The phone call came on Sunday evening; there was no hello.
“I’m dying,” Brownstein said. “I want to see you. I’m at NYU Medical Center on the East Side. I’m in room, hey you.” Allan could picture his father yelling across the hospital room. “The old fart in the other bed can’t speak or pretends he can’t. Come see me tomorrow. What day is that?”
“Monday.” Allan said.
“It’ll do you good to get away from being a hot-shot lawyer in that damn white-shoe firm. Be here tomorrow morning at eleven.” The phone went dead.
From his living room, out the large window, eighteen floors below, Allan saw the traffic stalled on the West Side Highway. Across the river, past the darkened Palisades Cliffs, was the early evening expanse of pink and purple sky.
The last time Allan Brownstein had spoken to his father was two years ago, shortly after the traditional seven-day mourning period for his mother. While his father had come back to New York from Las Vegas a month before she died and lived in Queens, he hadn’t bothered to return any of Allan’s calls after the shiva.
Betty, his wife, wanted to know who had called.
“Brownstein, magician extraordinaire, tells me he’s dying. He has summoned me for an audience.” After their most recent estrangement, Allan had begun to refer to his father by their last name, just like everyone else did. “I haven’t seen him since after Mom died. How many messages did I leave for him?”
“He says he’s dying; now’s not the...
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