Free The Matter With Morris by David Bergen Page A

her volunteer work. She was wearing a soft brown sweater, a turtleneck, and her hair was cut short, and she looked like her mother, same chin, though her nose was sharper and she was prettier than Lucille. Her eyes were brighter and she was more willing to smile and try to please people. Morris thought that that might be a problem, this need to please, which was why when she said she might quit the debating team, he didn’t argue.
    “Might be a good thing,” he said.
    “Mrs. Kualla, our supervising teacher, says I can’t quit.The team needs me. She’s a Nazi but she’s a good Nazi. You know what I mean?”
    He didn’t know, but he said he did.
    She talked about her work at Deer Lodge Centre, where she read to a ninety-year-old woman called Minnie Pishker. “She has no idea what I’m reading, but she likes the sound of my voice. Her arms are like sticks, Dad, and she knows when I’m there as soon as I walk in. Lifts her skinny arms and says, ‘Libby.’ She makes a sucking sound with her mouth. She’s blind yet she senses everything. No one visits her. I think her daughter comes at Christmas. It’s so sad.” She blinked and Morris imagined that she might cry. But she didn’t. She continued, “She reminds me of Grandpa. Has a foul mouth like he does. She swears at me in Yiddish. Calls me kurveh. Mr. Fox, down the hall, told me what it means. But she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
    For a year now, Libby had volunteered at Deer Lodge where Morris had put his father when he was too confused to take care of himself. Libby had chosen Deer Lodge so that she could see her grandfather more often. Every day she was there she went down to Grandpa Schutt’s room for lunch and sat with him. At first she had been upset that he did not know her, that his mind soared in many different directions, and then one day she discovered that he liked to listen to her iPod Shuffle, that this quieted him and relieved his agitation. And as he became familiar with the music, he began to sing along in his baritone voice, quite beautiful really, chiming in to songs by the Pogues and Bob Dylan. “He likes ballads,” Libby said. “Softer music. No techno, that upsets him.” Shewas so matter-of-fact. She bought him his own iPod and downloaded some classical music and gospel tunes. Some country. His favourite was Leonard Cohen. One evening, Morris arrived for a visit and he heard his father grandly singing “Bird on a Wire.”
    Morris could learn something from his own daughter. He said now, “Your mother must be happy, you working in a hospital, a step closer to becoming a doctor.”
    “I’m not going to be a doctor. You know that.”
    “You’re eighteen, Libby. You don’t know that yet.”
    “Are you okay, Dad?”
    “Oh, well, what a question. I’m pursuing happiness.” He smiled and then shrugged. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about your father.” Then he said that he wanted to warn her. He was getting rid of his cellphone and his e-mail address. “Though I’ll keep my land line. You can call me at home, but no message service.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m cancelling everything. No more technology in my life. I’m throwing out the TV as well. And cutting off the Internet.”
    “Why are you doing this? Does Mom know?”
    “She’ll find out. It’s not a big deal. I was standing in the meat line at De Luca’s and the woman in front of me gets on the phone and asks her husband what kind of cheese they want, Reggiano or Padano. She can’t even make a simple decision. The cellphone has become a soother, an umbilical cord, a clattering intrusion. If we ‘re texting or talking, we think we’re alive. So, kaput, mine’s gone.”
    Libby said, “But I like being able to call you. I like knowing that you might pick up, or that I can text you and you’ll get right back to me. This makes me sad. Why wouldn’t you want to talk to me?”
    “Libby, Libby. It’s not that. We can talk as often as you