Read Online Obsessed by G. H. Ephron - Free Book Online Page B

said you’d be home by now.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you were here. I’d have brought Chinese take-out.”
    Annie managed a smile. “And Toscanini’s?”
    â€œYou haven’t eaten?” My mother sucked in her breath. “Neither of you has eaten?” Her look dared either of us to deny it. “Sit.”
    As ordered, I sat on one of the vinyl-seated chairs with metal tube frames that had been in our kitchen in Brooklyn. My mother had already taken a pot roast out of the fridge and put it on the stove to warm. Now she was taking out a casserole of leftover noodle pudding and sliding it into the microwave. She started it up. We weren’t going to starve.
    â€œSo?” I asked over the oven’s hum.
    Now my mother had a can of fruit cocktail wedged into the electric can opener. A minute later she’d plopped two bowls of the stuff on the table. I’ve never understood why my mother, a woman who waxes eloquent about healthy eating, doesn’t understand that fruit cocktail is to fruit what Styrofoam is to bread.
    My mother bustled about, putting out silverware, napkins, and water. She propelled Annie to the table and made her sit. My mother had her rules, and hearing bad news on an empty stomach was strictly verboten. I stifled myself and had a spoonful of fruit cocktail. The microwave dinged.
    â€œWhat is it?” I tried once more.
    â€œIt’s my Uncle Jack,” Annie said.
    I breathed a guilty sigh of relief—it really was a “family emergency.”
    â€œHe was married to my mother’s sister. Remember, I told you about him? He’s the cop who arrested me when I was seventeen for drunk driving. Threw me in jail overnight.” Annie smiled at the memory.
    I did remember. Annie had told me how she was driving home after having a few beers with friends. Uncle Jack pulled her over, shined a flashlight in her face, and made her recite the alphabet. She couldn’t even sing it past H.
    â€œAnyway, he’s always been a little odd, but not cuckoo or anything. He’s a collector, one of those guys who can’t throw anything away. Since Aunt Felicia died it’s gotten worse.”
    â€œUh-oh,” my mother said, giving me a meaningful look. “Uncle Louie.” She put plates of pot roast and noodle pudding in front of me and Annie.
    I only dimly remembered my parents making an emergency trip to Florida. I must have been about ten years old. They’d returned with an emaciated, vacant-looking soul who they told me had once been the most charming retiree on the boardwalk. Uncle Louie, my dad’s older brother, had lived with us for a year before he had a stroke and went to the hospital. He’d died soon after that.
    â€œMom keeps an eye on Uncle Jack. Sees him about once a week. Day before yesterday she goes over there. Usually he won’t let her in the apartment, meets her at the deli across the street. But now he lets her in.
    â€œTurns out the place is a horrendous mess and Uncle Jack is in La La Land.” Annie’s words belied the seriousness of her tone. She was holding back tears. “I went over there that day after work. That’s why I couldn’t meet you at the restaurant. It was…pretty awful. I was over there again today, trying to make a dent in the mess.
    â€œThat’s not the worst part, though. It’s Uncle Jack. I don’t know how to describe it—it’s as if he’s gone flat. He’ll be there, then all of a sudden he’s not. And he’s stooped over and moving around like an old man.”
    None of it sounded good. Flat demeanor. Shuffling gait. Suggested some kind of dementia.
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œNot even seventy.”
    â€œHas he been ill?”
    â€œNot really. Though my mother says she noticed that he’s been more confused the last month or two. And he’s lost a lot of weight.”
    â€œDo you think he’s