He said it as though he was the recently paralyzed lead dancer in a made-for-TV movie and I had just commanded him to take the lead in tonight’s production of The Nutcracker. I responded, acting along in what I considered an appropriate manner. “You can do it,” I said. “I know you can do it. But, oh, you’d rather sit there on that chair and be a quitter. Take the easy way out. That’s right — you’re a loser, a cripple, but when the lights go up on that stage, when all the other dancers are in place, I want you to know the only thing keeping you in that wheelchair is yourself.”

Gill’s face began to buckle. When he began to sob I realized he wasn’t joking. People at the surrounding tables lowered their forks and looked over in our direction. I pointed to our plates and said in a loud whisper, “Whatever you do, don’t order the tandoori chicken.”

Ever since then things have been different between us. He quit calling me and whenever I called him I got his machine. His old message, the “Broadway doesn’t go for pills and booze” line from Valley of the Dolls, had been replaced. I know he is home, screening his calls but I always hang up at the point where the new Gill’s voice encourages me to take life one day at a time. What has become of him?

I took a train home and talked it over with my mother, who, at the time, was spending a week in the hospital, recovering from surgery to remove cancerous lymph nodes. The cancer was nothing compared to the punishment she endured from her roommate, a lupus patient named Mrs. Galls. The woman never said a word but watched television constantly and at top volume. Possessing no apparent standards she’d watch anything, expressing no more interest in a golf match than a nature program.

“You got any questions about the grazing habits of the adolescent North American bull moose?” my mother asked, fidgeting with the plastic bracelet on her wrist. “I complained to the nurses about the volume but all they do is point to their ears and whisper that she’s got a hearing problem. If she’s got such a hearing problem then why are they whispering about her? She can hear the food cart from down the hail. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. She perks up and rubs her hands together and over what? That foraging moose of hers will sit down to a better meal than anything she’s likely to get in this place. I want that woman dead.”