Aaron, his son, now forty-six years old. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. He wrote he had heard about Bernie’s illness, that he was sorry and hoped he improved. He wanted his father to know that after many years of drug addiction, five years ago he had at last found help and kicked the habit. He had a job he enjoyed, was living in Iowa with a woman he loved and got to spend summers with his teenage son, Isaac, from a previous marriage. He didn’t want anything from Bernie, although he would like to come see him, but he hoped Bernie would pay for Isaac’s college education, since he was a bright boy and deserved a future. Aaron doubted that his salary as a teaching assistant would be enough or was likely to change. “I’m not an ambitious man,” he added. He was being frank, he wrote, because he knew Bernie didn’t like people asking him for money and he thought if he were indirect that would only make the request more irritating. He wasn’t asking anything for himself. He was sorry that he had been such a disappointment, that although he felt he had reasons for the hard times he’d gone through, he understood he was responsible for his estrangement from Bernie, his divorce, and his limited career prospects. Nevertheless, he didn’t think it was fair for his son to be punished for his own fuck-ups. Believe it or not, the letter ended, “I love you.”
I read the letter twice. I wasn’t happy about it. I felt Aaron was unnecessarily guilty and brusque and pathetic. His current life wasn’t that limited. He enjoyed teaching, was writing short stories, and had had three published. He loved his second wife very much. She was pregnant, a fact he omitted. And I felt he should have bragged more about Isaac, a delightful, intelligent young man. Bernie would have been proud, if the presentation had been more realistic, less manipulative, less ashamed. Obviously, I had been in touch with Aaron for many years, although Bernie didn’t know. That had been Aaron’s wish and I kept the secret. Secrets follow me everywhere, I thought. “Did you know about this?” Uncle asked.