HENRY H. ROTH
415
"I don't read them. But I'm sure it's in the ballpark. Ask your
teacher."
"I
told you the class is over. The class is dead."
"That's a little dramatic," I smiled thinly.
My father whispered, "The teacher said it was the best story in class."
"I'm sure that's true."
"It
was hard as hell. I'm an old man. Writing got me very tired. Let's
have dessert and call ita day."
"Night," I corrected.
He didn't smile . Neither did anyone else.
After dessert, father yanked Margaret away. Both barely muttered
good night. Father kissed Laura and nodded curtly to me. I strolled into
the center of the living room and began cleaning up the cake crumbs.
Laura said coldly, "That was awful; you were so stern and unyield-
ing." She scowled.
"I
treated him as I would any promising student."
"He's your father!"
"I'm his son. Much that I am is owed all to him."
"No," she said, "you were annoyed and a little jealous. You wanted
to punish him, but he had skills you never imagined."
"What do you want?" I asked.
She pleaded, "Go after him. He was shaking."
"You're wrong," I said.
But
I
left the apartment, and once in the deserted lobby, swung open
the entrance door and ran outside.
They had only gotten as far as the next block. Father was leaning
against a parked Honda. His head was thrust up toward the pale sky. He
was
gasping for breath. Margaret was crying.
Both relaxed when they spotted me. Slowly, my father straightened
up. He began breathing deeply and seemed okay. Margaret blew her nose
several times, searched in her purse for a cigarette. Instead she came up
with a piece of gum, but she seemed satisfied.
My father confessed nervously, "Too much wine, and meat. And
then that killer cake. I felt queasy, wasn't my heart. Relax!"
He clearly wanted to ignore any other questions of health.
"I
must apologize. I was pompous and tried to be the neutral reader.
That wasn't fair."
"Forget it."
"You wrote a wonderful story, took chances with the narrative, and
it held up."
"Look, I admit I could do better."
