That night I stopped in a liquor store and bought a half gallon of the
cheapest rotgut on the shelf, just as Dad had requested, then took a taxi
down to the Lower East Side. I climbed the dark staircase and pushed
open the unlocked door. Mom and Dad were lying in their bed under a
pile of thin blankets. I got the impression they'd been there all day. Mom
squealed when she saw me, and Dad started apologizing for the mess,
saying if Mom would let him clear out some of her crap, they might at
least be able to swing a cat in here, which got Mom accusing Dad of
being a bum.
"Good to see you," I said as I kissed them. "It's been a while."
Mom and Dad struggled up into sitting positions. I saw Dad eyeing the
brown paper bag, and I passed it to him.
"A magnum," Dad said, his voice choked with gratitude as he eased the
big bottle from the bag. He unscrewed the cap and took a long, deep pull.
"Thank you, my darling," he said. "You are so good to your old man."
Mom wore a heavy cable-knit sweater. The skin of her hands was deeply
cracked, and her hair was tangled, but her face had a healthy pink glow,
and her eyes were clear and bright. Beside her, Dad looked gaunt. His
hair, still coal black except for touches of gray at his temples, was
combed back, but his cheeks were sunken, and he had a thin beard. He'd
always been clean-shaven, even during those days on the streets.
"Why are you growing a beard, Dad?" I asked.
"Every man should grow one once."
"But why now?"
"It's now or never," Dad said. "The fact is, I'm dying."