Flesh And Blood

degraded to gasps, then snuffles, then tortured squeaks that caused her to twist and jerk.

Milo watched her without seeming to. Relaxed but not blase. How many times had he done this? Suddenly she became still, and silence captured the house – a cold, rotten inertia.

Where was the husband?

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Milo.

“My God, my God – when did it happen?”

“Lauren was found a few hours ago.”

She nodded, as if that made sense, and Milo began giving her the basics, speaking slowly, clearly, in low, even tones. She kept nodding, began rocking in sync with his phrasing. Shifted her body away from me and toward him. The logical realignment. I welcomed it.

He finished, waited for her to respond, and, when she didn’t, said, “I know this is a hard time to be answering questions, but-”

“Ask anything.” She clutched her head again, and her face crumpled. “My baby – my precious baby!”

More tears. A beeper went off. Milo reached for his and Jane Abbot pulled one out of her robe.

“My other baby,” she said wearily. She rose unsteadily, one foot still bare. I was holding the slipper, handed it to her. She took it, smiled terribly, shuffled to the next room, and turned on the light. The dining room. Mock Chippendale furniture, more pretty paintings.

She touched something near a side door, and the walls hummed and the door slid open. Home elevator. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped in, disappeared.

Milo exhaled, got up and walked around, stopped at the bookshelves, pointed to one of the trophies. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“Couple of Emmys… from the fifties… early sixties. Writers Guild awards – and this one’s from the Producers Guild… Melville Abbot. All for comedy. Here’s a picture of Eddie Cantor… Sid Caesar… ‘Dear Mel.’ Ever hear of the guy?”

“No,” I said.

“Me neither. TV writer. You never hear of them…”

He pulled out one of the black-spined volumes, muttered, “Script,” just as the elevator door slid open and Jane Abbot came out pushing a man in a wheelchair. Her pink robe had been replaced by a long black-and-silver silk kimono. She still wore the fuzzy slippers.

The man wore perfectly ironed, pale blue pajamas with white-piped lapels. He looked to be eighty or more. A brown cashmere blanket draped a lap so shrunken it barely tented the fabric. His small, gray egg of a head was hairless but for puffs of white at the temples. His nose was a droopy, salmon-colored balloon, his mouth, pursed and lipless above an eroded chin. Small brown eyes – merry eyes – took us in, and he chuckled. Jane Abbot heard it and flinched. She stood behind him, hands squeezing the bar of the chair, her grimness a reproach.

He gave a thumb-up wave, called out in a jarringly hearty voice: “Evening! Les gendarmes? Bon soir! Mel Abbot!” Decibels above the tentative phone voice of a few hours ago.

Jane moaned softly. Abbot grinned.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Milo, approaching the wheelchair.

“Les gendarmes,” Abbot singsonged. “Les gendarmes du Marseilles, the constabulary, de stiff awm o’ de law.” He craned, tried to look back at his wife. “Alarm go off again, dearest?”

“No,” said Jane. “It’s not that… It’s different, Mel. Something – Mel, something terrible has happened.”

“Now, now,” said Mel Abbot, winking at us. “How terrible can it be? We’re all alive.”

“Please, Mel-”

“Now, now, now,” Abbot insisted. “Now, now, now, now, cutie pie.” Raising a palsying hand, he reached back, groped without success. Finally, Jane took hold of his fingers, closed her eyes.

He winked at us again. “Like when they asked Chevalier, How does it feel to turn eighty? And Chevalier says, How does it feel?” Studied pause. “I’ll tell you how it feels. Considering the alternative, it feels terrific!”

“Mel-”

“Now, now, dearest. What’s another false alarm citation? Asi es la vida, you plays, you pays, we can afford it, denks Gott.” Melville Abbot freed his hand and waved floppy fingers. His head lolled, but he managed another wink. “The main thing is everyone’s alive, like Chevalier said, when they asked him how does it feel to turn eighty.” Wink. “And Chevalier says-”

“Mel!” Jane lurched forward and grabbed his hand.

“Dearest-”

“No jokes, Mel. Please. Not now – no more jokes.”

Abbot’s eyes bugged. His crushed-crepe face bore the humiliation of a child caught masturbating.

“My wife,” he said to us. “I’d say take her, but I wouldn’t mean it. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without – State trooper stops a fellow on the highway, fellow says, I wasn’t speeding, Officer. Trooper says, Didja notice a mile back your wife fell outta the car? Fellow says, Oh, good, I thought I was going deaf.”

Jane must have squeezed his fingers because he winced and said, “Ouch!” She moved around to the front of the wheelchair and kneeled before him.

“Mel, listen to me. Something bad has happened – something terrible. To me.”

Abbot’s eyes hazed. He looked to us for rescue. Our silence made his mouth drop open. Oversized dentures, too white, too perfectly aligned, emphasized the ruin that was the rest of him.

He pouted. Jane placed her hands on his narrow shoulders.

“What’s wrong with a little levity, dearest? What’s life without a little spice-”

“It’s Lauren, Mel. She’s-” Jane began weeping. The old man stared down at her, licked his lips. Touched her hair. She rested her head on his lap, and he stroked her cheek.

“Lauren,” he said, as if familiarizing himself with the name. His eyes closed. Movement behind the lids – flipping through a mental Rolodex? When they opened he was smiling again. “The pretty one?”

Jane shot to her feet, and the chair rolled back several inches. Gritting her teeth, she inhaled, spoke very slowly. “Lauren, my daughter, Mel. My child, my baby – like your Bobby.”

Abbot considered that. Turned away. Pouted again. “Bobby never comes to see me.”

Jane shouted, “That’s because Bobby-” She stopped herself, murmured, “Lord, Lord.” Kissed the top of the old man’s head – hard, more of a blow than a gesture of affection – and covered her face with her hand.

Abbot said, “Bobby’s a doctor. Big-shot plastic surgeon – Michelangelo with a knife, big industry practice, knows where all the wrinkles are buried.” He brightened, turned to his wife. “What do you say we go out for breakfast? All of us? We’ll pile into the Caddy, go over to Solly’s, and have some…” A second of confusion. “… whatever, with onions… Omelette? Maybe with lox?” To us: “That means you, gents. Breakfast is on me, long as you don’t give us a ticket for the false alarm.”

Jane Abbot lied to him as she wheeled him back to the elevator. Making breakfast plans, telling him they’d have lox and onions, maybe pancakes – she needed some time to straighten up, he should think about what he wanted to wear, she’d come back in a few minutes.

The lift arrived, and she pushed him in.

“I’ll wear a cardigan,” he said as the door closed behind them. “One of the good ones, from Sy Devore.”

Milo said, “My, my,” when we were alone again. He made another trip to the bookshelves. “Look at this. Groucho, Milton Berle – the guy knew everyone. Here’s a photo from a Friars Club Roast they did for him twenty years ago… The fires sure dim, don’t they? Gives me hope for the future.”

I inspected the signatures on the artwork. Picasso, Childe Hassam, Louis Rittman, Max Ernst. A tiny Renoir drawing.

The elevator vibrated the walls, the door groaned open, and Jane Abbot ran out, as if escaping suffocation. Her