short story
Norman Simon ESPN
In the stars live beings of fire. Their greatest pleasure is to merge—body on body, flame into flame. Maggie is fire. She became that in the crematorium on Long Island, while I was left behind. But I dream that I am fire, too. Soon, I’ll join her. “Mr. Perelman, where are you? It’s lunchtime.” “I’m here.” “You think you could sit up for me?” She helps me. Over on my hip, then push with my legs, like doing the sidestroke. Swimming across Lake Peekskill, my father trailing me in the rowboat, just in case. Strong, I felt strong. “Come on, Mr. Perelman. Don’t quit on me now.” I push, she pulls. She props the pillow behind me, tray on my lap. I can smell mashed potatoes, I can see red Jell-O. “You want to feed yourself today?” I look. Who is it? Yelena? No, not her; she’s got a Russian accent like my grandmother. Maybe it’s Gypsy? No—Gypsy had fat black arms. Used to put me on the toilet. Do your business, little man. My aunt Millie? Sounds like her. But how could it be? She’s out on Long Island, too. “Don’t feel up to it this afternoon? You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Perelman. Making me feed you like a baby.” Jell-O red, potato smell. Who gives a shit? “If you don’t start eating better, we’ll have to hook you up to the tube again. You want that?” TLR
87