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Authors: Toby Devens
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up and heading toward the Tums when my father called at seventeen minutes past four the following morning.
“I just wanted to tell you that the captain stole my razor.”
He spoke in a code I was beginning to understand although it wasn’t always consistent. This time I was pretty sure he was trying to tell me Stan had been there. My ex-husband visited my father once or twice a week. Occasionally, he gave him a close shave with a safety razor, unlike the quick swipe with an electric shaver Sylvie gave him. Credit where it’s due, Stan may have walked out on me, but he hadn’t deserted my father.
Before he could tell me more, Sylvie grabbed the phone.
“Mr. Harald came into my room, stuck his hand under the pillow, and stole the phone from where I was hiding it. You can’t keep anything from him. And the other night he got in bed with me. Didn’t do nothing, but it was a fright to wake up with him next to me.”
“You need to lock your room at night.”
“He peed in the rubber plant yesterday.”
“You threw it out, I hope.”
“I didn’t grow up in a shack. Of course, I threw the stinky t’ing out. But tomorrow it will be something else. I’m putting you on fair warning: I don’t know how long I can take this.”
“Are you quitting, Sylvie?” I heard the desperation in my voice.
“Not yet, not until I get me another job. I need the money too bad.” At least she was honest. “But it’s gotten out of hand. If you don’t mind me saying, you ought to start thinking about a nursing home.”
I felt something rise in my throat. It may have been the softshell crab. I thought it was something even less digestible.
“Is he nearby?”
“Standing right next to me. If I turn, I knock him over.”
“No more talk of nursing homes, then. Not in front of him.”
“Well, you’ll have to do something soon. No good you putting your head in the sand. He’s going downhill quick.”
“Well, please give me a couple of weeks, at least. Can you promise me that?”
“He’s pulling on me.”
“Put him on, please.” When I heard him breathing his raspy former-two-pack-a-day wheeze, I said, “Daddy, go back to bed. It’s still nighttime.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“You’ve got it, hon,” he said.
Not Doc. Hon. We just slipped down a step on the ladder into the abyss.
Chapter 8
On Friday towards evening, I opened the door to God’s gift to women and Faith Shapiro’s gift to me. Jeff Feldmacher, winner of the Cy Young Award, famous for his back-to-back shut-outs in the World Series three decades before, was tall and toothy with a full complement of inert anchorman hair and an appealing fretwork of laugh lines around his eyes. When Faith Shapiro said retired ballplayer, I figured Cracker, but on the pre-date phone call he’d come off charming, a cultivated southern gentleman. In the flesh, well, he had mighty attractive flesh.
Moving with the easy grace of a natural athlete, he paused before my hall mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth for stray bits of food, then ambled across my living room, his turquoise eyes taking it all in.
“You like art,” he said, looking at the best of what Stan and I had assembled over the years. “I collect Neiman. You know Neiman? He does a lot of sports-related art.”
We rode the elevator down with Lou Goodkind, 14A. Lou took in Jeff, vacuumed him up and down a few times with his eyes, and finally said, “Aren’t you...?”
“Yup,” Jeff said.
“Hey. Jeez.” Lou extended his hand and said, “Thank you for many hours of pleasure,” as if Jeff were his favorite hooker. He nodded at me as Jeff slipped his arm around my shoulder and I could tell I’d picked up megapoints on his scorecard.
Jeff Feldmacher’s silver Mercedes had the license plates BALLS 14, his old Orioles number, and six rounds of country western in the CD player.
“You know anything about baseball?” he asked me as we approached Camden Yards.
I
“I just wanted to tell you that the captain stole my razor.”
He spoke in a code I was beginning to understand although it wasn’t always consistent. This time I was pretty sure he was trying to tell me Stan had been there. My ex-husband visited my father once or twice a week. Occasionally, he gave him a close shave with a safety razor, unlike the quick swipe with an electric shaver Sylvie gave him. Credit where it’s due, Stan may have walked out on me, but he hadn’t deserted my father.
Before he could tell me more, Sylvie grabbed the phone.
“Mr. Harald came into my room, stuck his hand under the pillow, and stole the phone from where I was hiding it. You can’t keep anything from him. And the other night he got in bed with me. Didn’t do nothing, but it was a fright to wake up with him next to me.”
“You need to lock your room at night.”
“He peed in the rubber plant yesterday.”
“You threw it out, I hope.”
“I didn’t grow up in a shack. Of course, I threw the stinky t’ing out. But tomorrow it will be something else. I’m putting you on fair warning: I don’t know how long I can take this.”
“Are you quitting, Sylvie?” I heard the desperation in my voice.
“Not yet, not until I get me another job. I need the money too bad.” At least she was honest. “But it’s gotten out of hand. If you don’t mind me saying, you ought to start thinking about a nursing home.”
I felt something rise in my throat. It may have been the softshell crab. I thought it was something even less digestible.
“Is he nearby?”
“Standing right next to me. If I turn, I knock him over.”
“No more talk of nursing homes, then. Not in front of him.”
“Well, you’ll have to do something soon. No good you putting your head in the sand. He’s going downhill quick.”
“Well, please give me a couple of weeks, at least. Can you promise me that?”
“He’s pulling on me.”
“Put him on, please.” When I heard him breathing his raspy former-two-pack-a-day wheeze, I said, “Daddy, go back to bed. It’s still nighttime.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“You’ve got it, hon,” he said.
Not Doc. Hon. We just slipped down a step on the ladder into the abyss.
Chapter 8
On Friday towards evening, I opened the door to God’s gift to women and Faith Shapiro’s gift to me. Jeff Feldmacher, winner of the Cy Young Award, famous for his back-to-back shut-outs in the World Series three decades before, was tall and toothy with a full complement of inert anchorman hair and an appealing fretwork of laugh lines around his eyes. When Faith Shapiro said retired ballplayer, I figured Cracker, but on the pre-date phone call he’d come off charming, a cultivated southern gentleman. In the flesh, well, he had mighty attractive flesh.
Moving with the easy grace of a natural athlete, he paused before my hall mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth for stray bits of food, then ambled across my living room, his turquoise eyes taking it all in.
“You like art,” he said, looking at the best of what Stan and I had assembled over the years. “I collect Neiman. You know Neiman? He does a lot of sports-related art.”
We rode the elevator down with Lou Goodkind, 14A. Lou took in Jeff, vacuumed him up and down a few times with his eyes, and finally said, “Aren’t you...?”
“Yup,” Jeff said.
“Hey. Jeez.” Lou extended his hand and said, “Thank you for many hours of pleasure,” as if Jeff were his favorite hooker. He nodded at me as Jeff slipped his arm around my shoulder and I could tell I’d picked up megapoints on his scorecard.
Jeff Feldmacher’s silver Mercedes had the license plates BALLS 14, his old Orioles number, and six rounds of country western in the CD player.
“You know anything about baseball?” he asked me as we approached Camden Yards.
I
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