Assisted Loving (16 page)

He is sitting in his big chair by the TV. I sit on the couch next to him.

“Okay, I was wrong about Florence, totally wrong,” I sigh.

“But I was glad to get a second opinion. I wasn't sure if it was me or her.”

“So now what are you going to do? Anyone else on deck?”

“No. I'm a little at a loss right now, I'm sad to say.”

“You usually have them lined up like fashion models on a runway.”

“Lately every woman I meet seems to be trouble,” he sighs. “And they all have something to complain about. Depressed children, ADD grandchildren, reflux, varicose veins, or some other unappealing thing.”

“Not everyone can be happy living on the surface of things like you.”

“I'm not asking for superficial,” he sighs. “Just pleasant. But pleasant is in very short supply around here. Now Edie, she's a pleasant woman. I still have a thing for her, you know. But it's impossible. She's got both her other boyfriends down here right now from Philly, so I haven't heard from her in weeks.”

“Dad, that woman is a seventy-five-year-old Jezebel.”

“Seventy-five? Try eighty-six!”

Oh my God. I had no idea this woman jerking him around is that old. I pop up off the couch and lunge at his glass to get him a refill. I'd like to shake him to get some sense into him, get him to stop his pining. And while I'm at it, maybe I can get him to clean up this apartment. It's just such a mess.

“Eighty-six? Eighty-six? That's older than you, Dad! And the demographics are supposed to be in your favor! You're cute. You're fun. You should have your pick of the litter.”

“Tell me about it,” he says as he slurps his drink.

“Drink it down,” I bark. “Don't be such a teetotaler.”

He chuckles and does as he is told, like a good son wanting to please.

“Have you ever met her other two boyfriends?”

“Yes, and they're both in their nineties. There should be no competition from what I can see. None! But she won't let them go. She isn't the kind of lady who wants to disappoint people. I guess it's not in her nature to reject anyone.”

I kick off my shoes and flop back on the couch. “But it's in her nature to jerk you around?”

“Look, I can't explain it. I never thought I'd end up like this.”

“I hear you, Dad,” I say.

“Dating is a headache. There are just too many agendas and opinions. The other day I thought I was doing my friend Kal a favor setting him up on a double date with me and two ladies from downstairs for New Year's Eve.”

“That's asking for trouble, no?”

“But you don't want to be caught short without a date for New Year's Eve around here, that's all I was thinking. It's the one time everyone needs a date.”

“True,” I say, as I lie back on his couch. The fortified Manischewitz is kicking in now. The rest of the world is falling away in this puddle of an alcoholic sugar stupor.

“So, to get things going, I arranged for us to have a pre-dinner, meet and greet the other morning, the four of us together for a nice brunch. Kal sees the woman I brought for him and decides right away she's too old. He wants someone twenty years younger. I was so irritated, I lost my temper. Now I've got nobody for New Year's Eve.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“I am so close to giving up, Bobby, you have no idea.”

Oh, yes, I do. But I don't say that. I'm not going to tell him about what I just went through with Ira. Yet in the buddy-movie version of what our lives have become here, I should be reaching out to him now, putting my arm around him, pulling him in tight like the son I'll never have, and telling him that, as messed up as it seems, he's on the right track because he's putting his heart out there, where it belongs. But how can I say anything like that when I'm so cynical about romance? I've given up on it. It's not worth the drama and humiliation.

“Okay, enough for now,” I say. “I think we should just call it a night, pack it in, take a break from the love shredder. I'm going to bed.”

I pull myself up, a little woozy. It's one in the morning.

“The cleaning lady changed the sheets for you,” he says. “Towels are laid out.”

“Okay. And Dad, would you mind closing your door tonight? The last time I was here, your snoring was louder than The Ring Cycle.”

“Your mother never minded my snoring. “

“I know. She was a patient wife. I'm an impatient son.”

“Who's going to want to put up with my snoring now?”

“I don't know, Dad. Just close your door tonight, okay? Good night.”

When I get into the pullout bed in his guest room, it occurs to me that I snore, too. Would Ira put up with that? Would anybody ever want to put up with me? Outside, a lone cricket sings in the Florida night, or maybe it's a tree frog, calling out for a mate, desperate and shrill, repeating itself over and over. A freight train on the other side of Lake Worth whistles softly, a lovesick sigh.

There's a book by the guest bed, and I have to smile when I pick it up. It's a self-help bestseller about romance. Dad has been studying, I guess. I dislike self-help books, but I open it, and I page through. The author, a shrink who makes a lot of TV appearances, is bringing the act of falling in love down to earth. Hers is a bullying and authoritative tone:
Why aren't you happily married or partnered now? Older people are not good at dating because they are set in their ways. Head over heels isn't necessarily the best thing for love. Think about all the people you have dismissed! You never know what lurks within a person unless you give yourself time to find out
.

The message is clear, but my head is not from all the drinking.

Soon I'm asleep. In the middle of the night I sit up in bed and drink some water. Dad's door is open. He's not in his bed. On my way to the bathroom, I peer down the hallway into the living room and see him, watching TV. He's been an insomniac his whole life, a lonely affliction.
For a moment, I think about going in and sitting with him, staying up with him until he's ready for bed. But I'm too tired for that.

So, I lie in bed, thinking about him out there alone.

Are all children so haunted by their parents?

A
t nine o'clock the next morning, the phone wakes us up. I hear Dad fumbling for it in his bedroom. His “Hello” is groggy, then his tone changes to something muscular and energized, as if he suddenly gave himself a shot of testosterone.

“Well, hello, Edie!” he yells. “What a thrill to hear your voice!”

Her boyfriends number one and two are occupied for the morning, it turns out. So she has suddenly become free, and wouldn't it be nice to get together? Dad tells her yes without even bothering to ask how I feel about it. I'm at his bedroom door, and he is sitting in bed in his pajamas, so animated on the phone that he knocks down several pill bottles on his night table. After hanging up,
he lumbers to his bathroom to run the electric razor on his already clean-shaven face.

“But, Dad, I was going to make you banana pancakes this morning.”

“Let's do that tomorrow. It's a beautiful morning for a drive. And Edie asked that you join us. You'll like her, I guarantee it. You have a lot in common.”

“Don't you understand you're never going to win her over, Dad?”

“I still have high hopes to make her mine. Maybe today will be the day.”

I've never seen him hustling so fast. He shaves, splashes on aftershave, pulls out his best shirt—a bold check so natty that I wouldn't mind wearing it myself—the good penny loafers, and a festive sky blue sweater just back from the dry cleaner. Then he asks me how he looks. I tell him fine.

“But, Dad, I already went on a date with you last night. I can't be a third wheel again this morning. It's enough already. You don't need me for this.”

“Don't think of Edie as a date. Think of her as a cousin. We'll go for a drive.”

“I don't want to spend the morning in the car. I want to get some sun.”

“So, let's take your convertible. You can be our chauffeur.”

“You, Dad? In a convertible? I don't see it.”

He doesn't like wind. He doesn't even like fresh air. This is a man as likely to get into the backseat of a convertible as go surfing, and yet, an hour later, I am in the parking lot of her building, watching him climb after her
into my backseat, new hip and all, like something between a Galápagos tortoise and a horny teenager.

“All aboard!” Dad crows.

I adjust my rearview mirror. Look at them back there. She's in a Versace knock-off scarf and Jackie O sunglasses. He has the sky blue V-neck tied around his neck—Mr. Love Boat. “All set, you two?” I ask.

“Very cozy,” he says. “Onward, driver!”

I pull out on Ocean Boulevard, a beautiful South Palm Beach day. The sun is coming out from behind the clouds. Birds are singing, traffic moving. The palms are swaying, and there are flowers popping up everywhere, like air kisses at a cocktail party. The wind is too loud for us to have a conversation, and that's fine. What am I supposed to say to her anyway? I keep an eye on them in my mirror. Dad's hair is blowing all over the place. I have never seen him so happily wind-tossed. Any other day he would not put up with all this weather, pleasant as it might be. But today, he's young again, on a mission to win her over. I can't help rooting for him.

As we pass Donald Trump's golf club, he's putting his arm around her. Now he's resting his head against her shoulder, and she's not pulling away. Geez. Should I even be looking at this alter-kocker porn flick in my rearview mirror?

I step on the gas and floor it across a bridge into West Palm.

“Whee,” she crows. “This is fun!”

“Bobby always shows me a good time,” he says. “We're a couple fun guys!”

I feel like something between a chaperone and drug runner with these two kids in my backseat, high as kites.
On Flagler Drive, along the yacht-clogged waterway, he suggests we go to the Norton Museum.

“Pull in right there,” he yells.

“That's not it,” I yell back. But it is. I've missed the turn. Rather than explode the way he would when I dismiss his advice, he laughs and lets me pull around without further direction. What is the hormone she is emitting? I wish I could have it to sprinkle on him later, after she's gone. Inside the museum, which is full of friendly docents trying to make the most of their senior years by embracing the arts, I stroll alongside them as they hold hands like two kids going steady. She's got a nice little look. Her silver hair is cut short. The pink button-down and well-tailored slacks are flattering. She's trim and vital. I feel older than either of them right now, and exhausted, really. But then, this is the second time I'm the third wheel in two days.

How has my life come to this? I pick up a postcard in the gift shop of Edvard Munch's
The Scream
. Could anything express more precisely my state of mind?

Now we're back in the convertible, heading home.

The old man's having a ball with her back there. I turn on the radio.

They sing along and giggle into each other's faces. Then she leans back into him; they're cozy as kittens in the sun. Maybe he knows what he's doing. Maybe he's going to kiss her on the lips before we drop her off to get her to see he's the best thing that could happen to her and inspire her to leave behind boyfriends one and two. He's nuzzling her neck. It's not pretty. But in a way, it's just beautiful.

Might I learn something from him? His intention is so fierce, his craving for affection so pronounced. Love is everything, and he's unafraid to let her know it.

We're back on Ocean Boulevard now, the final stretch. With a last kiss and fierce declaration of love, is he going to make her see what a catch he is and turn her life around so that she will finally declare herself only for him and him alone? When we stop in front of her building, a white 1960s low-rise fantasia, he leans in and kisses her cheek, lets it linger there for longer than a moment. She pulls back, gives him a playful swat.

“Oh, Joe! You're the sweetest,” she says. “This was fun, Bobby! Thank you so much for being our chauffeur! See you soon!”

Then she gets out of the car and walks away. Overhead, gulls call, laughing at us.

I am furious. But Dad doesn't look all that upset. In fact, he's all googly-eyed, as if he's just been touched by an AARP angel. He is smiling all the way home.

When we get to his apartment, he sits down, looking content. I pace his living room.

“What is she, out of her mind, with you and the two other boyfriends, Dad? Is this the three faces of Edie or something?”

“No,” he laughs, sitting comfortably in his beige leather recliner, like something between a Bubba and a Buddha, “she's just a very nice woman who appreciates me.”

“Yeah, a third of the time if you're lucky.
She
is nothing but a time-share, Dad. Why are you so stuck on her anyway?”

“Because she's easy to be with, just like your mother was. And she's foxy. We have chemistry.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “Chemistry? At your age?”

And then he looks me in the eye and says, “Listen, with the pills they have today and the positive effects of the hernia surgery I had last year, I can go all night if I want to.”

I'd like to run out the door. I resume pacing. “Okay, Dad.
That
is overshare. Enough. I think you're a fool settling for her.”

He waves me off with a hand, as if he were hearing utter nonsense. “Bobby, please don't judge my happiness. If this is all I can get for now, I'll take it. Now what about you? How's your social life?”

“Thanks for asking. It's nowhere, as usual.”

“So no prospects at all?”

I sit down. He wants me to share. I'll share. I kick off my sandals.

“Okay. I'll tell you. I met someone last month. He was terrific for a while.”

“Good. And what was his name?”

“What's the difference? You think you know him? Ira, okay? His name's Ira.”

He nods, mulls it over.

“Ira's a nice name. Can't go wrong with that. Tell me about him.”

“He's great. Smart, funny, works in publishing.”

“Sounds promising. What happened?”

“It just didn't work out.”

“Why? Was it your fault or his?”

“I don't know. How would I know?”

I step out to the balcony. It really is a perfect sunny day for self-recrimination. My fault or his? Mine. I just wasn't sure he was the one. So I ran. I like things simple.
I like my space, my quiet. But I also hate my life. I step back inside and throw myself on the couch, while Dad sits in his chair. Now we have the full patient-therapist relationship—without any of the insight or training.

“Look, Dad, I tried, I failed.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. Maybe I was scared of disappointing him. I think he might want more than I know how to give. So we never even got started.”

“Might. Maybe. Not very convincing, Bobby.”

“My love life is a series of failures. I'm not cut out for being with anyone.”

“That's not true. But you
do
like things the way you like them.”

“Yes, and where do you think I got that from?”

He nods. “We're alike that way. But you really should be sharing your life with someone. You have so much to offer. You're a good person.”

“Since when am I a good person?”

“You're a good person. Look how good you were to your mother.”

“Me?”

“Look how good you've been to me this year, when I've been so lonely. You deserve happiness. Companionship. So why don't you try?”

“With who?”

“With this Ira. Stop running, stop thinking, stop questioning. Just try. And if it doesn't work out, maybe you should focus on something else I've been thinking about for you before you're too old.”

“What's that?”

“I think you should consider becoming a father.”

“What, Dad?”

“I said,” he repeats evenly, “I think you should try to become a father.”

“Oh really? And, um, how do you propose I do that?”

“Bobby, you have so many single lady friends who want to be mothers, and who I bet would just love to make a baby with you, however you do it.”

“Never mind how we do it. The question is why,” I'm shouting at him. “Why do you think it's so important that I have a child?”

He reaches over now, and takes my hand in his.

“Because,” he says, “just look at what your mother and I got when we had you.”

His words stun me, like when you come around the bend to a magnificent view of the sea or the mountains that you knew was there but never expected to see so suddenly.

I mean, wow. I could never say anything like that to anyone.

But maybe that's because I don't have anyone to say it to. I don't want to let this go. Alien as it is for me, I want to say something back, to let him know I heard him.

“That just might be the nicest thing anybody's ever told me, Dad,” I finally say.

“Every word of it is true,” he says.