“Anyway, I’m sure you can ask your father about it the next time you see him.” “I guess it depends on what went on,” Hugh says. “If Patty O’Day and Dorothy Castle are still alive, do you think they remember him?” Why were none of them Greek, and what does advanced mean? I bring it up with Hugh a few hours later, after we’ve left Springmoor and are on our way to the beach. Returning to the room, I look at my father, still seemingly asleep, and wonder if he had sex with these women or just tried to. I open it to find 50 or so names, followed by addresses and phone numbers, mainly of women, and most with a note beside them:įaith Avery – Too serious! Beryl Davis – YES! Dorothy Castle – Short circuit Edna Hallenbeck – WOW! Helen Wasto – Beautiful Pat Smith – Body!!!!! Mary Hobart – Advanced Helen Sampson – The Greatest!! Arlene Knickerbocker – Looks are deceiving Fredericka Montague – Lovely! Patty O’Day – Beauty!!! Personality Ann Quinlan – Body! That’s all!! No brains Rose Stevens – Aaahh “It must have been from before he went to Syracuse and started writing in all capital letters,” Gretchen says. I mistake it for a pocket Bible, super-abbreviated, with only the good parts included, and just as I wonder, Wait – what good parts? I realize it’s for addresses, that it is, true to its color and size, my father’s Little Black Book. “I found this at Dad’s house a few days ago and saved it for you.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a palm-sized black book. “Do they really?” I ask, wondering if my father might die while we’re all sitting outside, talking about how public toilets smell. “And the women’s smell like vomit,” Amy says. “Men’s bathrooms always smell like shit.” I guess this solves the problem, but I like having a separate women’s room.” She crushes her cigarette. “There’s not enough in the budget to build them, so most likely the few bathrooms that already exist will wind up being labeled as unisex. “Now people are calling for gender-neutral toilets in the city parks,” Gretchen is saying. “What did you say when they told you that?” I ask. Gretchen talks about work a lot, but I’m always happy to hear it. “Did I tell you we’re not allowed to say native plants at work any more?” she asks.Ī horticulturist for the city of Raleigh, North Carolina, she’s the only one in the family with a real job, meaning a boss she has to report to and innumerable, pointless meetings that eat up her valuable time. You go out yourself and find them all gathered in the open-air courtyard, seated in rocking chairs, Gretchen lighting a cigarette. Then Hugh leaves the room, followed by Paul. After 20 or so minutes your sister Gretchen steps outside. Better to save it for an aide, you tell yourself. The oxygen tube slips, and though you think of readjusting it, you don’t, because, well, it has snot on it. You look at the hands as they occasionally stir, doing some imaginary last-minute busywork. So you become solemn and silently sit, watching the chest unsteadily rise and fall. And in an odd way, it was sort of beautiful. We were all there, you imagine yourself saying to friends. You always think that if you gather round and really concentrate, the person on the bed will let go. Parents Lou and Sharon Sedaris with (from left) Paul, Lisa, Amy, David and Gretchen.
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