The man’s tightly trimmed beard, the mask of the frostbitten and hypoxic Everest climber, his icy, swollen cheeks, lips chapped to the consistency of beef jerky. My father felt the overwhelming need to greet him as one who’d completed a spiritual journey of vast proportions. He wanted to strike the right tone, jocular but respectful. After all, it was not every day—
Enjoying the show? the man said.
Who’s that? Manny said. He took a step closer.
Manny? the man said.
Who’s there? Manny said.
It’s John Caldwell, the man said.
Ho shit, Manny said under his breath. Get out from under there, Mister Caldwell, he said, taking hold of the top edge of the table.
My father reconciled the face before him with Albert’s. So this was the son.
Appreciate it, John said to Manny. He planted his hands in the small of his back and arched.
Mister Caldwell, said Manny. Far out. Did someone call you?
Can you believe someone threw this away? John said. Left it on the curb at 72nd. It’s solid oak. You put in two weeks of work and it’s as good as new. You see those barley-twist legs? A real craftsman built this. Probably not a drop of glue. All dovetails and dowels. What kind of sicko throws away something as beautiful as this?
Mr. Caldwell, if no one’s called—
Good eye, my father said.
Thank you, said John.
Erwin Saltwater, my father said, holding out his hand.
Pleasure, John said. You live in there?
Mister Saltwater’s upstairs from your father, Manny said, which is what I wanted to ask you about.
What about?
I figured someone would have tried to call you. But if you’ve been out.
What about? John said.
Your father. They took him out on a stretcher a couple of hours ago.
A stretcher? my father said.
Yes, sir, Manny said. Mister Caldwell, sir, do you want to step inside for a minute? You can use the phone.
Oh, that’s perfect. That’s just perfect. What happened? John said.
Possible heart attack? Manny said. They weren’t sure.
That bastard. Did anyone call Fil?
Lines are down, Manny said.
What about the girl who stays with him? John said.
I believe he fired her, sir.
Oh for Christ—so no one went with him?
No, sir.
Where’s the girl—what’s her name?
Erica, sir. Like I said, I don’t think she’s working for your father anymore, Manny said.
And Fil knows? Tracy knows?
Mister Caldwell, you got me. Lines are down everywhere. If you want to try yourself… Manny shrugged at the building.
You’re Albert’s son, my father said.
John looked at my father with unrestrained annoyance.
Manny, tell us again. Spell it out slowly? my father said.
I got no idea, honestly. Ambulance came, I took them up, they rolled him out on a stretcher. He was awake. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe he fell? Hip?
He didn’t fall, my father said.
Whatever you say, Mister Saltwater.
We’ve got to go to the hospital, my father said.
John made an effort to look around as if he hadn’t heard, as if his mind were somewhere else. What about this? he said, thumping the table. I’m not just leaving it out here where someone can take it.
That don’t seem real likely, sir, Manny said.
You don’t think so? John said.
We could put it in the package room, Manny said. Temporarily.
Temporarily, John said. Should I leave a deposit?
No, sir, Manny said.
Okay, then, John said.
The men converged on the table, tipping it onto its feet and taking up positions on either end, John and my father on one, Manny on the other.
Ready? John said.
They lifted, my father and Manny grunting identical expletives as the weight hit their arms, and they shuffle-tripped over to the archway, scowling against the wind, the unbalanced division of labor setting them in opposition to one another, working their way through the gate like a drunk trying to find a keyhole. Somehow they got through without doing too much damage to themselves or the table, and they set it down with a unified groan so Manny could wedge the lobby doors. A couple came in behind them and he waved them up to the Vornados’ place.
A screeching, thudding passage through the lobby into the package room, the table coming in like an overweight cargo plane splattering itself all over a dirt runway in Burma. Manny extricated himself and assumed a post-wind-sprint stance by his desk, knees locked, elbows locked, huffing at the floor, while John slouched greaser-style against the lobby wall, a trespasser in the building where he’d grown up. He was watching the elevator, unable to shake the premonition that his mother would at any moment charge through the doors, eyes narrow, finger apoint, lashing him for his unacceptable behavior toward his father, his only father, the man who put a roof over his head, food on his plate, clothes on his back, never asking for his thanks, never asking for more than a moment of his time. Her strong mezzo filling his head like a gas. She’d been dead only a few years, and as his fine-lined memories of her had receded, John’s recollections had become charcoal sketches, thick, impressionistic strokes that imposed moods on her, and which had less and less to do with the vital expression of her inner being than with his expression of himself through her.
My father was watching him from the package room doorway. John was dripping like a cat pulled out of a drainpipe.
You look like you got into it with a brick wall, my father said.
John held up his scraped-up hand, the knuckles brown with dried blood, and said, Minor altercation.
Albert’s son, my father thought. You want to use our phone, towel, whatever you need, my father said. The words fell like lead pellets from his mouth.
Hm, thanks, John said, I’ll call from down here. That okay, Manny?
Sure, Mister Caldwell. Desk phone or the one by the service elevator?
Doesn’t matter. Where’d they take him? John said.
Roosevelt. I’ll get the number, Manny said, disappearing behind the desk for the yellow pages.
Suit yourself, my father said.
You’re new, John said.
Sorry? my father said.
You didn’t live here when I was a kid.
I guess we’ve been here seven, eight years, my father said.
Hm, John said.
Your father’s been here since—
’Forty-five. You know him?
I do, my father said.
Then you know he is a man who finds all aspects of the species equally detestable.
Well, said my father, he does have strong opinions.
Manny held out the phone to John, who took it without turning away from my father.
Albert Caldwell, John said into the mouthpiece. Yes, a patient.
That familiar imperiousness. No hello, no need for the polite how-do-you-do that weaker men deployed to get things done. He was Caldwell’s son, there was no doubt about it.
My father knew how this little drama would unfold. John wasn’t going to get far with that attitude. Depending on her disposition and how deep into her shift she was, the switchboard operator might decide to transfer him to the lounge, where, at this hour, the phone would ring fifty times before a groggy intern picked it up; or, stale joke, she might send him to the morgue; or she might simply put him on hold while she paddled her coffee with the rough wooden stick that was somehow meant to serve as a minimalist spoon, as though a chair might just as well be a nail, a car a cup of gasoline, a flower a grain of sand. It made no sense, none of it: why she sat in a windowless room, her head plugged into the knobby wall, why her legs throbbed, every second of the day a new manifestation of the never-ending aggravations foisted upon her by an uncaring god. Eventually she would disconnect the call. He’d call back, only to be flatly denied access to his father, the operator inventing a hospital regulation about calling hours, and he’d demand to speak to an administrator, someone he’d know by name, a family friend. He’d threaten her job.