Read Online They May Not Mean To, but They Do: A Novel by Cathleen Schine - Free Book Online

it hurt?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aaron said.
    Joy had not spoken. The room looked blank to her, as if it had emptied. The sounds were muffled. Except for Aaron’s. He was hazy beside her, enormous, ashen, opalescent. But the sounds he was making were not.
    “Aaron, eat some pie,” she said. How stupid: Eat some pie. But it was all she could think of. She shoveled some pie onto a fork and held it to his mouth. “Delicious pie.”
    Aaron opened his mouth and allowed her to tip the pie in. He chewed. He smiled. He swallowed. The noise stopped.
    Joy looked up at her family and smiled, though she could hardly breathe.
    “Pie,” she said.
    Then the sound began again.
    *   *   *
    As Molly steered Aaron and his walker through the lobby, the doorman said Pow! Pow! , pretending to box. It was his favorite doorman, Ernie, but Aaron did not say Pow! Pow! back. Ernie looked solemnly at Molly as he opened the door, then he hailed a cab. Aaron’s long, lanky body, always so thin and flexible he seemed to be made of pipe cleaners, was now stiff and unyielding. He sat on the seat of the cab, his legs out, feet still on the pavement. The doorman went around to the other door and tried to pull him over by his shoulders, sliding Aaron across the seat. His legs stuck straight out the door now, feet in the air above the street.
    The driver got out, and he and Joy tried to bend Aaron’s legs while Molly watched them as if she were witnessing a natural disaster, struck dumb, stuck in place.
    “Well, hold my bags, at least,” Joy said.
    Molly took the three heavy bags.
    “No problem, no problem,” the taxi driver was saying. “Slowly, slowly.”
    We are in a cab , Molly texted Freddie. The coffee is decaf, in case anyone asks.
    Getting Aaron out of the taxi was even worse. The driver, a wisp of a man who said he was from Bangladesh and had a grandfather and knew how to respect the old, was holding him up beneath his armpits. Joy and Molly each took one arm, but Aaron began to sink to the ground, slowly, inexorably, the stiffness gone, as if he were melting.
    “I can’t, I can’t,” Aaron said.
    “Nice man, do not give up,” the taxi driver said. “For the sake of the nice ladies, do not give up.”
    Aaron’s knees buckled, he was squatting, held up only by the two women and the determined driver. He sank lower and still lower, until Joy, shaking beneath the weight, was sure she would have to let him sink to the ground.
    Just at that moment, two enormous arms wrapped themselves around Aaron, lifting him easily.
    The two arms belonged to a security guard who was even taller than Aaron and far bigger, a muscular giant of a man. He held Aaron aloft, dangling him, Aaron’s feet just touching the ground.
    “We forgot your shoes,” Joy said in horror. Aaron was wearing bedroom slippers. He was out on a cold rainy day in his bedroom slippers. “Your shoes, your shoes,” Joy said.
    “Mom, it’s okay, he won’t need them, it’s the hospital…”
    “Your shoes, Aaron. I’m so sorry.” It was all Joy could see, his large feet, clodhoppers he always called them, brushing the pavement in the wool cable-knit sock slippers with deerskin soles. He hated them, but they kept him warm and they weren’t slippery. “Oh, sweetheart, you hate these slippers. But why, Aaron? I ordered them from Hammacher Schlemmer…”
    “He’ll be in bed, Mom. It’s okay.”
    Another security guard came running out with a wheelchair and Aaron was folded awkwardly into it. He was so weak he was not even moaning now. But his feet in their warm slip-resistant slippers were off the sidewalk, placed on the footrests by the two security guards, one guard per foot. Seeing the men handling the big feet, seeing each foot on its footrest, made the slippers seem less out of place, and Joy recovered herself.
    “There you are, Aaron,” she said, holding his hand. “There you are.” She ran her other hand along the arm of