Abraham stared at him blankly.

“Try to repeat this, Mr. Weissman.” The specialist spoke slowly and deliberately. “The bad king told his wife he would not eat any porridge today.”

Abraham turned to his daughter. “Why the hell should I repeat that? It’s a boring story.”

Frankie covered her mouth to hide her laughter. “All right, Mr. Weissman.” The doctor made another note. “Let me ask you to raise your right hand.”

Without hesitating, Abraham raised his right hand.

“That’s perfect, Mr. Weissman! I am so proud of you. Good work today. Thank you.”

“Am I through?” Abraham looked up at him.

“Yes, you’re through. See you again in six weeks.”

As Dr. Trenton walked Frankie and her father to the door, he whispered to Frankie, “If I were you, I would try to take his raising his hand as very good news. I didn’t really think he’d be able to do it.” The doctor patted Frankie on her wrist.

The days Frankie despised her profession most was when she witnessed reasonable men and women like Dr. Trenton toss off as positive what they knew were condescending diagnoses.

Frankie and her father left the doctor’s office and walked together down Madison Avenue. Frankie had come to dread taking her father to lunch, but when they passed Three Guys restaurant on Ninety-sixth Street, Abraham asked to go in. She thought to herself, if Dr. Trenton only knew that Abraham recognized the coffee shop, perhaps he’d say he was practically cured.

Frankie ordered her father a tuna melt and got a Greek salad for herself.

“You were right, Dad,” she said as she picked out the anchovies from her salad. “That was a very boring story.”

“What?” Abraham bit into his sandwich.

“That story about the king was boring.”

“Who?” he asked, while concentrating on the oozing tuna.

“The king.”

“Who needs a king? I don’t need any kings.” Abraham finished his sandwich in two minutes.

“Dad, don’t you think you should slow down a little bit? We have plenty of time.” As soon as Frankie heard herself mention time, she knew she had pushed the wrong button.

“Who has time? I have to get to the office.” Abraham began getting up.

“They’ll understand, Dad.” Frankie was now in the midst of it.

“No they won’t. Goddamned bastards are holding on to five hundred pairs of nylons. They want to charge me two hundred dollars more for shipping.”

“That’s terrible,” Frankie answered by rote.

“You’re right. It is terrible. Where’s our lunch? I need to eat so I can get down there.” He began looking around for the waiters.

“Dad, you already had a sandwich.”

“Who had a sandwich? You? So why did we come here?”

“I guess I was hungry.” Frequently now, Frankie couldn’t find her way out of their conversation except by going along with it. “Dad, would you like another sandwich?”

“No, I don’t have time now.” He got up from their booth. “Where’s my coat? Goddamn bastards took my coat.”