Joel Meyerson pushes open the door, anxious when his grandmother doesn’t answer his knock. “Grandma?”
“Don’t shout.” She’s in a dress and stockings, and wears makeup and a gold bracelet, nicely put together as always for what she calls their rendezvouses. But she’s lying down. The curtains are drawn, and the place feels close as a sickroom, even with air conditioning.
“What’s the matter?” He’s never found her in bed like this. It’s better than her traipsing down the hall in panties and bra, which happened after an overzealous dosing of anti-anxiety meds not that long ago. “You didn’t come to the door.” He’s part anxious, part irritated.
“I was thinking,” she says in a voice folded over itself. She takes up no more space than a large family pet. He wonders whether she has somehow shrunk since leaving her large South Beach condo for a single room with kitchenette and bathroom equipped with emergency pull cord and grab bars in the North Bronx Jewish Home. She might be the only person Joel knows who makes do with an apartment smaller than his. He’s reassured to see water on for the milky Lipton tea she will serve in glasses. There’s a plate waiting for the Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies he knows she likes, even though she is supposed to watch her sugar. He’ll listen as she complains about fellow geezers who couldn’t play a decent game of canasta if it killed them.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m feeling....
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