Mister Universe, Manny said.
Mhmm, my father said.
At a distance of about ten feet, the man stopped and gingerly straightened his torso, the table sliding down until the back edge slipped into the snow with a shush.
Wedged beneath the front half of the table, the top resting against his back, hands on his knees, he ran his eyes over my father, and then Manny, who was dancing in place, then back at my father. The man’s tongue flicked at the corners of his frozen mouth. He repositioned himself slightly forward, bending deeper, dropping his elbows to the shelves of his thighs, like a linebacker, fingers clasped loosely.
My father was consuming him, assessing and recording. The man’s eyes were sunken into his skull, shielded by a protruding brow. There was something familiar about him. It never was the eyes that one examined, not really, but the tender flesh around them. All eyes are the same, my father reckoned, marbles stamped out by the celestial organ machine and dropped into their sockets, sacks of vitreous humor for collecting reflections, light and dark—and how, in a place like New York, can the darkness not spread throughout the body, infecting every system until the person is nothing more than a miniature city himself, gray, covered with weedy spalls? That’s what shows up in the bags beneath the eyes, the wet canvas sag of the upper lid.
The man’s tightly trimmed beard, the mask of the frostbitten and hypoxic Everest climber, his icy, swollen cheeks, lips chapped to the consistency of beef jerky. My father felt the overwhelming need to greet him as one who’d completed a spiritual journey of vast proportions. He wanted to strike the right tone, jocular but respectful. After all, it was not every day—
Enjoying the show? the man said.
Who’s that? Manny said. He took a step closer.
Manny? the man said.
Who’s there? Manny said.
It’s John Caldwell, the man said.
Ho shit, Manny said under his breath. Get out from under there, Mister Caldwell, he said, taking hold of the top edge of the table.
My father reconciled the face before him with Albert’s. So this was the son.
Appreciate it, John said to Manny. He planted his hands in the small of his back and arched.
Mister Caldwell, said Manny. Far out. Did someone call you?
Can you believe someone threw this away? John said. Left it on the curb at 72nd. It’s solid oak. You put in two weeks of work and it’s as good as new. You see those barley-twist legs? A real craftsman built this. Probably not a drop of glue. All dovetails and dowels. What kind of sicko throws away something as beautiful as this?
Mr. Caldwell, if no one’s called—
Good eye, my father said.
Thank you, said John.
Erwin Saltwater, my father said, holding out his hand.
Pleasure, John said. You live in there?
Mister Saltwater’s upstairs from your father, Manny said, which is what I wanted to ask you about.
What about?
I figured someone would have tried to call you. But if you’ve been out.
What about? John said.
Your father. They took him out on a stretcher a couple of hours ago.
A stretcher? my father said.
Yes, sir, Manny said. Mister Caldwell, sir, do you want to step inside for a minute? You can use the phone.
Oh, that’s perfect. That’s just perfect. What happened? John said.
Possible heart attack? Manny said. They weren’t sure.
That bastard. Did anyone call Fil?
Lines are down, Manny said.
What about the girl who stays with him? John said.
I believe he fired her, sir.
Oh for Christ—so no one went with him?
No, sir.
Where’s the girl—what’s her name?
Erica, sir. Like I said, I don’t think she’s working for your father anymore, Manny said.
And Fil knows? Tracy knows?
Mister Caldwell, you got me. Lines are down everywhere. If you want to try yourself … Manny shrugged at the building.
You’re Albert’s son, my father said.
John looked at my father with unrestrained annoyance.
Manny, tell us again. Spell it out slowly? my father said.
I got no idea, honestly. Ambulance came, I took them up, they rolled him out on a stretcher. He was awake. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe he fell? Hip?
He didn’t fall, my father said.
Whatever you say, Mister Saltwater.
We’ve got to go to the hospital, my father said.
John made an effort to look around as if he hadn’t heard, as if his mind were somewhere else. What about this? he said, thumping the table. I’m not just leaving it out here where someone can take it.
That don’t seem real likely, sir, Manny said.
You don’t think so? John said.
We could put it in the package room, Manny said. Temporarily.
Temporarily, John said. Should I leave a deposit?
No, sir, Manny said.
Okay, then, John said.
The men converged on the table, tipping it onto its feet and taking up positions on either end, John and my father on one, Manny on the other.
Ready? John said.
They lifted, my father and Manny grunting identical expletives as the weight hit their arms, and they shuffle-tripped over to the archway, scowling against the wind, the unbalanced division of labor setting them in opposition to one another, working their way through the gate like a drunk trying to find a keyhole. Somehow they got through without doing too much damage to themselves or the table, and they set it down with a unified groan so Manny could wedge the lobby doors. A couple came in behind them and he waved them up to the Vornados’ place.
A screeching, thudding passage through the lobby into the package room, the table coming in like an overweight cargo plane splattering itself all over a dirt runway in Burma. Manny extricated himself and assumed a post-wind-sprint stance by his desk, knees locked, elbows locked, huffing at the floor, while John slouched greaser-style against the lobby wall, a trespasser in the building where he’d grown up. He was watching the elevator, unable to shake the premonition that his mother would at any moment charge through the doors, eyes narrow, finger apoint, lashing him for his unacceptable behavior toward his father,
