When Helen told Frankie this story all she could think was thank God he wasn’t still taking the subway. Helen thought Abraham taking the subway proved he was still vital and in the world like Mike Wallace, or some other kryptonite octogenarian.

“He doesn’t need to eat. He forgets when he eats,” Helen corrected Frankie.

“Who forgets?” Abraham asked.

“No one, Dad.” Frankie kissed her father. “I just want some pasta. I have to see patients tonight.”

“I’ll have salade Niçoise, chopped, no potatoes, only two anchovies, and ranch dressing tossed in, not just floating on top.” Helen always recited her litany to the waiter.

“Just coffee.” Abraham smiled. “And fish. Any kind you got.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Nothing fancy. I don’t like fancy.”

“Okay, I’ve got my orders.” The waiter perfunctorily wrote down the order.

“I’ll just have coffee,” Frankie added.

“I thought you were seeing patients tonight and wanted some pasta?” Helen never missed a beat.

“I don’t see patients on Sunday nights unless there’s an emergency.”

“But you said…” Helen corrected her.

“I forgot what I said.” Frankie was tired of defending herself.

“Like father, like daughter.” Helen sighed.

“I don’t forget. I can say the entire alphabet. A-B-C-D-E-F-G-HI…”

“That’s great, Dad!” Frankie forced herself to smile. She had, in fact, heard this at least a hundred times before.

“J-K-L-M-N-O…”

“That’s enough, Abe, that’s enough!” Helen gave him another maternal pat.

“P-Q-R-S…”

“Abe, I said, enough!” Helen was now his fourth-grade teacher.

Abraham sat silently until the waiter came with bread and butter. Abraham turned to him.

“I can say the alphabet. Want to hear? A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J…”

“That’s terrific.” The waiter began walking away.

Abraham continued. “K-L-M…Goddammit. What the hell comes after M? Goddammit!” He hit the table. “I knew this yesterday! I know I knew this yesterday!”

Walking home up Madison Avenue, Frankie took her father’s arm and Helen charged at least a block ahead of them. She would not let Abraham’s lethargic stride put a damper on her pace. Abraham began to sing, “New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town.”

Frankie pulled herself closer to her father.

“New York, New York, it’s a helluva town.” He repeated it again. “Is that the whole song, honey?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Frankie rubbed her fingers down his hand. “That’s the whole song.” He began to sing it again.

Frankie walked Abraham and Helen home to Eighty-ninth and Madison. It was the same building Frankie had gone to high school in, a forty-story modern red brick high-rise and the first on the Upper East Side not to be in the popular post-1950s wedding-cake style. When they arrived at their lobby Abraham put his hand in his pocket.

“Let me give you some money so you can take a taxi home.”

“Thanks, Daddy. I’m okay.” She held his hand anticipating what would come next.

“Where is my wallet?” He became increasingly flustered. “The goddamn bastards came in last night and took my wallet. Sons of bitches!”

All his life Abraham seldom swore. In fact, for a man who spent his life in the garment business he was uncommonly gentle and courteous. But then the bastards started coming in to take his wallet, his sweaters, and even his oatmeal.