The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

been important to go to George’s wedding, on the taxi ride to the airport I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.

When I got home, it was past eleven. Inside, I found my father, awake, sitting up in the orange-striped chair in the dark in his worn Cal T-shirt and running shorts. He held that glass of water in his hand, unsipped, which only served to reflect the room back to him, cylindrically.

Where’s Mom? I said.

Asleep. He waved towards Joseph’s bedroom.

You okay?

He didn’t really answer, just reached out a hand as a kind of welcome home. I went over to shake it.

How was the wedding?

Fine, I said.

Nice girl?

She seems nice, I said. Pretty, I said. I put down my suitcase and perched on the edge of the red brick fireplace.

In his lap, Dad had opened one of the old photo albums, the heavy pages corresponding to what I’d been hearing from my room. This surprised me; except for the garage sale story, he did not often dip into the past, and that one discovery of Brigadoon had been a rare reminder that he’d ever been younger than college.

What are you looking at?

Oh, he said. Just pictures of the family, he said. I couldn’t sleep.

I moved closer, to see better. I was glad he was up. I was still wound up from the trip and didn’t feel like going to bed yet, and through the dimness of a far outside light we could just barely make out the black-and-white squares of people from my father’s childhood. His mother, the dark-haired woman who used all parts of a chicken to feed her family. Uncle Hirsch, holding a football. Grandpa, out and about in town, with some kind of thing on his face.

Was he sick?

Oh, you know, Dad said. The strap.

What strap?

I’ve told you about the strap, he said.

No, I said. I peered closer. The piece of white cloth looked like it wrapped over the lower half of my grandfather’s face and tucked up and away from his mouth.

I used to tell him it looked like he was wearing underwear on his face, Dad said, shaking his head.

For allergies? I said.

I really never told you this?

What?

That he could smell people?

He could what? I said.

You sure?

I coughed, lightly. Um, yes, I said. Very sure.

He touched the photo with gentle fingertips.

My dad, Dad said, would walk into a store and take a whiff and he could tell a lot about whoever was in the store with that whiff. Who was happy, who was unhappy, who was sick, the works. Swear to God. He used to wear that thing on his nose, outside-my dad! Walking down Michigan Avenue with that thing on his face, to get himself a break.

He hit the photo page, as if he couldn’t believe there was a photo at all.

He was a good man, Dad said, such a good man. Truly generous. But can you imagine, going shopping with the guy? Once, I told him I didn’t want to be seen with him, got locked in my room for two days.

Outside, tree branches rustled in the wind. My throat tightened.

Never said such a thing again, Dad said.

Did he say what he smelled? I asked, very softly.

Pain, he said. He shrugged.

I loved the guy, he said, sitting back. Just loved him, but best when he was not wearing the strap.

I pulled the album closer. Looked at Grandpa, his eyes dark and serious above the cloth. Kind-faced Grandma. Little five-year-old Dad, wearing a bow tie.

He died at fifty-four, said Dad. Smelled death on himself, then he died.

He traced a finger around the square photo outlines.

I can do that, I said.

Do what?

I smoothed down the page, as if to push it all in.

You can smell people? Dad said.

With food, I said.

You can taste people?

Yeah, I said, not looking at him. Kind of.

He stared at me. No kidding, he said. You never told me that. Is it bad?

I laughed a little. It can be bad, I said.

Dad closed his eyes, rubbed his eyebrows. Huh, he said. Pop hated it too sometimes, he said, remembering. Hated it but also met some good people-we went into Sears one time and he took off the strap to sneeze and caught a whiff of this great guy, just a gem. Irv. Sweetest man, family friend for years. You can taste people? You mean you have to bite a person?

I smiled, down at the page. No, I said. I taste it in the food they make. Whoever cooks the food, like that.

He nodded, though his eyes were still shut and crinkled with puzzlement. He seemed to be churning through various permutations and skipping over a whole range of possible questions.

What a family, he said.

I returned to the photos, for something to do. Tiny Dad, wearing that little polka-dotted bow tie, his hands spread out to the sky.

Cute, I said.

He craned over to see himself. Ach, that tie, he said.

Together, we stared at that polka-dotted tie as if it was the most interesting clothing item in the world.

You know, I have no special skills, he said.

I remember, I said.

He sealed his mouth a little. Nothing like you or Pop, he said.

I turned the page.

I just have this hunch, he said. You know, I saw what it did, over years-that strap! Would you walk around town with a strap on your face all day?

He picked at his sleeve. Dad on Grandpa’s shoulders, trying to pluck a plum from the branches of a tree. Smiley little Dad, on a swing.

What’s the hunch? I asked.

Just, I imagine, he said, crossing his arms. That I might be able to do something in a hospital. I don’t know what. It’s too much, right? That if I went into a hospital something might come up, some skill. That’s all. Better not to find out, that’s what I say. Keep it simple! Keep things easy!

I didn’t move. Held myself very still.

What do you mean, something would come up? I said, slowing down my words.

Just, I could do something special, he said. In a hospital.

He pushed his lips together. The moon slipped down into the frame of the window and reached an arm of pure light through the glass.

You have no idea what it is? I said.

Not a clue, he said, evenly.

And it’s just a hunch?

Just a pull feeling I get, he said, shifting his seat on the chair. When I see a hospital. A feeling like I should go