cries and cries, until she feels wet everywhere: her bottom, her cheeks, the front of her dress. “I tried to tell you—”
“God,” mutters Ruth. She buries her head in her hands. “I can’t even…what the fuck is my—”
“I have an idea.” Kubovy sweeps over, holding a paper towel with which he quickly wipes up the offending pee. “Clara, I’m going to take you for a very special treat. Let’s leave your mother here for a few minutes”—he motions to Rico and Brian to open the rest of the crates—“and you and I will go get some ice cream.”
Clara stops crying.
“Have you ever had this very special Italian ice cream? It’s called gelato,” says Kubovy. He reaches a hand down and hoists her to her feet.
“But my dress,” says Clara.
“It will dry in the sun as we walk,” says Kubovy. He makes it all seem like a grand idea.
“Mommy?” Clara says. “Is that okay? Can I have gelato?”
Ruth turns to her. Her eyes are dim. She seems very far away.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Clara says.
“Oh, honey.” Ruth scoops her up and hugs her. She presses her lips hard against Clara’s cheek. “You’re the one who should be mad at me. ”
T HE STREETS of the Upper West Side are not made for wheelchairs. The sidewalks are uneven, an obstacle course. A cracked bit of pavement or a pothole can stop a wheelchair abruptly, tossing its inhabitant forward. The curbs, a series of little cliffs, sharp angles at every intersection. The only way to traverse them is to tilt the wheelchair back and carefully, with all one’s strength, inch the back wheels forward, little by little, until they gently bump the street below.
Add to this, late-winter slush, icy patches, frozen gutters backed up with sooty snow. Clara isn’t wearing gloves. She left hers at home in Maine, and she keeps forgetting to borrow a pair from Robin. In Clara’s memory, New York is not a freezing-cold place. Not compared to what she’s grown accustomed to, the endless string of twenty-below days, the thermometer outside the kitchen window permanently stopped, frozen somewhere well south of zero. Her hands—the knuckles red, the skin chapped—curl around the plastic handles of her mother’s wheelchair as they wait for the light to change from red to green.
Thank goodness for Robin’s clothes: a heavy oversized cashmere sweater, a pair of post-pregnancy jeans from before her sister snapped her body back to her usual size two. These, along with a few turtlenecks and some warm socks purchased at the Gap, have kept Clara going for exactly eight days. She cannot possibly lose count of how many days she’s been here. Each morning, Sammy reminds her.
You’ve been gone for five days, Mom. That’s a long time.
Now it’s six. Six whole days.
It’s been a week now. Why are you away? Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?
Clara has tried to reassure Sammy, but she knows that everything she says rings hollow. She can’t give Sam an answer as to precisely when she’s returning to Maine—though at least Clara has promised her that (my God!) she isn’t getting a divorce. All these years—staying at home with Sam—they’ve been such a tight little threesome. It has to add up to something, doesn’t it? To some sense of peace and security? Clara and Jonathan have never taken so much as a weekend away without Sammy. Surely, Sam will weather this absence. It will close up around her as soon as Clara gets home.
An older woman, bundled from head to toe in a black coat, moves expertly past Ruth’s wheelchair, one hand holding a cane, the other a blue-and-orange Fairway shopping bag.
“Look at her,” says Ruth, from the depths of the wheelchair. “She must be eighty.”
Ruth’s breath makes a vaporous cloud, disappearing as it wafts up toward Clara’s face. Ruth is well insulated; she’s wearing an ankle-length shearling coat, and Peony has tucked a soft blanket around her. A fur hat covers her head.
“I want to
“God,” mutters Ruth. She buries her head in her hands. “I can’t even…what the fuck is my—”
“I have an idea.” Kubovy sweeps over, holding a paper towel with which he quickly wipes up the offending pee. “Clara, I’m going to take you for a very special treat. Let’s leave your mother here for a few minutes”—he motions to Rico and Brian to open the rest of the crates—“and you and I will go get some ice cream.”
Clara stops crying.
“Have you ever had this very special Italian ice cream? It’s called gelato,” says Kubovy. He reaches a hand down and hoists her to her feet.
“But my dress,” says Clara.
“It will dry in the sun as we walk,” says Kubovy. He makes it all seem like a grand idea.
“Mommy?” Clara says. “Is that okay? Can I have gelato?”
Ruth turns to her. Her eyes are dim. She seems very far away.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Clara says.
“Oh, honey.” Ruth scoops her up and hugs her. She presses her lips hard against Clara’s cheek. “You’re the one who should be mad at me. ”
T HE STREETS of the Upper West Side are not made for wheelchairs. The sidewalks are uneven, an obstacle course. A cracked bit of pavement or a pothole can stop a wheelchair abruptly, tossing its inhabitant forward. The curbs, a series of little cliffs, sharp angles at every intersection. The only way to traverse them is to tilt the wheelchair back and carefully, with all one’s strength, inch the back wheels forward, little by little, until they gently bump the street below.
Add to this, late-winter slush, icy patches, frozen gutters backed up with sooty snow. Clara isn’t wearing gloves. She left hers at home in Maine, and she keeps forgetting to borrow a pair from Robin. In Clara’s memory, New York is not a freezing-cold place. Not compared to what she’s grown accustomed to, the endless string of twenty-below days, the thermometer outside the kitchen window permanently stopped, frozen somewhere well south of zero. Her hands—the knuckles red, the skin chapped—curl around the plastic handles of her mother’s wheelchair as they wait for the light to change from red to green.
Thank goodness for Robin’s clothes: a heavy oversized cashmere sweater, a pair of post-pregnancy jeans from before her sister snapped her body back to her usual size two. These, along with a few turtlenecks and some warm socks purchased at the Gap, have kept Clara going for exactly eight days. She cannot possibly lose count of how many days she’s been here. Each morning, Sammy reminds her.
You’ve been gone for five days, Mom. That’s a long time.
Now it’s six. Six whole days.
It’s been a week now. Why are you away? Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?
Clara has tried to reassure Sammy, but she knows that everything she says rings hollow. She can’t give Sam an answer as to precisely when she’s returning to Maine—though at least Clara has promised her that (my God!) she isn’t getting a divorce. All these years—staying at home with Sam—they’ve been such a tight little threesome. It has to add up to something, doesn’t it? To some sense of peace and security? Clara and Jonathan have never taken so much as a weekend away without Sammy. Surely, Sam will weather this absence. It will close up around her as soon as Clara gets home.
An older woman, bundled from head to toe in a black coat, moves expertly past Ruth’s wheelchair, one hand holding a cane, the other a blue-and-orange Fairway shopping bag.
“Look at her,” says Ruth, from the depths of the wheelchair. “She must be eighty.”
Ruth’s breath makes a vaporous cloud, disappearing as it wafts up toward Clara’s face. Ruth is well insulated; she’s wearing an ankle-length shearling coat, and Peony has tucked a soft blanket around her. A fur hat covers her head.
“I want to
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