“Lucky you,” she whispers, and this shocks me, but I see her point.

She, dreamy, adds, “Someone as beautiful as he, there’s no telling how many …”

“Mom? Did you know that Robert and Angie were ‘a number,’ as the kids are saying now?”

“But … Oh, it’s beyond me, Hartley! First, growing up, I thought there was only one way, ours. And then you’ve taught me over the years to … accept, or try, another. And now he and she! … It’s past me. Or I it.” We sit here, silent. At this moment, I feel as close to Mother as I did to Angie when—free of any topic but art, poverty, sex—we once sat shoulder to shoulder for hours somewhere, with a view of the entrance, waiting for him.

“Your Robert always had lovely manners, and such a striking boy.”

I consider telling her he now weighs ninety pounds. I don’t.

“How is your own health, darling?” This is where our newfound intimacy has been leading yet again. Poor thing has asked me my status three dozen times in that many roundabout ways.

“I’m still assuming I’m negative. One way of saying something positive, Mom. If anything changes, I’ll call you first, okay? Assume the best. You’ve got enough on you. I’m fine but I’m learning. I keep a postcard of Walt Whitman in one corner of my shaving mirror. He was a caretaker during his whole war. I thought he must be ancient till I turned the card over last week. Year younger than me. I’m not that jollied or spiritual. But I’m all right. Sleepwalking, trying to get everything done. Sure am glad to see you—Mer’ Christmas.”

“Yes, you too, dear. —But look how white my own baby’s hair is getting. I don’t dye mine but I certainly wish a person’s children would!”

She redirects a curl around my ear. I pull away. “Tickles. I’m not a baby and it’s not white. Just silver, and only at the temples. ‘Distinguished.’ That’s Nice for ‘exhausted.’”

“Please don’t mind my continually asking. Things change so fast, healthwise.”

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.