And we both stare out toward Dad. Who waves. We—polite, conditioned-signal back. We smile our set and wasted smiles however invisible from that far. “The time your father and I visited you in New York City that December five years ago? Robert had something waiting on our bedside table at the Stanhope. Your Robert gave me my first box of Godiva chocolates.”

I never knew he’d sent Mom candy. At the time, Robert, writing his Titanic, earned most of his cash by cleaning people’s apartments. As I sit here, I reconsider my pal. I imagine how my mother sees him, his undying sense of luxury. Robert, even when most broke, a gift.

“Those days, I still thought that Whitman’s chocolates were tops. I soon started seeing Godivas everywhere and I did let myself say to Mimi Albertson, ‘Yes, Godiva. Little gold box? Yes, I was given a box of those in New York City. Aren’t they delicious? Rich but not too sweet, is what I like.’”

Everything today makes me cry.

(Angie insisted that I needed this trip, a break, some sun. “By now,” she said, “You’re yellow as sweet Robbie here.”

“Thanks bunches.”

“Besides, if you have Florida at Christmas, I’ll get to go to my opening in Berlin come New Year’s. Fair’s fair? Okay.”)

Mom sounds tired, “Honey, maybe run fetch us some lunch from their food court. I’ll stay here and wave. You never know how long it’s going to take. —Oh, and I’d so hoped your visit might be fun for you, and now look what he’s … what we’ve gone and …”

“Chinese? What’s least hideous here?”

Just then Dad, from a flashing mall security car, gives us the V for Victory sign. “Found it,” he mouths, grinning like a man inviting us to come and view the huge gold nugget he has just lifted from some California stream, changing forever the course of American history.

“Eureka,” I say in comic monotone. Laughing, she covers her laugh with one hand. Rising, she says, “Now now.” Her new tone warns me: Once we’re physically with Dad, all true and intelligent intimacy between us must stop, change, hide. One benefit of the lost Buick? We’ve had three and a half clear honest hours right at the start before she must mostly withdraw.

“Oh, son, so glad you’re here. Even if that’s selfish of me. —Can’t imagine.”

“I’m beginning to … Great!” I mime through massive glass. I hoist Mom’s elbow as she mutters, “Was it in 2-B, or was it not 2-B?” but only just under her breath. And all while waving, flirting her best bent geisha thanks toward my old man. My suddenly old, old man.

Orientation

aving found our car, he actually drives it. Should he?

Bound home, breathing hard, he smiles so. “These days, swear holy God, never know, quite where the.” He does drive oddly well. That he can do it at all seems as logically illogical as certain combined improbable tasks in dreams—say, walking a tightrope over Niagara while setting a huge brass alarm clock.