Rabbit Remembered

"Nelson, don't be egotistical. We do our best, but we can't do it all. I just wanted you to hear about Michael before it's in the Sunday papers. Everybody uses Perfect; it'll be news." She is brave and crisp but her Center has taken a blow, a black mark.

"How serious do you think the father was about suing?"

"Who knows? The man is a doer, he needs to act."

"He kept an appointment with us the day of the hurricane. He trusted us. I should have spotted something, I did drop a note to Howie about the meds. The Trilafon wasn't quieting the voices."

"Don't do this to yourself, Nelson. It is not your fault."

That's what they all say. That's what he said to them. But when she hangs up the boy is still dead. Sealed under black glass, gliding feet first to nowhere. Nelson pictures Mrs. DiLorenzo lying in a darkened room, the daughters flying in from their disrupted Christmases, the girlishly handsome young face smeared on the inside of an adhesive bubble like an astronaut's helmet. The strength it must take not to rip the smothering plastic with your fingernails, the furious determination to smother the voices and silence their obscenities.

He feels too sick, too sunk, to eat. He needs to call somebody, but Annabelle is in Las Vegas and Pru is in Ohio and should be allowed to have her Christmas with their children and her family. Mom is entertaining her born-again step-children by now. Celebration has stifled all but a little of the traffic noise that usually permeates the city, though out on Eisenhower Avenue a few scoffers and loners roar by. The end of this very short day has begun to darken his windows before he has the heart to microwave the shepherd's pie and turn on the Oahu Bowl. Hawaii beats Oregon, twenty-three to seventeen, and on the six-o'clock news Jerry Seinfeld has married at last, the Hubble Space Telescope is back in working order, and some Sikhs have hijacked an Indian plane for no clear reason and are jerking it all around the sky. Michael DiLorenzo is not mentioned. He is strictly local news.

"Hi. You're back. How was Las Vegas?"

"Nelson, it was a blast. It's the future or something. My girlfriend and her husband talked me into gambling and I won two hundred dollars one night and lost it the next, of course."

"I bet you didn't call my aunt Mim."

"Well-surprise, surprise-I did, and she couldn't have been sweeter, or funnier. She remembered my mother dimly, from some encounter in a bar that used to be down on Running Horse Street, and had a lot to say about my father. Our father."

"Yeah? What?"

"Oh, what a caring older brother he was, and how hard he worked to perfect his basketball skills. I mean, it didn't just come to him naturally. And how supportive and non-judgmental he always was of her, even after she became a hooker."

"She said that?"

"Sure, why not? She said my mother was never a real hooker, because she wasn't organized in her approach. She even got us into O, at the Cirque du Soleil, if that's how you pronounce it. It beats anything you could ever see in New York-underwater ballet and bungee jumpers and a boat that rises right up into the air! I was absolutely riveted."

"Well," he complains, "while you were having such a great time, I ate Christmas dinner alone and had a young client over at the Center commit suicide."

"Oh, Nelson, no! How terrible! Was he one of yours?"

"We don't divide them up that way, but I had counselled him. I thought he was getting better-more engaged, and reporting no auditory hallucinations. Shows how little I know."

"Well, you shouldn't blame yourself," Annabelle went on in her practical, kind, slightly out-of-focus voice. "We're caregivers, not miracle workers. Just before I went away Mr. Potteiger died. He was eighty-six and terribly frail, with hardly any use of his legs, but such a sharp, frisky mind. He used to flirt! One morning I showed up at his rooms, he was in elderly housing over toward Oriole, and a little Post-it note on the door said he'd passed away. Just those words. 'Passed Away.'"

"It's not exactly the same," Nelson begins to explain, but she cuts him short.

"How's your lovely family? Did they arrive?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Judy didn't come. She wanted to stay with her boyfriend in his apartment, the roommate is off for the holidays skiing in Colorado, and then go with him, the boyfriend, to this big millennial blast in formal clothes in some fancy home the boyfriend knows the son of up in Silver Lake, old rubber money. The guy sounds like a real sponge."

"I knew you'd say 'sponge'!"