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Paul Lerner, awake after a troubled night, tried to recall the last dream he’d had before it drifted away like smoke.   In the dream, he’d been coming home from work, but the home was not the Northern California retirement community in which he and his wife Sally had lived the past five years.   He was still a young man in New York City,  living with his mother and father in their old apartment.   He walked from the subway station toward the apartment building, then found himself on a street that looked familiar, but there was no candy store on the corner and he didn’t know which way to go.   Another dream of frustration.   He’d read somewhere that such dreams meant you felt you had no control over your life.
 
Paul was normally a good sleeper, but  last night, a Friday, he and Sally had been preparing to settle down and watch television when the phone rang.   They’d looked at each other.   Nobody called them on a Friday night.   Could it be one of their sons?   More likely it was one of those computer calls, wanting them to upgrade a credit card or donate to something.   On the third ring, Paul picked up the phone.   It was the son of an old friend, Leo, living in San Francisco.   Charles was calling to tell them that Leo was in the terminal phases of a cancer that, like a time bomb, had suddenly exploded.

Paul had met Leo when he’d come out to San Francisco from New York.   Leo, who was five or six years older, was the head of a section in the State agency where Paul had gotten a job.   In an agency that dealt with statistics, Leo had been one of the few people who actually knew something about that subject and he taught a night course in a local college.   Paul had taken the course and he and Leo had become friends.   Paul found out that, in addition to statistics,  Leo knew something about almost everything.   He’d read all of the classical books, knew history and philosophy, was conversant with the latest trends in art, played chess and was an amateur musician.   Paul had always thought Leo should have been a college professor. 

In any case, Leo had started with the State, had risen to the level of Senior Statistician and stayed there until he retired, which had been 20 years ago.   Paul and Leo had married within the same year and the two couples had spent a lot of time together until Paul had moved to the state capital, Sacramento, to get a promotion.   To Paul’s two sons, Leo was known as “Uncle” Leo.   A few years after Paul’s move, Leo had divorced and after this Paul and Sally had seen less and less of him, but they still kept in touch.

Paul had last talked to Leo two months ago, in January..   He always called Leo after their annual exchange of Christmas cards.  Leo lived in a small apartment by himself.   He’d been having health problems for a long time.   He’d told Paul his legs were getting weak and he had a hard time getting around.   He was afraid he’d have to give up driving soon.   But he’d said nothing about cancer.   It was a shock.   Charles told Paul that if he wanted to talk to Leo he’d better call within a week; the best time was in the afternoon.   Paul wasn’t looking forward to making the call.   What do you say to a friend who was dying?   Hello, how are you doing?    Still, he’d have to make it and try to keep his emotions in check.   .

Paul looked over at Sally.   She was still sleeping, breathing evenly.   Usually, she was the first one up.   He looked at the bedside clock.   It was a little past eight, early, although he knew many people in their retirement community were up at five or six.   He got out of bed.   He closed the bedroom door behind him, made sure the hall thermostat was on “cool” as it would probably get to 100 that afternoon, turned on his computer and said Good Morning to their two cats, Shandyman and Bun-Bun, who as always came to greet him.   He filled their dishes with hard food, did his bathroom business, then sat down at his computer to see if anything had come in overnight.

There was an e-mail from their younger son Steve, who lived in Ireland.   He’d married an Irish girl he’d met at his computer company in Silicon Valley and they’d decided they’d have a better quality of life in Ireland.   They’d now been there five years and had two children.   But Ireland had been caught up in the worldwide recession.   Steve reported that their biggest customer, a cell phone company based in Europe, had gone into bankruptcy.   He had enough work for the next three months; after that, nobody knew what would happen.   Not what he wanted to hear first thing in the morning, Paul thought.   He decided he wouldn’t tell Sally.   She worried enough about the kids already.   He sent a reply to the e-mail, telling Steve about “Uncle” Leo.   He gave Leo’s address and suggested that Steve send a card and maybe some pictures. 

By the time he returned to the kitchen, Sally was up and pouring orange juice for them.   “How are you?” Paul asked her.

“I had a hard time going to sleep.”

“Leo?”

“Yes.”

“Same here.  I’ll have to call him this afternoon.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Have you forgotten?   We’re going to see our grandsons today.”

He had forgotten.   They were going to visit their older son Ken, who lived a short distance away.   Ken and his wife Celia had two small sons, Nick and Mark..

“And this evening there’s the potluck at the New Yorkers club.    They’re going to give you a certificate of appreciation.   Did you forget that, too?”   Paul had started the New Yorkers club and had been its president until recently when he’d decided he’d done enough and it was time to step down.

“No, that I remembered.   How come we’re going over to Ken’s in the afternoon then?”

“The boys both had colds last weekend so we put it off until today.”

“Oh.”   Now he remembered.   “I had an e-mail from Steve.”

“Is everything all right?”   She was ready to start worrying.

“Yes.   The kids are fine.   The weather’s the usual, raining.   I sent him Leo’s address and told him to send a card.”

“Good.   Let’s tell Ken to send a card, too.”

A visit to Ken and the grandsons, then the New Yorkers’ potluck.   Paul poured himself some coffee.   It was going to be a long day.

***  

The Sacramento Valley is hot in July so they’d decided not to go to the park but stay indoors.   Ken’s house was a large one and there was room in the front hallway for Paul to throw a big rubber ball back and forth with his five-year old grandson Nick.   When it was his turn to throw the ball to Nick, Paul threw it softly and whenever Nick caught it and managed to hold onto it, he’d say, “Good catch.”   It reminded Paul of when he’d play catch with his father.   Only he’d been older and they’d play catch in the street and they used a softball and gloves and his father had thrown the ball hard.   Nick had a pretty good arm, but he wasn’t too accurate.   Paul had to bend down to retrieve the ball more often than not.   After a while, he could feel himself getting winded (God, he was getting old) and held up his hand.   “That’s enough,” he said.   “Grandpa has to take a break.”.

He joined the others in the living room and sat down on the leather sofa next to Sally.   She was playing with two-year old Morgan, who was handing her various toys---blocks, little cars, animals---from a large can.   Sally said, “Thank you,” every time she received a toy, then returned it to Morgan, who put it in a pile on the floor.   Their son Ken was standing in the middle of the room, trying to adjust a baseball game on their super-large flat-screen television set.    “There,” he said.   “Do you want anything, Mom?   Dad?   To eat?   To drink?”

“I’d like some water,” said Paul.   Ken got a glass of ice water from the new refrigerator and handed it to him.   Nick was playing with one of his trains.   The kids had enough toys, thought Paul, to stock a Toy’s R Us.   Ken sat down in one of the leather armchairs.   He was now almost 40, tall and thin with brown hair and a neat beard.    He was a human resources manager for a company in Sacramento.   He’d always been personable and had seemed to rise almost effortlessly through the company’s ranks.   “How’s the job?”  Paul asked him.

“Not too bad.   We’ll probably have to let some people go.   Everyone’s cutting back.”

“Is the company in trouble?” asked Paul, thinking of Steve’s company in Ireland losing its major client.

“We’re tightening our belt, as they say.   I don’t think there’ll be any raises or bonuses this year.”

“Are you doing okay with your mortgage?”

Ken and Celia had bought their large house during the recent housing boom, before the bubble had burst.   Paul as always had advised caution, he was of the cautious generation, but Ken and Celia were of the spending generation, who thought everything would always be fine.   Along with the house, they’d bought their new furniture and also two new big SUV’s.   Paul knew they had a hefty mortgage payment.   It had a fairly reasonable interest, but after five years it would go up considerably.   Their plan was then to refinance.   But, like many houses, it was now worth much less than the mortgage and Paul had been worrying about what would happen when the five years were up.

“Yes, we can handle it.   As long as Celia’s job holds up.”   Celia worked for a non-profit organization, arranging events and fund-raisers.   But with the recession, funds had become harder to get and they’d already had one round of lay-offs.   At that moment, Celia walked in.   She was always late in appearing when Paul and Sally visited, “doing something upstairs,” as Ken always told them.   Paul wondered if she spent a lot of time getting dressed and properly made up.

In any case, Celia was as always well-turned out in what looked like a new pantsuit and looked as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine.   She was an attractive woman, Paul thought, tall like Ken, slender and fit-looking, with blonde hair and fair skin.   She came over, bent down and gave him her usual greeting kiss.   She then kissed Sally and sat down in the other armchair.

“We were talking about your mortgage,” Paul said to her.   “I think it might not be a bad idea to call your lender and see if you can made some adjustment, I think it’s called a ‘loan modification,’ before the five years are up.   Maybe you can do something now.”

“I don’t think so, Dad,” said Ken.   “We’re not about to be foreclosed.”

“It still wouldn’t hurt to ask,” persisted Paul.

“I think home prices will go up again,” said Celia.   “You shouldn’t worry about us.”

That was all very well, but parents always worried about their children, no matter how old they were.

Nick brought a book over to Celia and jumped onto her lap.   “Read to me, Mama,” he said.   Celia began to read, a story about superheroes and villains.   Nick listened intently.   He was a thin, serious boy, reminding Paul of himself at that age.   Paul had also liked to have his mother read to him and he had a quick snapshot of himself as a little boy snuggled into a chair with her.   Then Mark, a sturdy boy with curly hair, tugged at his arm and said, “Ball,” his favorite word.   He’d have to throw the ball back and forth again.   Paul stood up.   “Call your lender,” he said to Ken and Celia, “and see what they say.”

***  

Someone at the table had mentioned the hot weather and that it was a good thing the air-conditioner in the clubhouse, not always reliable, was working.   Mort Silverman, who came from the same Bronx neighborhood as Paul, said, “Remember when we were kids, who knew about air-conditioning?”

“The only air-conditioning was in the movies,” said Ben Levine, also from the Bronx.

“Yeah,” said Mort.   “Remember those two movies on Southern Boulevard.   What were they, Paulie?”

When he was a kid, everyone called him Paulie.   Now only Mort and Ben called him that.     “The Paradise, I think, the big one, and the Spooner.”

“Right.   It must have been hot and humid, but when you’re a kid you don’t care about the weather.   We played all day.   Remember, stoop ball, slug ball, off-the-point, stickball when we got older.”

“That’s right,” said Ben.   “And at night, we’d open all the windows.   You could hear what everyone was doing all around.”

The New Yorkers had filled the community clubhouse for their potluck.   The ladies had outdone themselves.   Besides the usual casseroles, there was pot roast and a brisket of beef.   There was potato salad and cole slaw.   The dessert table had pies, New York cheese cake and someone had even made mondel bread, Paul’s favorite, which his mother used to make for him as a special treat and which he was eating now.  .

“Remember at night the women would all sit outside on their folding chairs,” said Mort.

“Yeah, and we’d sit on the stoop.”

Paul remembered those hot steamy Bronx nights when the air seemed to press down like a warm blanket.   Sometimes his mother and father would take him on a walk on Southern Boulevard and they’d stop in at the candy store for ice cream sundaes; they were called frappes.   Then they’d stroll along, looking into the store windows.   Paul couldn’t remember what stores there were, just one, Davega, which sold radios.   He remembered because he’d always wanted his own radio and one birthday he’d gotten one.   He used to spend nights trying to get short wave stations from foreign countries.   Usually, all he got was static.

Paul’s reverie was interrupted when Marge Rabinowitz coughed into the microphone up front and said, “Everyone listen up.   Tonight we honor our club founder and president, Paul Lerner, who is stepping down.   He needs the rest.”

There was a ripple of laughter.   “Okay, Paul, come on up here.”     Paul stood up and walked to the front of the room.   “We got this for you,” said Marge and headed him a framed certificate which said how much the New Yorkers Club appreciated him.   “And this, too.”   Marge handed him an envelope.   He opened it and saw a gift card for their shopping mall.

Someone yelled out, “Speech.”   It was Mort..

Paul took the microphone.   He wished he’d jotted down a few notes.   “No speech,” he said.   “New Yorkers talk too much.   All I want to say is that I thank you, especially the ladies who prepared all that good food, and yes, I do need the rest.   I know the club will keep going.   Once a New Yorker always a New Yorker.   Thank you again.”   Paul felt warm and realized he was sweating.    He extracted himself from Marge’s hug and went back to his table.   Well, that was over.

*** 

“That’s a nice certificate,” said Sally.   “We’ll have to hang it up somewhere.”
 
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” said Paul.   “I didn’t expect a gift card.”

“It’s for quite a lot, too.   You’ll have to go shopping.”

“You mean you want to go shopping.”

“We’ll both go.”

Sally had fed the cats and Paul had checked his computer.   Nothing there except some new spam.   No phone calls.   That was good, as far as Paul was concerned.   No bad news.   They eventually settled themselves in the living room.    Paul sat in his usual chair, alternately dozing and trying to read, while Sally, in her chair, watched a recorded episode of a once popular show, “Lost,” on television.   Bun Bun was on Sally’s footrest while Shandyman sat on the back of Paul’s chair.   It was their, and the cats, nightly routine. 

Sally was still interested in “Lost,” while Paul, after all the time changes, people coming back from the dead and other preposterous convolutions, had given up on it.   He was re-reading a novel by an English author, C.P. Snow, also once popular, whom he liked because, although the literary style was definitely earthbound the characters seemed to have real life concerns.   But he found it hard to keep his eyes open.   Finally, he told Sally he was going to bed.     She said she was coming, too.

In bed, Paul turned and kissed Sally.   This too was their nightly routine.   He lay on his back and closed his eyes..   It had been, as he’d expected, a long and tiring day.   Leo.   He’d call tomorrow afternoon.   In the morning, they’d call Steve in Ireland and find out how things were going there.   Later in the week, he’d call Ken and find out if he’d done anything about his mortgage.   As Paul’s mother used to say, there was always something.   He could hear her voice with its Bronx inflection as she spoke.   He could see his father when he’d come up for supper after playing in the street all day.   His father would be sitting at the kitchen table, solid as a rock.   Paul knew then that there was something called a Depression, much worse than anything today, and that jobs were hard to find.   His father, a plumber, would go every day to the union hall.   He’d been on the WPA.   He also did jobs for their landlord to pay their rent.   Somehow his father always found work. 

He could hear his mother’s voice telling him to wash his hands good.   He could hear his own voice saying, “Yeah, Ma.”   Before supper, he’d find his book and read.   He’d be tired but it was a pleasant tiredness.   After supper, they’d go downstairs, his mother taking her folding chair.   She’d talk with the other women.   He’d sit on the stoop with his friends.   In a while, his father would come down and maybe they’d go for a walk on Southern Boulevard.   Was he afraid of anything then?   He didn’t think so.   He was home.   He was safe.   He drifted off into sleep.