All the Dead Yale Men Read Online Free PDF Page B

and overweight, some with bad skin, all of them swaying back and forth. He listened to the pulleys as the clothesline that controlled the piñata ran back and forth, the squeak of the pulleys mixed in with a little rumble, too. He waited until it was on its way down and then, anticipating where it would be, he took a good cut.
    I often think that the explosion of the piñata was like that in the middle of his head, in the depths of his brain, which took place just then: the red piñata exploded, and the candy inside was wrapped in red foil, so that it appeared like drops of blood as it soared upward from the power of the swing, the bits of candy forming perfect arcs against that spring sky. The piñata broke, and the shreds of starched newspaper from which it had been constructed showered down too, the print, the bits of black and white photographs all appearing like memories that one could almost recall or that were in the midst of somehow being forgotten. The gray flak with red centers, the heat of the desert sand, a first kiss with a woman who wore red lipstick, who pressed herself against him so he could feel her heat. Then the red candies hit the patio with a light tinkling, a rain of shiny, moist-looking clots. Then the students ran to pick it up and my father fell.
    My father used to love to do this, to fall down, and he often did it when he first came home or in the midst of a party like this, and so the students didn’t think much of it until he began to wet his pants. He refused to answer when they asked if he was all right, his mouth moving in an awkward, fish-like way. The students dropped the candy and called an ambulance and they called me, too.
    I got there just before the ambulance, and when I came onto the patio my father opened his eyes and stared at me for a moment. He strained against one dead hand, as though it was tied to the ground, and then he gestured slowly with the other. I leaned down. He still smelled of the Charles River, the drinks in the Wursthaus, the margaritas, too, but this was his usual scent. That is, his scent without the oil and piss of the river.
    â€œAre you all right?” I said.
    â€œNo,” he said. “This is it.”
    He strained against that one arm on the ground.
    â€œNot much time, Frank. Too bad, since I know you’re in trouble. Jesus, it must be something if you are coming to me.”
    â€œI was going to talk about it today.”
    He tried to swallow but had trouble and then gagged.
    â€œIt’s getting buzzy, you know that? Your face looks like it was done as pointillism. I bet you didn’t think I knew words like that.”
    The ambulance made its mechanical barking, not close yet, about a half mile away.
    â€œSo, do you want to tell me you love me?” he said.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œWell, why don’t you?”
    â€œI love you.”
    My father cried, but tears appeared on just one side of his face.
    â€œHere’s the best I can say. Pick your spots. You think in Poland when I told you about that guard that I was brave? I know you think that. But it wasn’t that way.”
    He drooled, and I wiped it with my handkerchief.
    â€œDon’t waste the time,” he said. “Nothing but dots. Here’s the way it was on that road in Poland. I knew I was going to die anyway if I didn’t do something. And the guard thought he might buy a little goodwill. A chance for a deal. See? Pick your spots.”
    The ambulance arrived.
    â€œJust dots now,” he said. The men in white coats arrived and a woman, too, who pushed through the crowd to show that she was in charge. They brought in a sort of gurney and lifted him onto it with a rough, sudden gesture. The ambulance had its siren on as it went down the street, although everyone knew there was no reason to hurry.
    The time of death was called at the hospital.
    The world had been anchored by my father’s existence, even down to its colors, the