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He paused, and I wasn't sure what his point was. For a minute I'd lost track of the fact
that he hadn't been on a date since 1947.
“Head games,” he said finally. “What the hell is she talking about?”
I introduced him to a former girlfriend of mine with whom I'd stayed friends, and the
two of them became friends. She lived around the corner from him, and they would meet
for lunch now and then at a noodle shop in the neighborhood. He told me he thought
she was carrying a torch for me—that was his phrase—and I shrugged. She and I had
been together for six months or so, but we were quite different. She worked on Wall
Street and was consumed with the details of investment the way I was consumed with
the details of language. We couldn't communicate on the subject of either of our fiercest
interests, and this bothered me a lot more than it did her. I believed what my father said.
I was the one who'd broken off the relationship.
“What do you do if you don't really want to go out with someone again, but she
does?” he asked me.
I told him this was an excellent question to which there was no real answer.
“I can tell you this much, though,” I said. “The guy you don't want to be is the guy
who says he'll call and doesn't call.”
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” I said.
“You don't mind me asking you about this, do you?” he said. “It doesn't make you
feel uncomfortable?”
I told him yes, it made me uncomfortable, but no, I didn't mind.
“But I have to say, Dad, why me?” I said. “Look who you're asking.”
“You have a point,” he said.
In late December 2002 my father went to the doctor complaining of dizziness and dis-
covered that a cancer in his lungs had migrated to his brain. He was dead in six months.
Through the first part of 2003 I probably spent more time with him than I had as a
boy. For a time, while he remained mobile, we continued going out together to dinner
and the theater. Later I'd go to his apartment to see him, make sure he had enough food
in the refrigerator, take him in a cab to the doctor and take him home again. I brought
Coco to live with me.
I'm afraid I resented the obligation, but at least, I told myself, I didn't shirk it. But
I was angry—furious, really—because my father had at last been enjoying himself and
because he deserved more time. So did I.
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