Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,127
the blackbirds circling above me in feral benediction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
UNCLE TOM, I THINK I CAN FIGURE OUT HOW TO SET A BROKEN wing on a pigeon.”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Uncle Tom said. “Remember, no man’s a hero to his uncle.”
We were on the veranda, early morning sun glimmering on the water, Uncle Tom holding on to Bingo, who was cooing mildly and pecking, and I was checking to see that the broken part of his wing felt warm.
“Circulation seems okay,” I said. “I think there’s a good chance his wing will heal.”
“What would you know about it? When’s the last time you treated a bird?”
“It’s applied knowledge, Uncle Tom,” I said.
“Say, you’re patronizing,” he said. “I liked you better when you were a deep disappointment.”
Uncle Tom continued chatting away to Bingo as I lined up each fragile bone and then taped the wing so it folded in a natural resting position next to his body.
I went to see the Falcon that Sunday. Our Sunday suppers were becoming a routine occurrence. The Falcon had finally set some limits on his practice of flying the globe to terrorize his employees. He rarely entertained anymore, and although he kept up social contacts via the phone, I was his only regular visitor.
He was older. I was older. The strains that characterized our relationship, while still present, were more reassuring than infuriating. Learning to cope with Pop, Uncle Tom, and the Falcon was my greatest struggle and achievement—I finally realized that the Man Plan was more about adapting to their various manifestations of manhood than carving out my own dilute impersonation.
The Falcon and I were sitting in our usual spots at the end of the long dining room table, the grandfather clock keeping noisy time in the background, the canaries tittering in response to each loud tick-tock.
“So what do you intend to do with your life?” the Falcon persisted. It was the same question he asked me every time he saw me. He had probably asked me that question a thousand times, and a thousand times I avoided answering him.
“I don’t know.” I reached for a glass of water and took a sip.
“Will you go back to medicine?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t you think you should be thinking about it?”
“Have some faith in me,” I said. I laughed. “Do I have your faith, Granddad? What about you, Cromwell?” He looked back expectantly. “Do I have your faith?”
“Collie, what are you talking about?” The Falcon put down his fork and knife and stared at me. For once he didn’t seem thoroughly annoyed—just annoyed. He seemed honestly perplexed.
I laughed. “Oh, never mind. It’s nothing. It’s a joke. Just something I once overheard.”
“Well, it helps in one’s life to make some sense, and last time I checked, jokes were supposed to be humorous. Good Lord, you’re not becoming whimsical, are you? You must get a hold of yourself. I mean, do you intend to marry? It seems to me you’ve been engaged half a dozen times, most of them suitable girls. And yet nothing sticks. You’re threatening to become some sort of perverse version of Porfirio Rubirosa. Do you want to have a family? Devote yourself to something worthwhile? Or do you plan to simply knock around the beach picking up beer bottles with the Flanagan brothers?” He took a sip of water as if he needed to cleanse his palate after invoking the specter of Pop and Tom.
“First of all, I’ve been engaged twice. Things don’t always work out according to plans. They were great girls, but I want to feel as if—”
“You can’t live without her,” the Falcon finished my thought. He stared up at the ceiling. “Lord, grant me the serenity.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out something. I just don’t know what it will be yet. Life doesn’t always run on schedule. Anyway, what do you care? I obviously annoy the hell out of you. Why are you so interested in my life?” I really didn’t mind his inquiries—I just couldn’t understand their origin. I thought by asking, finally I might find out.
“Because you’re my grandson,” he said, straightening out the napkin on his lap. I stared down at my plate. Cromwell’s heavy panting was the only sound.
I reached for another helping of salad. “How’s your leg?” I asked.
“Bloody arthritis,” he said, rubbing the top of his thigh. “They want me to have knee surgery, but I’m resisting their best efforts. It looks as though I may need a cane.”