Free Assisted Loving by Bob Morris Page A

other one. Getting up to Dad takes forever.
    Outside his door, on a small shelf, he has created a display: one tennis ball, photos of us and Mom. Inside, he has managed in very little time to re-create the multilayered landfill of a mess that he had enjoyed at the old homestead.
    He sold the old house so easily, without a moment’s hesitation. Some children would find that difficult to take. Not me. Not my brother. We’re happy to have it gone for good. His new apartment is nice. And it’s filled with the furniture of my childhood. There’s the oversize faux-Provincial lamp from our living room. There’s the midcentury modern coffee table and the Chagall print from the dining room. So many memories from that old suburban house are all stuffed into this new apartment.
    I sit on the same off-white couch where my brother and I sat on Mom’s lap. The orange afghan she crocheted is draped over the back. You can never really leave the past behind, I guess, the aged gray poly trousers, for instance, that Dad is wearing tonight.
    He looks sluggish. It could be the Lasix he’s taking for blood pressure.
    â€œSo, Dad, how are you?” I say. “You ready to go out for dinner?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Why don’t we just order in?”
    â€œBut you asked me to come out here so you wouldn’t have to dine out alone.”
    â€œPlease. My hip hurts, and I’d rather stay off my feet.”
    This is not what I had in mind at all. This small apartment is no place for dinner. There isn’t a surface that isn’t occupied by statements from his myriad bank accounts, or magazine subscriptions, or carbon copies of his countless typewritten letters to friends and relatives. But I don’t say anything. We order from a nearby Asian place, and Dad finds the shrimp fried rice delicious. His mood has been lightened by something simple, fresh, and un-kosher. “Thank you for changing your plans so you could visit,” he says.
    â€œSure,” I say. “No big deal. But what’s up? Why the long face?”
    â€œWell,” he says. “As you might know, Edie is in Philly for the summer.”
    â€œSo you’re having a little hiatus before next winter. Isn’t that good for romance?”
    â€œNot when she hasn’t been returning any of my phone calls. All last week I was trying to reach her to let her know there’s a bridge tournament coming up not far from where she lives. I thought I’d drive down. But she never called me back.”
    â€œWow. Is she playing hard to get or something?”
    â€œI wish it were so simple,” he says. “But yesterday I finally got a letter from her. And it turns out that she has not one but two other old boyfriends in Philly.”
    â€œWhat? But she likes you. I saw her holding your hand in Florida.”
    â€œIt’s a nonexclusive arrangement, Bobby. And definitely restricted to Florida. I’m not welcome in her life up north, that much is clear.”
    â€œSo, Dad, this attractive woman you were so pleased to have at your eightieth birthday party—and shuttle around as if she were the new love of your life—is jerking you around while she goes out with two other men in Philly? What’s that about?”
    â€œI wish I could tell you,” he says. “But it was just a winter fling with us, I guess, like kids at summer camp.” Then he sighs—Eeyore in a cardigan. “It’s disappointing.”
    Okay, this is not good. He’s not supposed to be worried about anything resembling romance yet.
    After running his finger over the last morsels of his fried rice, he pulls a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and starts going at his molars while making sucking noises—a charming new habit. But, to lighten the mood, entertainment is on the way. He has taped a PBS Dinah Shore special.
    â€œI hear she was a lesbian,” I say.
    â€œDon’t be