Long Made Short (13 page)

He goes up to the receptionist, if that’s what she is, and says “It seems I won’t
be able to get what I want here because I can’t answer any of the questions on the
questionnaire except my sex and possibly my Social Security number. Not even, if you
can believe it, my name, first or last; I don’t know if I had a middle one or middle
initial. But suddenly everything’s a blank. Not suddenly; just now. I think I knew
what the answers to most or all of these questions were before I got here. But now,
I hold the pencil in my hand—excuse me; ball-point pen—and put it over the lines I’m
supposed to write things in, like my name and address, and nothing comes out, and
not because there’s no ink in it. There should be plenty unless this is a defective
pen, but it looks brand new. Just suddenly, well, I’m repeating myself, but anyway,
just suddenly I don’t remember any names, ages, relations, addresses, nothing but
that Social Security number and almost a score of phone numbers without their area
codes, if I’m sure what a score is. I doubt any of that will be of much use unless
you want to try a lot of those phone numbers alone or with various area codes, and
why would you? As for the Social Security number, I’m not even sure it’s mine. Is
there a way to check? It might be a start.”

“There could be,” she says, and he gives her the number, she calls an office, after
a long wait the office gives her a name, she says “Is your name this?” and shows him
it and he says “I think so, it looks familiar,” and she says “Then we do have a start,”
and looks up the name in the phone book, and there’s only one listing of it, and she
shows him the address and says “Is that where you live?” and he says “It could be,
for it’s also familiar,” and she says “And the phone number, is it yours?” and he
says “I’m not sure; it does seem familiar. But so do some of the numbers below it,
but none of their names and addresses,” and he starts saying all the phone numbers
he knows and one of them is that phone number, and none is one of the numbers below
it, and she says “Then it must be you, or there’s as good a chance it is as there
isn’t, if not a little better, though I really don’t know the odds in all that, I’m
just guessing—want me to call it?” and he says “Please do, but if I’m the only one
living there, and there isn’t a cleaning lady cleaning it there right now, let’s say,
then nobody will answer, for I’m here,” and she says “Probably, but let’s see.”

She dials. “Yes, hello,” a man says loudly, and she says “Hello, I’m looking for Roland
Hirsch,” and he says “Speaking,” and she says “You’re Roland Hirsch?” and he says
“I am indeed, what can I do for you? Though I want to remind you, young lady, and
you are a young lady, am I correct?” and she says “I still consider myself young,
whatever that has to do with it, as do my husband and children—consider me young—but
anyway, Mr. Hirsch,” and he says “Well anyway to you, young lady, for my warning is
that if this is a solicitation of any kind, and by that I mean for a business or charity
or for anything like that, then I don’t wish to continue speaking, since I don’t use
my phone for any other purpose but personal phone calls,” and she says “That’s good—that’s
really very good, in fact, and what I should be saying to all the callers who canvass
and solicit me on my home phone. But what if this was a dental office calling to remind
you of your 3:30 appointment with Dr. Lembro tomorrow—would you consider that a business
or personal phone call?” and he says “Do I have an appointment?” and she says “I believe
you do, Mr. Hirsch, it was made for you six months ago—just a checkup and cleaning,”
and he says “Well thanks for reminding me, and yes, I’d consider it not only a personal
phone call but a very useful one indeed. So I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’ll be there,”
and she says “It’s my day off, tomorrow, but someone just as accommodating will be
here to see to your needs,” and hangs up.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “How is it that the man who has an appointment here tomorrow
has the same name as the person who I think is me?” and she says “I told you you came
to the right place,” and he says “That’s what you consider an answer? For I’m saying,
how can that man be Roland Hirsch if I’m supposed to be him, and there was only one
Roland Hirsch in the phone book?” and she says “The answers to that can be considerable,
some of which you even hinted at before yourself. For instance, you aren’t Roland
Hirsch. Or you are, but you live in another city, and the incident just now with this
Roland Hirsch was only a coincidence. Or you are, again, Roland Hirsch, and you do
live in this city, but your phone’s unlisted, and you only know this Roland Hirsch’s
number because of one to a number of reasons, maybe some of them unfathomable but
others not. For instance, you might know it because out of curiosity one day you looked
up your name in this city’s phone book and saw someone else had it. That’s a legitimate
possibility, and even one if you didn’t live in this city—you might have only been
visiting and looked up your name in the phone book and found it. Or you could live
in this city, or even not, and be unlisted here though not necessarily unlisted if
you live in another city, but be Roland Hirsch, Jr., and he’s Sr., and you’re somehow
related, son and father, cousin and cousin, nephew and uncle, because his senior could
be to a different junior. Or for all we know, he could even be a junior, but he chose
to give up that part of his name once his father died, which is why it’s not in the
phone book that way, or because he didn’t like being called junior. Or maybe you’re
not junior either and he’s not senior and was never a junior, and you’re completely
unrelated, and you’re both just plain Roland Hirsch, he with his middle initial, you
with yours or even, by some coincidence, the same as his, if Roland Hirsch is your
name. But taking one thing at a time, since Roland Hirsch isn’t the most common name,
are you a junior and is your father alive and was that his phone number and address
and does he still have teeth that need fixing or just a cleaning and checkup?”

“Yes,” he says, “he does have teeth, or did the last time I remember seeing him—all
of them, and he is a senior, though why it’s not in the phone book that way I don’t
know; maybe it’s a phone company mistake. Anyway, that’s what I was looking for all
along—not a thing but a he, a man, my dad, husband of my mother, who’s also alive
and what I’ve been looking for, though she’s lost just about all her teeth and mostly
wore plates. Did he mention anything about her? No, I know he didn’t, at least in
that last call, for I heard every word he said. But great, I came to the right place,
all right, though how you knew I don’t know, for I was never specific to you about
what I wanted,” and she says “Oh, I knew when you came in so unspecifically that it
was something we could do for you. For you see, people deal with their fears of dentists
in all kinds of ways, and one of them is through complete amnesia: ‘Who are you? What
am I doing here?’—that sort of thing. Or to say something like, when they first see
me as they come in, ‘I’ll have a frank with plenty of mustard and sauerkraut’—anything
to deceive themselves they’re not here to have their teeth fixed or extracted or even
cleaned, for even that can hurt. Let’s face it, we all, so to speak, meet our maker
or destroyer in different ways, though some of us, like me, prefer to meet him or
her straight on.”

“Well thank you, thank you,” he says, “and I don’t think I’ll be needing this now,”
giving her back the questionnaire and clipboard it’s on, and she says “The pen,” and
he says “Right,” and takes it out of his pocket—“You can’t believe how many pencils
and pens I’ve accumulated this way”—and she says “Not from this office, you don’t,”
and he says “Right, I can see that,” and leaves, takes the bus downtown, walks across
the bridge, walks another two miles to get to the address he saw by his father’s name
in the phone book.

“Yes?” his father says on the intercom, and he says “It’s me, Junior,” and his father
says “God, you’ve been gone a long time. Do you really think it’s worth it for me
to come down to see what you look like?” and he says “How’s Mom?” and his father says
“Your mother? My dear boy, she’s been gone a long long time.” “Gone where?” and his
father says “Gone to rest, my son, to rest,” and he says “Not dead,” and his father
says “Dead, my dear son, dead.” “Dad, please come down and help me, I don’t think
I’m ready to face this yet. I’m not. I’ll never be,” and his father says “Nobody is,
my dear son, nobody, and neither was I, but I was only her lover and husband and closest
friend and father of her children and then of her only surviving child, not her flesh
and blood. I’ll be right down.”

He waits there. Day becomes night; warmth, cold. He’s not dressed for it, he thinks,
and rings the bell. Nobody answers. Rings and rings and nobody answers. If this were
an apartment house, he thinks, he’d ring several bells to get in. But it’s a private
home, and he just sits on the steps, hoping his father will come down.

A police car stops in the street, the policewoman says through the car window “Is
there a good reason you’re sitting there, sir?” and he says “No, officer, there isn’t,
and I’ll be on my way,” and gets up and goes. When he’s at the corner he looks back,
thinking if the officer’s gone he’ll go back and ring some more and maybe even make
a commotion under the windows, but she’s sitting in the car, now peeling and eating
what looks to be an orange or tangerine. Then she looks his way, points her stick
out the window at him, and he turns the corner.

He’s called at his office. Something unspeakable’s happened. “What is it?” Come home
quick, the caller says, his wife needs him. “Why, what’s wrong, something with her?”
His daughter. “What, what is it?” Come home now. “Just tell me, then I’ll be right
home. Is she hurt? Was she hit by a car? Is she dead?” She was on her way home from
school—“A car? Is she alive?” She’s dead. A fight started between several boys and
girls a block from school. Someone pulled out a gun—a kid, they don’t know if it was
a boy or girl. They don’t even think this kid was one of the ones fighting. Everything
happened so fast. Some shots were fired. One went into her head.

After it’s all over—the medical inquest, funeral, reporters at his door—weeks later,
he tries to go back to work. Before then, he couldn’t leave the apartment. He and
his wife stayed in their bedroom most of the time, sleeping, staring, talking very
little. People came every day—friends, relatives—shopped and cooked for them, cleaned
the place, answered the phone. Then his wife said one morning “I guess it’s time to
face life; what do you think?” He said “You face it, I’m not going anywhere yet; who
knows when I’ll be ready.” She started cooking, shopping, continued with her translating
work, even returned some overdue books to the library and paid the fines, checked
out a few, resumed reading, though still didn’t want to look at a newspaper. He stayed
in the bedroom. A week later he came out, ran around the block once, and a few days
later headed for work.

It’s awful for him on the street going to the subway. There are little girls his daughter’s
age going to school in groups or with a parent or nanny. Awful on the subway. Girls,
boys, a few years older than his daughter, some reading, studying, others playful,
a few looking like killers, or ones who want to be. She loved to read, was a terrific
student, liked being playful with him, as he did with her. He got off after a few
stops and cabbed home. Stayed in the apartment a few more days, helped his wife with
things like cooking and cleaning, read her translations for corrections. Then he went
back to work.

People there: “We’re sorry,” “I’m sorry,” “We’re all tremendously sorry, words can’t
express it.” He says “Please, I don’t want to hear of it, I don’t want to discuss
it, and I especially don’t want any sympathies or condolences or regrets or things
like that. I just want to forget, I just want to forget, I just want to forget, so
please don’t.” But every so often someone says something that makes him burst out
crying in front of the person or run into one of the bathroom stalls to do it. “My
kid’s suddenly doing lousy at school, and we don’t know what to do about it. Oops,
forgive me.” “I gotta be home early tonight—it’s my girl’s birthday, and all this
when I’ve a ton of work here to do, but my wife says I have to. Oh, jeez, I forgot,
excuse me.”

“I can’t face the world, I can’t live with myself, I can’t forget her, I don’t know
what to do, I want her back, I want her here now, I can’t sleep nights, I walk around
in a daze most of the day, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to lie in bed or be out
of it with my mind on anything but her, I can’t live in this apartment, I see her
room, I see the dinner table, the silverware, sink she dumped the dishes in, goddamn
pot she shit in, streets she ran and skated on up and down, kids she played with or
who look like the ones she did, elevator she rode up on, doormen she spoke to, shop
windows she looked at, reflection of herself she caught or caught me catching her
admiring herself, you name it, it’s there, the works.” All this to his wife. She says
“Don’t you think I feel the same? But what am I supposed to do, get sick and crack
up or die over it and not be there for you?” “Of course, I’m sorry,” he says, “I know
you think of her as much if not more than I. Certainly at least as much. But it’s
become so individual though. For all the reasons that it would.”

They move to an apartment across town—he insists. Costs them twice the rent and for
less space, but the hell with it, he couldn’t live where they were. “It’s the only
way,” he told his wife, “plus giving away just about everything she owned or used,
that I think I can make it, or for the next couple of years or so.” He sees girls
her age in the new neighborhood. He expected to but hoped his reaction wouldn’t be
the same. One girl he thinks looks almost exactly like her. If he saw her from maybe
ten feet away but didn’t know his daughter was dead, he’d at first think it was her.
The long light hair well-brushed, same solid build, tall height, style of clothes,
bulging forehead, high cheeks, eyeglasses with big eyes, skin, neck, little nose.
He follows her awhile, imagines he’s following his daughter for fun though isn’t so
out of it that he really thinks he is, then says to himself “This is nuts,” and turns
back.