O Israel, where art thou, hast thou forsaken me and why, what was your price, verily might we splitteth the difference? Was I to become you, if only to becalm you — your soul? Israel, he told me stories at night then sang to me, he would have danced at my wedding, offered a toast, napkined my bride, lipstick from her cheeks, the cake topped with the marzipan coupled, how I loved him, so very much…just answer the question — I loved him. Then why do I still have such guilt? A statement’s given — only to be itself deposed, disposed of; everything we have forsaken has been preliminarily notarized, its memory duly filed. It’s not Israel here, though, not now, not anymore: nu, it’s another lawyer, a mockey just begging to be disbarred for the work he’s doing, about to do and the way he’s billing them for it, a clock’s hand futzed up the tush; it’s a Goldenberg who’s survived, a most senior partner of Israel’s, maybe, who must’ve just been passing for him to still be breathing, walking, talking dictation, briefing and billing, charging to the fullest extent of whichever law might govern both personal comfort and his mortgage. Most of our sages agree…hymn, thanks so much, he’s just thoughtful enough to drop in on Ben, pay a visit paid; I was just in the neigh or no, it’s that there’re still a few matters to deal with, he says with face blurred bright from out of his opened mouth, a goldtoothed aureole, issues outstanding, you understand, little things for Him to sign, a handful…O nothing too important, certainly bubkissoff, nothing much to get worked up about or over, remain calm I’ll collect, it’s just standard stuff, these disclaimers of disclaimer, waiver forms in duplicate, powers of don’t want to hassle you with the details, the small mint unread he’s making uninitialed…Article 136, for example, the riders, the fine party of the first print, the penultimate clause, sanity, with fire and water he sticks it to me, acts of Gee-O-Dee, better not to think, best about it or anything at all, shouldn’t really in your condition, doctors’ orders, no double buts or jeopardize your second chances; like put your faith in ad hock, and just sign here here and here, an X and it’s terminal, the black blip, a flatline dotted: a sheaf of soggy papers rained out of a puffy scuffed pleather valise otherwise empty, save for an apple, halfeaten allrotten. Goldenberg’s borrowed a pen from a guard, he’ll forget to give it back.
Once he’s guided his client’s hand over those lines flatly dotted and straight, crooked and contiguous and both, made limp passes at blanks and bubbles and fields, this Goldenberg takes a seat, makes himself comfortable as if to prove his concern: a heavy groaning settle of unpressed pants and rumpled sportsjacket, in for the long haul on crows’ feet winged with balding elbowpads, his wet fedora hunched down low over his eyes, a black borsalino its brim just a nervous tic too bent, its bow of headband torn to flap in the smudge of gust through the windows; all as if to say however long it takes, I’m here for you, Ben, hineni, chaver, another allnighter, a week, a month; how you’re not just the client, Mister — you’re the boss in charge; he falls asleep, is soon snoring fungus off the walls, the mold and mottled hoar, is woken up only upon termination of visiting hours, never official save that beyond their interruption he begins to make time and a half.
Goldenberg snorts, goes to straighten his tie, then remembers he isn’t wearing one, that his collar’s soiled with the blood of yesterday’s shave. A sleep and its assuring visit interrupted by the disturbance of Ben’s nurse, the livein Mary arrived, costumed in crisp clean whites like a sanitary skin, her stockings in candy stripes an alarming red, with a stethoscope nestled snakelike between the fruit of her breasts juiced forbiddingly within a thin peel of laundry’s starch — though He never catches on, won’t, refuses to, why should He, even when she brings Him a smoky bowl of soup ostensibly medicinal (pale chicken, with halved matzahballs not sinking but bobbing), which tastes to His tongue numbed with narc exactly like Hanna’s, though He’d only had that once, too hot. She’d realized the recipe, thanks, about time, how…His mother His nurse, then — after Goldenberg’s slap to her bended knee, prayered to diaper Him at bedside — to leave with him, His lawyer, arm-in-arm the two of them kissing up to each other, abandoning Him to His soup without bread, not even a slice, without even the crust called an endearment left behind to mark; the sun sets, the clock clocks.
