Assisted Loving Read Online Free Page B

off—he’s used to my dismissals—but I can see he’s disappointed.
    We leave the diner, after his long conversation with a waitress. There is no man on earth who loves talking to strangers as much as him. He has what used to be called a hotel face—that’s the guy who either knows or wants to know everyone in the lobby.
    It’s nippy outside today, early winter, when the wind offthe bay makes the south shore of Long Island damp and unwelcoming. Dad hates this cold, and his migratory hormones are rising. He’s counting the days until his return to Florida. In the parking lot, he fishes car keys out of his pocket, bringing up a half-sucked throat lozenge.
    â€œDo me a favor, Bobby,” he says, as he hands me the keys. “Get the car for me.”
    â€œWhy, Dad?”
    â€œI’d rather not walk in the cold. My hip is bothering me.”
    â€œOh, come on,” I say. “The car’s right there, just a minute’s walk. You have to walk a little. You can use the exercise. It’s good for your circulation.”
    â€œPlease, Bobby. Just get the car for me. Why do you have to argue?”
    Why do I have to argue? It’s just that he can be so lazy. Joe Morris is a man who refuses to walk anywhere. He once refused to get out of the car in California to take in a redwood forest I desperately wanted him and my mother to see.
    â€œI can see from here,” he said.
    â€œDad, please get out. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
    â€œYou go ahead. I don’t feel well.”
    â€œReally? What’s the matter, honey,” my mother asked.
    â€œI’m nauseous. I think it was the drive up here,” he moaned.
    â€œBullshit,” I said. “You just don’t want to walk. Come on, Mom, come with me.”
    â€œI think I’ll stay here with Dad,” she said.
    â€œNo, you won’t. Come with me.”
    I’d been living in mellow central California for a year, meditating, taking the kind of drugs that were supposed to give you some detachment and perspective in the late1970s, before Prozac totally removed bad moods from the culture. But I was too angry to accept no for an answer. I walked her to the beginning of a path into the forest, well marked and unthreatening in the filtered light of a California afternoon. She hesitated.
    â€œCome on, Mom,” I said.
    â€œI don’t want to, honey. I’m worried about Dad.”
    â€œHe’s fine.”
    â€œIt’s not nice to leave him behind in the car.”
    This was nothing new in our little Oedipal triangle. By early adolescence, I wanted her love as much as he did, and as the soulful son with artistic aspirations, I wanted to lead her to the enriching experiences he couldn’t provide.
    â€œLet’s go back, honey,” she said.
    â€œOkay, but first I want you to look up,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust look up.”
    She did. Up above, the branches of redwoods rose into infinity, catching the sunlight like windows in a cathedral.
    â€œSee that, Mom? See how the branches are moving?”
    â€œOh, look,” she whispered. “It’s like they’re praying.”
    It was a delicious moment. I had rescued her from him and his limiting ways. Not that she was so expansive. She was limited, too, the one who worried in contrast to his freewheeling spontaneity. She fretted each time I wanted to change jobs. She canceled plans because of snow flurries. She worried too much about the future. The wind increased, the trees swayed. Suddenly, Mom turned to go, breaking the spell. I stood, stock-still.
    â€œYou’re going back to the car?” I called out.
    She turned. “I have to. You stay as long as you like. We’ll be waiting.”
    I let out a sigh. My father had won. She was his captive. I still don’t know why I dragged him to that redwood forest. What was I thinking? The only thing nature does for him is make him