Erica perched on the arm of his leather chair while he turned the cardboard pages, tapping his finger here and here, breezily reeling off locations and dates. His identifications were inventions, words spoken with an authority intended to convince himself that he could go on. He recognized only himself and Sydney. Even their children, though they were obviously the children, were unfamiliar to him, and he said, Here are the children, and from a background or a dirt road or a farmhouse in the photo he would construct a location in terms vague enough to sound correct. If there were mountains, he called them the Adirondacks; if he saw a boat or a fishing rod, the Finger Lakes; if a beach, Florida.
He’d gone on as long as he could, covering the lapses, but it was exhausting, an exercise as painful as push-ups on broken arms, and he began to lose heart. Confronted with a photo of his grandchildren, he’d say, Now, there’s a fine boy. He reminds me of my schoolmate Irving Teller. Died in the war, Irving … And who could say otherwise? He knew Erica didn’t care, and as with most deceptions, the bulk of his efforts went into convincing himself of the lie, though after a while it hardly worked on him, either.
His mind: a slow sinking, an insignificant tear in the hull that takes on only a gallon or two a day, but eventually the gunwales are even with the surface of the water, and eventually the boat disappears, descending through the depths, leaving Albert to scissor his legs and carve the water with his emaciated arms. He’ll go down soon enough, he knows it. He’s finished, he welcomes death.
Erica! Albert yelled. Where had she gone? He yelled again. This went on for a while until he looked at the clock, and suddenly she reappeared, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
What’s my dog’s name? she said.
What dog? Albert said.
My dog. The only dog I ever had.
You’ve never mentioned it.
Only every day. What’s his name?
Don’t play this game with me. I’m starving.
What’s his name, Albert?
I don’t care what your dead dog’s name is, Albert yelled. Go get me something to eat.
Erica nodded. Good, that’s right, he’s dead. What was his name?
Albert gripped his chair. You’re taunting me. You’re always asking meaningless questions. These doors you insist on making me unlock just to get a drink of water or a morsel of food—if my daughters knew the tortures you put me through, they’d have your hide. I refuse to comply. I refuse.
You don’t complain to them, though, do you?
My conversations with my family are none of your business.
Albert, you know it’s good for you. It’s good for your mind. It keeps you sharp.
I’m a dead man. Who cares how sharp I am?
I do, and the sharper the better.
I’m pleased to be able to do you a service, then. Pleased.
Don’t be such a little old lady, Albert. What was my dog’s name?
Sparky.
That’s right. Sparky.
Don’t threaten me with Sparky.
No one’s threatening you, Albert.
I was skinning rabbits when I was six. I could field-dress a deer when I was eight. My father had to hold me up to reach the hams. Don’t threaten me with stories about your little dead dog.
Erica moved closer to his chair. Mind your manners, Albert.
He waved the back of his hand at her. I need to eat, he said. I need you to go get Chinese.
Erica put her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned in until her face was so close to his that her eyes became blurs. Their noses touched.
How much have you had tonight?
You think I can remember? he whispered. He felt her breath on his lips.
You want me to leave.
Yes, he said.
I’ve already left, Albert. Do you understand?
I understand.
I left so that you can do what you need to do.
I understand, he whispered.
I hope you’ll have more courage when it comes to the rest of it.
I will.
This is what people do for people they love, she said.
I know, he said.
You’ve made a plan? You know what you’re going to do?
Yes, he said.
You know what to do, Erica said. Her eyes were closed.
I do, Albert said. He had closed his eyes but opened them now. He gently pushed Erica back by the shoulders, only enough to be able to see her face clearly.
Didn’t I already send you away? he said. Didn’t I remove you from danger? You’d have tried to stop me, he said. I got rid of you for your own good.
I know what you’re going to do.
You do? he said. Did she? he thought. Don’t tell, he said.
Albert, you shouldn’t go tonight. If you fall on a patch of ice you could break your leg. You could get lost. You could freeze to death. How are you going to find your way?
I’ll find my way.
Go tomorrow.
No. You’re trying to trick me. It must be tonight.
He turned his face away from hers, but she was so close, her body over his, that struggling was pointless. Her legs were astride his, her feet pinning his on either side. The silver cross around her neck tapped against the underside of his chin. Her hair poured over his face.
Tomorrow I’ll have lost my nerve, he said. I feel it draining from me already.
He felt the wet of her lips against the dry granite of his own.
You’ve thought this through? she said.
Yes.
Hardheaded old man, she said. She pulled back.
What’s my dog’s name? she said.
Sparky.
You know how you’re going to do it?
I know. It’s clear in my mind. Go, he said.
And she went, like a vapor, back to the ether world she’d come from.
It was time. The rug beneath his feet was rotting flesh, the walls the sides of a dank tomb. Go.
Choices: Would he experience numbness, palpitations, shortness of breath, coldness in the extremities, burning of the bowels, blurring of vision, failure of vision, agita, tremors, organ malfunction?
He would call Roosevelt. He located the phone book and painstakingly worked his way through it. Every time
