Stavros Chas 1204EisenhwerAv

He doesn’t dial, merely gazes at the name and the number as if to see his wife, smaller than a pencil dot, crawling between the letters. He dials a number he knows by heart.

His father answers. “Yes?” A wary voice, ready to hang up on a madman or a salesman.

“Pop, hi; hey, I hope you didn’t wait up or anything the other night, we weren’t able to make it and I couldn’t even get to a phone.”

A little pause, not much, just enough to let him know they were indeed disappointed. “No, we figured something came up and went to bed about the usual time. Your mother isn’t one to waste herself complaining, as you know.”

“Right. Well, look. About today.”

His voice goes hoarse to whisper, “Harry, you must come over today. You’ll break her heart if you don’t.”

“I will, I will, but—”

The old man has cupped his mouth against the receiver, urging hoarsely, “This may be her last, you know. Birthday.”

“We’re coming, Pop. I mean, some of us are. Janice has had to go off.”

“Go off how?”

“It’s kind of complicated, something about her mother’s legs and the Poconos, she decided last night she had to, I don’t know. It’s nothing to worry about. Everybody’s all right, she’s just not here. The kid’s here though.” To illustrate, he calls, “Nelson!”

There is no answer.

“He must be out on his bike, Pop. He’s been right around all morning. When would you like us?”

“Whenever it suits you, Harry. Late afternoon or so. Come as early as you can. We’re having roast beef. Your mother wanted to bake a cake but the doctor thought it might be too much for her. I bought a nice one over at the Half-A-Loaf. Butterscotch icing, didn’t that used to be your favorite?”

“It’s her birthday, not mine. What should I get her for a present?”

“Just your simple presence, Harry, is all the present she desires.”

“Yeah, O.K. I’ll think of something. Explain to her Janice won’t be coming.”

“As my father, God rest, used to say, It is to be regretted, but it can’t be helped.”

Once Pop finds that ceremonious vein, he tends to ride it. Rabbit hangs up. The kid’s bike—a rusty Schwinn, been meaning to get him a new one, both fenders rub—is not in the garage. Nor is the Falcon. Only the oil cans, the gas can, the lawnmower, the jumbled garden hose (Janice must have used it last), a lawn rake with missing teeth, and the Falcon’s snow tires are there. For an hour or so Rabbit swims around the house in a daze, not knowing who to call, not having a car, not wanting to go inside with the television set. He pulls weeds in the border beds where that first excited summer of their own house Janice planted bulbs and set in plants and shrubs. Since then they have done nothing, just watched the azaleas die and accepted the daffodils and iris as they came in and let the phlox and weeds fight as these subsequent summers wore on, nature lost in Nature. He weeds until he begins to see himself as a weed and his hand with its ugly big moons on the fingernails as God’s hand choosing and killing, then he goes inside the house and looks into the refrigerator and eats a carrot raw. He looks into the phone directory and looks up Fosnacht, there are a lot of them, and two Olivers, and it takes him a while to figure out M is the one, M for Margaret and just the initial to put off obscene calls, though if he were on that kick he’d soon figure out that initials were unattached women. “Peggy, hi; this is Harry Angstrom.” He says his name with faint proud emphasis; they were in school together, and she remembers him when he was somebody. “I was just wondering, is Nelson over there playing with Billy? He went off on his bike a while ago and I’m wondering where to.”