It’s good to meet you, too, Mister Israelien…or, it’s what’s his name, snap, a crackle and clap, eyes shut — PopPop a lifelong sage of the news, a frontpage scholar, recognizing the former secretary of the Treasury, has to be, he’d just spent time with him on the toilet, over a bowl of black flakes, this I’m not sure we’ve been introduced recently promoted from his previous Administration position to sit at the edge of His bed, a dead wife’s. What’s his title, the new one, the mind’s going, gone: Secretary of Affiliated Affairs, that was it, a novelty breakable for the cabinet, moldy, locked. How to describe him: he looks like an egg, though his dewlap like the testicles of a turkey. Everything above the lips squints in slits — that dry, thin wisp of fec. Dreck, that’s that smell; our charge’s laid, needs his changing. PopPop sniffs. A moment ago, Das — that’s it, that’s his name or an acronym or abbreviation for what, at least that’s what the networks had called him, the President, too; as for what he’s really called, Keiner or Keynor, who can remember — he’d snuck a knuckle up and into his seat, emerged fisting an incontinent clod, then stroked on its black as a moustache. Distinguishing, reassuring, security smeared. He’s smaller than you’d expect, and especially unimpressive sitting, arrived in the uniform, fulldress, of an unspecified military: head skewed between uneven epaulets, the rest of him bound in frayed sash; the pants straining, but the jacket baggy at the chest doneup civilian custom: its lapels luxury enough to accommodate his many badges, citation, ribbons, and medal.
His boots have marched in mud over the tile, which’ll never again be as clean as it was.
For you, this Das says, I’m here in person, the voice the tinhorn tinkle of his own decoration. This is sensitive: we need to brief you, find out if you’ll be cooperative. We hadn’t anticipated so many, all these surviving firstborn — least of all a relation…and there isn’t much time.
PopPop pinches pants to kneel at his visitor’s feet, between those blemished boots, and there on his plastic patens, the tray of the new knees bearing atop a hip or two probably needing to be replaced again, too, and sometime soon — to grope beyond darkness, feeling under the bed, and through the trash there, wrappers, the remains of food hidden, no slippers, no shoes.
We’re sorry it had to be this way, we didn’t know if you’d be willing, but let me assure you, Mister Israelien, you should be — you shouldn’t worry. You have my word: everything will be provided, your meals, accommodation, a seat at the table — I’m saying, the choice is yours, but we’d love to include you in our plans. Behind the door, PopPop righting himself, nothing. We’ll be waiting for you in the lobby, take all the time you need, say ten minutes…you might want to pack heavy, it’s even colder up there. In the closet, lost luggage. You have a jacket, hat and gloves, a warm winter coat?
To the laundryroom, then, and only the scrap of a sock, PopPop limping with it to the kitchen, wiping at his forehead. To open the fridge and there, emptiness, save takeout or delivery discard, containers and bags, foil, waxed paper, wet receipt and grease, sop rung around where a tray once fell, its form held in gravy as if the outline of fatty chalk after a crime. The table, cleared clean. Count them, the chairs are all there and pushed in. It’s been wonderful to make your acquaintance, Das whispers down the hall. Again, hoarsely, I want to assure you we’ll do our best to keep you and your grandson happy, and safe. Tread, such a plodding. Trust me, he’s saying even softer and nearer, you’ll get your explanation. At kitchen’s threshold, he stops; he could do better with the posture, stooped to the clink of his honors. PopPop, he’s stricken. As Das smiles, flaking moustache, clicks heels. The frontdoor’s still open from how he’d come; the boots squish.
PopPop dodders down the hall, back to the room, his wife’s dead now Benjamin’s disappeared, to touch at the head of their bed, the pillow filthy in its case on which whoever it was had just sat. From there, a sudden sodden heat clambers up his arm to shut itself mad into his heart’s inmost chamber. Pop-Pop gives a shudder, a tingle, his arm numbed: MomMom’s pins & needles, prickling flesh from the shoulder’s hock down through the elbow, funnily boned to his fingers, stabbing the writing on the wall, or grabbing at the paper’s pattern of flowers — a consolatory bouquet…to seek support, to stand, live on. Ten minutes downstairs, it’s colder up where, clammy Miami, alone, not safe, never happy. As in time, this is an infarct — these are comments his women once made, these were cues: earthshaking, his wife; unstable, his daughter-inlaw…
