It was hot. The sun, slow-walking toward the deep end of July. And Seymore Spiegelman was on the F train to work. Changing to the C at West 4th, he squeezed into the last empty seat in the car. The riders on either side were damp and overheated. He couldn’t concentrate. Opening and closing the book in his hand. Swann’s Way. Proust. Wrapped in brown paper. He thought it’d seem pretentious standing in the subway holding a worn copy of Proust. He would surely think that, if it were someone else doing that.
Proust is hard going. He’d started reading it many times before, only to nod off a few pages in and set it aside for another time. Maybe he just wasn’t up to the task. Maybe a new copy, a new translation, might give him a fresh start.
An article he’d read touted the brilliance of Proust, whose 149th birthday just passed, on July 10. One line he’d read wouldn’t leave him alone. “Even the dead,” it said, “when we least expect it, come back to remind us of their love and of our guilt.”
Death and July birthdays. His mother’s and his oldest daughter’s birthdays. One is on the twenty-first and the other on the twenty-second. It was his mother who had died, in years past.
On his run, the day before, he tried to remember which birthday was on which day, but he gave up. His wife, Bernie, would know, he thought.
So, he asked her when he got back.
“Sy,” she said, “here’s how I remember them. Your mother was born first, so her’s is on the twenty-first.”
“But Dierdre is my first daughter, see. So, maybe she comes first.”
“You’re dripping. What happened to your knee?”
“I tripped on the hill down to Fifth. Cracks in the sidewalk, and it’s steep.”
“And you weren’t looking. Let me see that. Why didn’t you come right back? Look, the blood ran down into your shoe.”
“A guy on a motorcycle stopped. Asked me if I needed a ride home, but I said no. He had that solicitous look on his face. Like someone helping an old woman cross the street, leaning over, taking little baby steps, even with the ‘Don’t Walk’ light blinking and the drivers rolling their eyes as if they’re purposely walking slowly just to piss them off.”
“And so, I felt fine. I didn’t need any help. I just wanted to keep running. It was no big deal. He was like twenty-five and he was treating me like I was some old guy who should be home drinking tea, watching re-runs of Bonanza.”
“You’re not old. And maybe he did think that. Maybe he didn’t.”
“He seemed nice.”
“Regardless, Sy, now, when he tells the story, he’ll say, ‘there was this guy who fell on the sidewalk, who I helped get up, and then he’s like ‘I don’t need any help’ even though blood was gushing out of his knee like a faucet and he’s like some Usain Bolt has-been.’ Maybe you should’ve just let him drive you home and then he’d say what a nice old guy he helped out. The solicitous part is in your own head, not his. And, even if it was, who cares?”
“Anyway, I ran down to the Jackie Gleason building and then back up the hill by the Green-Wood cemetery. That’s like seven miles.”
“You ran into Sunset Park and didn’t bring back tacos.”
“I was bleeding.”
“I’m just kidding.”
“Remind me again, is tomorrow my mother’s birthday or Diedre’s.”
“It’s your mother’s.”
“I had a little trouble running back up the hill. Not because of my knee. I think my shoes are too heavy. Maybe I should get a lighter pair.”
“Maybe you should go see a doctor. Your shoes don’t all of a sudden get heavy.”
“I noticed it first last week when I was pushing the stroller with the kids up Second Street to the park. I had to stop a couple of times.”
“And you think it’s because your shoes got too heavy?”
“That’s how it felt.”
“You should drink more water and make an appointment with Edelman. Maybe you should go tomorrow.”
“I just ran seven miles. I really think I’m ok.”
“Your mother is dead now, what, four years?”
“Yes, I think so. I can never remember that one either.”
“At least you should remember her birthday.”
“What? Now you think I’m losing it?”
“Or, maybe it’s just your shoes.”
“No, it’s just that you have trouble remembering it, not because you’re losing it, but because you have some issues there with your mother.”
“I do. That’s a different thing.”
On the train, he felt he should go home. Call in sick. He’d rarely done that. But he was sweating, feeling anxious. Proust was so hard to read. The run around the cemetery was hard. Harder than he’d said. His shoes were too old, too heavy.
He was beginning to panic. “My god,” he thought, “I feel like I am going to die.” At the 50th Street stop, he got up, took his things, left the train, and walked quickly across town to Saint Clare’s. He told the ER nurse he had chest pain. She asked him how severe. “A ten,” he said.
“Let’s take a look,” she said, and he sat down in the chair next to her desk, she checked his pressure, listened to his heart. She picked up the phone. Held it to her ear. Punched in few numbers.
“What are you reading?“ she asked him.
“Nice,” she said.
And that was the last he remembered until he opened his eyes to see Bernie standing by the bed, beside the IV pole. “What happened?” he said.
“Well, for starters, you had a coronary right there in the ER and they rushed you up, or down, or wherever it is, to the Cath lab. They put a stent in and you’re good to go.”
“My god. That’s so frightening.”
“Yeah, tell me about it!”
So, I guess it wasn’t my shoes.”
“You didn’t really think it was, did you?”
“I think I did. A little. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Likewise, Sy. Likewise.”
“So, what do you say, next year, we just pick up a garlic and onion pizza at Totonno’s and light a candle on my mother’s birthday.”