Charlotte.
‘We’re in the lobby. Come on. Into the apartment and then you sit down. Then you sit down for hours. Let’s go.’
Jakob stifles a sneeze and the old woman turns her head. ‘Louis?’ she calls out, peering across the lobby. ‘Louis?’
I am not Louis, thinks Jakob, scrounging in his back pocket for a tissue. Charlotte slumps against the wall and sinks down to the floor, bird legs splayed before her. ‘I can’t go any farther. Where’s Louis?’
‘That’s not Louis,’ the nurse tells her, smiling at Jakob.
Jakob never wants to grow old, never wants to be like Charlotte, humpbacked and helpless, collapsed in the corner of a mirrored lobby.
‘Can I help?’ he finally asks, terrified that the nurse will say yes.
‘You’re sweet,’ says the nurse. Jakob interprets that as a no. The electric floor indicator above the elevator shines an unchanging 4. He tugs on the brim of his Yankees cap.
‘I told you she was no good,’ says Charlotte. ‘I told you, Louis.’
‘That’s not Louis,’ says the nurse. ‘That’s not your son. Come on now, get up, girl, we’ll miss your shows.’
Jakob pushes the button two more times. He usually rolls his eyes at people who keep pushing the elevator button, trying to goad a lazy machine into action, as if the elevator could be harassed into service like a recalcitrant waiter: All right, all right, the ketchup, I’m coming . He jabs the button again with his knuckle.
‘I warned you,’ mutters Charlotte.
At last the car arrives and Jakob enters. He is facing Charlotte now; he can’t avoid seeing her head bowed down to her chest, her entire shrunken body convulsed with shudders. ‘Evie!’ she cries out. ‘Evie!’
‘Hush, girl, I’m right here. Come on, give me your hand.’
Jakob passes his fingers over the electric eye and the closing doors jerk open. ‘Hi, sorry, are you sure you’re okay there?’
Evie looks at him over her shoulder. ‘Sure we’re sure. We do this every night.’
‘Louis?’
For a second Jakob wishes he were Louis, wishes he could say I’m here, Mom , then cross the lobby and lift the old woman to her feet. That would be heroic. The elevator doors slide shut and Jakob closes his eyes. Between the walls of the building he rises. He imagines himself a bucket of water being cranked to the top of the well. It hits him now how tired he is; he has not slept soundly in weeks. And Monty? Can Monty sleep at all?
Slattery’s trophy apartment, a sprawl of largely empty rooms, strikes Jakob as the perfect example of a type: the Young Man with Money without Woman apartment. The television set in the living room is so gigantic that the weatherman frightens Jakob. Slattery mistakes his friend’s disturbed look. ‘Big, huh?’
‘Yes, it’s very big. When did you get it?’
‘Couple of weeks ago. Gave myself a little gift. I mean, I’ve got to start spending the money sometime.’
What a vulgar expression, thinks Jakob. The money . Vulgar in large part, Jakob would admit, because his friend’s annual earnings are approximately twenty-three point seven times greater than his own, an approximation Jakob figured on his calculator one afternoon when he was supposed to be calculating grade point averages for his freshmen.
They sit on a yellow sofa that Slattery slept on for two years as a child, before the family moved to a bigger place in Bay Ridge. Jakob wonders why Slattery doesn’t spend a little more of the money on new furniture. The living room, larger than Jakob’s entire apartment, is empty save for the old sofa, the mammoth television, and a stack of artificial logs by the fireplace. Slattery’s bottle of beer rests on the hardwood floor between his feet. A large rug, rolled and corded, lies under the windows. Propped up in the corner is a glossy red electric guitar, another of Slattery’s gifts to himself.
The back of the sofa bears twin dark smudges from thousands of hours supporting dirty heads; Jakob’s
‘We’re in the lobby. Come on. Into the apartment and then you sit down. Then you sit down for hours. Let’s go.’
Jakob stifles a sneeze and the old woman turns her head. ‘Louis?’ she calls out, peering across the lobby. ‘Louis?’
I am not Louis, thinks Jakob, scrounging in his back pocket for a tissue. Charlotte slumps against the wall and sinks down to the floor, bird legs splayed before her. ‘I can’t go any farther. Where’s Louis?’
‘That’s not Louis,’ the nurse tells her, smiling at Jakob.
Jakob never wants to grow old, never wants to be like Charlotte, humpbacked and helpless, collapsed in the corner of a mirrored lobby.
‘Can I help?’ he finally asks, terrified that the nurse will say yes.
‘You’re sweet,’ says the nurse. Jakob interprets that as a no. The electric floor indicator above the elevator shines an unchanging 4. He tugs on the brim of his Yankees cap.
‘I told you she was no good,’ says Charlotte. ‘I told you, Louis.’
‘That’s not Louis,’ says the nurse. ‘That’s not your son. Come on now, get up, girl, we’ll miss your shows.’
Jakob pushes the button two more times. He usually rolls his eyes at people who keep pushing the elevator button, trying to goad a lazy machine into action, as if the elevator could be harassed into service like a recalcitrant waiter: All right, all right, the ketchup, I’m coming . He jabs the button again with his knuckle.
‘I warned you,’ mutters Charlotte.
At last the car arrives and Jakob enters. He is facing Charlotte now; he can’t avoid seeing her head bowed down to her chest, her entire shrunken body convulsed with shudders. ‘Evie!’ she cries out. ‘Evie!’
‘Hush, girl, I’m right here. Come on, give me your hand.’
Jakob passes his fingers over the electric eye and the closing doors jerk open. ‘Hi, sorry, are you sure you’re okay there?’
Evie looks at him over her shoulder. ‘Sure we’re sure. We do this every night.’
‘Louis?’
For a second Jakob wishes he were Louis, wishes he could say I’m here, Mom , then cross the lobby and lift the old woman to her feet. That would be heroic. The elevator doors slide shut and Jakob closes his eyes. Between the walls of the building he rises. He imagines himself a bucket of water being cranked to the top of the well. It hits him now how tired he is; he has not slept soundly in weeks. And Monty? Can Monty sleep at all?
Slattery’s trophy apartment, a sprawl of largely empty rooms, strikes Jakob as the perfect example of a type: the Young Man with Money without Woman apartment. The television set in the living room is so gigantic that the weatherman frightens Jakob. Slattery mistakes his friend’s disturbed look. ‘Big, huh?’
‘Yes, it’s very big. When did you get it?’
‘Couple of weeks ago. Gave myself a little gift. I mean, I’ve got to start spending the money sometime.’
What a vulgar expression, thinks Jakob. The money . Vulgar in large part, Jakob would admit, because his friend’s annual earnings are approximately twenty-three point seven times greater than his own, an approximation Jakob figured on his calculator one afternoon when he was supposed to be calculating grade point averages for his freshmen.
They sit on a yellow sofa that Slattery slept on for two years as a child, before the family moved to a bigger place in Bay Ridge. Jakob wonders why Slattery doesn’t spend a little more of the money on new furniture. The living room, larger than Jakob’s entire apartment, is empty save for the old sofa, the mammoth television, and a stack of artificial logs by the fireplace. Slattery’s bottle of beer rests on the hardwood floor between his feet. A large rug, rolled and corded, lies under the windows. Propped up in the corner is a glossy red electric guitar, another of Slattery’s gifts to himself.
The back of the sofa bears twin dark smudges from thousands of hours supporting dirty heads; Jakob’s
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