disrespectful. Nobody could ever replace Daddy for me either. But, you know, there’s a problem with Katz’s outfits. It’s not that they’re shmatas, they aren’t. They’re excellent copies of what he saw in the Paris shows, if you don’t mind the machine stitching. But you take something off one of his racks, you get all dolled up for a party, and there’s bound to be at least one other woman wearing the same thing. What do you mean you weren’t invited to the Ginsbergs’ anniversary-dinner party, you always were. Maw, you’re imagining it. Old friends are not dropping you because Daddy has passed away. It’s not true that people don’t feel good to have a widow at the table. Among your age group, it has to be a common experience. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Maw, I’m not insensitive and I am not waiting for you to die. You are not a burden to me. But in your age group these things happen. That’s life. Maw, would you prefer me to censor my thoughts before I express them? Can we no longer speak frankly? Is it now only safe for us to talk about the weather? Maw, you are not going to hang up on me in that mood. Maw, please. Stop at once. No sniffling. I am not being impatient. Call Malka, I’ll bet she’s as lonely as you are, and the two of you could go out to dinner, and then maybe pick up a couple of guys in a bar. Maw, it was a joke. I know very well you would never do such a thing. Okay, she never picks up a bill. So what? You’re not exactly broke. What do you mean, what do I mean by that? I meant nothing by that. Maw, I never asked you how much he left and I don’t want to hear it now. Shit. If you think that, you can leave everything to the SPCA for all I care. That’s a horrible thing to think of me. You know how I feel this very minute? Degraded. Now I’ve got to hang up and — Maw, it is absolutely sick on your part to suggest that I always manage to twist things round just before I hang up on you, so that I’m the one who has been hurt. What? Come on. I said hurtful things to you? Name one. Uh huh. Uh huh. Shit. If you think you look pretty in those Shirley Temple curls, keep them. And you know what? You’re going to Florida with Malka next winter, get yourself a bikini. Handkerchief-size. But don’t count on me coming down to visit you, if that’s the case. Now I’ve got to hang up and — I am not having one of my tantrums. Maw, if we had a tape recording of this conversation I’d play it back to you, if only to prove I never suggested you suffered from cellulite deposits. You’ve still got great legs. Now I’ve really, really got to hang up and get busy here. Barney sends his love. No, I’m not just saying that. Goodbye now.”
Following the previous night’s quarrel, The Second Mrs. Panofsky and I were inordinately polite to each other all morning. I boiled and peeled the eggs for her salad Niçoise and she, appreciating my condition, made me a Bloody Mary. But the silence in the kitchen was choking, until she flicked on the radio, looking for relief from “CBC Sunday Morning Round-Up.” A Toronto writer, who was being interviewed, said not one bookseller would give him a window display, because he wasn’t American or British. Hell, he added, was the blank sheet of paper that confronted him in his typewriter every morning. The Second Mrs. Panofsky turned up the sound. “I don’t believe it. He’s being interviewed by Miriam Greenberg.”
“Is that who it is?”
“I’d recognize that unfortunate voice anywhere. I can’t explain it, unless she slept her way into that job. She had some reputation at McGill.”
“Did she?”
“Would you open that tin of anchovies for me, please?”
“Certainly, darling.”
Boogie, his sheets soaked, was too sick to come downstairs for lunch. I took a tray to his room, and then explained to The Second Mrs. Panofsky that I had to get to the office to sign some cheques, among other things that couldn’t wait, but I promised to drive back in time for dinner. “Careful on the road,” she said, offering her cheek for a kiss.
“Yes, certainly,” I said, obliging. “Oh, anything you need from town?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll phone