you?”
“I’m not ready for any marathons, but I’m getting stronger every day.”
She nodded. “Good, good.” She pulled on a hand-knitted purple hat. “You take care of each other now. And stay out of trouble.”
The house was in Midwood, at the center of the immense concrete and asphalt plain that was Brooklyn. It was a quiet neighborhood, populated largely by Hasidic Jews. They were unexciting neighbors, but that suited Jack fine: He got all the excitement he could want at work.
After the nurse left, he slowly mounted the stairs to say hello. The hallway was musty, and the stairs were carpeted in Astroturf. Mr. Gardner was a great fixer-upper, but he worked with found materials.
Jack paused on the landing to catch his breath. He thought of his second week in the hospital, when he had begun his physical therapy. The bullet had passed through his lung and a fragment had lodged in one of his vertebrae—its heat had shocked his spinal cord, causing temporary paralysis from his chest down. As that started wearing off, he had spent a morning just trying to raise his foot enough to step up onto a little fake curb.
The TV was on so loud inside Mr. G’s apartment that the old man couldn’t hear Jack’s knock. He was always watching: ball games, game shows, old war movies in the middle of the night…
Jack went in and found him in his usual spot, sitting in an old duct-taped recliner in front of his ancient TV The room smelled of mothballs, mildewed carpet, and the old man’s faintly sour skin. Mr. Gardner looked up through blocky old eyeglasses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles. His gaunt face broke open in a gap-toothed smile—it drooped on the right, on account of the stroke, but not much. Jack had always thought of him as “the old man,” and himself as very vigorous in comparison, but his convalescence had done a lot to balance out that difference, and he felt closer to his landlord than ever.
“Jackie! How ya doon?”
Jack shrugged off the question. He glanced at the TV A game show.
The thought of him sitting in front of the TV all day depressed Jack. The last time he had visited, they watched a talk show in which a squat woman with huge tits had gotten into a threesome with two mooks with mullet haircuts, and they all argued about which one had fathered her baby. Why was it that if you wanted to watch TV in the daytime, the networks assumed you were a moron?
Mr. G clicked again.
Jack gestured at a pair of newscasters smugly jawing in front of a picture of a man in a turban. “They catch him yet?”
Mr. G frowned. “Bin Laden? No. I don’t know what they’re waitin’ for.”
“You mind if I turn this off for a second?”
Mr. G shook his head, a bit nervously. These days in late 2001, everybody in the City had turned into a news junkie, afraid of another terrorist attack. It was only in the past couple of weeks that the acrid smell of smoke from Ground Zero had finally stopped drifting across the river. It had been a hell of a few months, for Mr. Gardner as well as for Jack. The old man had lived in the house for ages, anchored by his familiar routines, and he was shaken by any kind of change. That was why Jack himself was anxious now.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Mr. G peered up at him.
He scratched at an imaginary spot on his pants leg. “You know Michelle, that woman I’ve been seeing these past few months?”
Mr. G nodded slowly. The old man was a great landlord and a friend, but he was wary as an old peasant, determined that nobody was going to put anything over on him.
Jack cleared his throat. “I was wondering how you’d feel if she moved in with me.”
Mr. G scowled. “Whadda ya mean, shack up with ya?” The man never went to church, but carried strong remnants of his Catholic upbringing.
Jack smiled. “Not exactly. Can you keep a secret?”
Mr. G nodded uncertainly.
“I’m gonna ask if she’ll make an honest man out of me. I got the ring and
“I’m not ready for any marathons, but I’m getting stronger every day.”
She nodded. “Good, good.” She pulled on a hand-knitted purple hat. “You take care of each other now. And stay out of trouble.”
The house was in Midwood, at the center of the immense concrete and asphalt plain that was Brooklyn. It was a quiet neighborhood, populated largely by Hasidic Jews. They were unexciting neighbors, but that suited Jack fine: He got all the excitement he could want at work.
After the nurse left, he slowly mounted the stairs to say hello. The hallway was musty, and the stairs were carpeted in Astroturf. Mr. Gardner was a great fixer-upper, but he worked with found materials.
Jack paused on the landing to catch his breath. He thought of his second week in the hospital, when he had begun his physical therapy. The bullet had passed through his lung and a fragment had lodged in one of his vertebrae—its heat had shocked his spinal cord, causing temporary paralysis from his chest down. As that started wearing off, he had spent a morning just trying to raise his foot enough to step up onto a little fake curb.
The TV was on so loud inside Mr. G’s apartment that the old man couldn’t hear Jack’s knock. He was always watching: ball games, game shows, old war movies in the middle of the night…
Jack went in and found him in his usual spot, sitting in an old duct-taped recliner in front of his ancient TV The room smelled of mothballs, mildewed carpet, and the old man’s faintly sour skin. Mr. Gardner looked up through blocky old eyeglasses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles. His gaunt face broke open in a gap-toothed smile—it drooped on the right, on account of the stroke, but not much. Jack had always thought of him as “the old man,” and himself as very vigorous in comparison, but his convalescence had done a lot to balance out that difference, and he felt closer to his landlord than ever.
“Jackie! How ya doon?”
Jack shrugged off the question. He glanced at the TV A game show.
The thought of him sitting in front of the TV all day depressed Jack. The last time he had visited, they watched a talk show in which a squat woman with huge tits had gotten into a threesome with two mooks with mullet haircuts, and they all argued about which one had fathered her baby. Why was it that if you wanted to watch TV in the daytime, the networks assumed you were a moron?
Mr. G clicked again.
Jack gestured at a pair of newscasters smugly jawing in front of a picture of a man in a turban. “They catch him yet?”
Mr. G frowned. “Bin Laden? No. I don’t know what they’re waitin’ for.”
“You mind if I turn this off for a second?”
Mr. G shook his head, a bit nervously. These days in late 2001, everybody in the City had turned into a news junkie, afraid of another terrorist attack. It was only in the past couple of weeks that the acrid smell of smoke from Ground Zero had finally stopped drifting across the river. It had been a hell of a few months, for Mr. Gardner as well as for Jack. The old man had lived in the house for ages, anchored by his familiar routines, and he was shaken by any kind of change. That was why Jack himself was anxious now.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Mr. G peered up at him.
He scratched at an imaginary spot on his pants leg. “You know Michelle, that woman I’ve been seeing these past few months?”
Mr. G nodded slowly. The old man was a great landlord and a friend, but he was wary as an old peasant, determined that nobody was going to put anything over on him.
Jack cleared his throat. “I was wondering how you’d feel if she moved in with me.”
Mr. G scowled. “Whadda ya mean, shack up with ya?” The man never went to church, but carried strong remnants of his Catholic upbringing.
Jack smiled. “Not exactly. Can you keep a secret?”
Mr. G nodded uncertainly.
“I’m gonna ask if she’ll make an honest man out of me. I got the ring and
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