I assured him I would drive up in the morning. I had planned to use the day to lay out the bones of an essay for the Times op-ed page, another tactic on the part of Leon to billboard the book sans expense. But I didn’t want to write it in the first place (“Literacy and the Internet”) and now I had an excuse to postpone it. In the world of contemporary publishing, there are two emergencies that are never questioned: a death in the family and a request to fly out to Hollywood to “take a meeting.” The Times would wait.

December 13, 2005

I’m up here at Dad’s place, immersed in the old homestead aromas—the lingering redolence of fried fat and stale coffee grounds, rug dust, a hint of something pickled. First thing today, I snatched him up and drove the two very familiar miles over to Sadie’s. In my late teens, I traveled this route countless times while hanging out with my high school buddies, smoking joints, chugging beers, wallowing in emotion and laughter. A long time ago, when I was a know-nothing kid.

My sister called. She would not be attending the funeral, wouldn’t even sit shiva. “Okay,” I said. “I got it covered.” My sister’s not crazy, she’s just sensitive and has no outlet. With me in town, she’s happy to leave me in charge of Dad. We wouldn’t see each other this time around. I’m not that sure she likes her big brother anyway. Now that we’re all grown up, we don’t have to pretend anymore.

When Dad and I arrived at Sadie’s weathered double-decker, we found a gaggle of unidentifiable friends smoking and gossiping by the front steps. One hailed my dad as we approached. “Morrie! I see you have the writer with you!”

“Yes. He drove up.”

I shook hands with some guy dressed in a camel’s hair coat. I repeated. “I drove up.”

A big-nosed character puffing a cigar chanted: “Morrie Junior! How’s the Big Apple? Still mishuga?”

Another dropped his cigarette onto Sadie’s immaculate concrete steps. “This your son, Morrie?”

“My son. Richard. He’s a writer. One of his stories was made into a movie.”

“Really?”

Etc.