Bridge of Sighs

was my mother who noticed the other thing, the significance of which had escaped even me—that since meeting Sarah I hadn’t had a single spell. “Grown out of them is what happened” was my father’s optimistic assessment. “There’s nothing wrong with our Louie,” he said, beaming at me. “There never was.” Because I wanted desperately for that to be true, now more than ever, I made no mention to Sarah of the spells that had punctuated my childhood and early adolescence. Nor did I tell her about my ordeal in the trunk, an event that at long last was receding into insignificance. If I was well, what difference did it make?
    At the time I paid no attention to the third customer in Sarah’s drawing, the one about to enter the store. It was the most generic figure in the drawing. Though I’d always assumed it was male, you couldn’t really even be sure of its gender. Years later, when my father was diagnosed, I came to think of the dark figure as representing that illness on our very doorstep, with us still unaware of its presence. I don’t remember how old I was, or even if Sarah and I were married yet, when I asked if she’d had anyone particular in mind. The figure had a curiously wide stance, as if he needed to hold on to the open door to keep from losing his balance. I’d expected her to say that, no, she’d just imagined a random customer, so I was surprised to learn that she had placed in the foreground a person she’d never seen but had heard me speak of so vividly that she hoped one day to meet him.
    Bobby Marconi.

GHOST IKEY’S
     
    W HEN O WEN COMES into the store, he finds me staring at his mother’s drawing of Ikey Lubin’s on the wall behind the register, yellowing and brittle now, behind glass. Sunk deep in reverie, I didn’t hear the old bell above the door, which is just as well because I’d likely have turned around expecting to see a young Bobby, or Karen, or Uncle Dec. Even my father.
    “Pop?” Owen says, startling me. “You having a spell?”
    Trying not to sound irritated, I tell him no, I’m not. I’d have spared my son all knowledge of these episodes if I could, but at least I wish he’d react to the possibility more appropriately. Had I actually been having a spell, asking me would’ve been useless. Better to just go away and come back in half an hour. But it’s unfair to get annoyed about this. In his entire life he’s only witnessed two or three, and it was so long between them that he can be forgiven for forgetting what to do, or rather that there’s really nothing to be done. Only two people—my father and my wife—have ever had much influence over the severity or duration of my spells. Poor Owen, who knows better, or would if he thought about it, can’t help thinking he should do something.
    “Your eyes are all red,” he says when I turn around. He studies me carefully, which gives me the opportunity to study him back. My son looks like me, more with each passing year, though I don’t know how he feels about the resemblance. As a boy, being told how much I resembled my father was a source of pleasure and pride to me, and later in life I enjoyed being mistaken for Big Lou Lynch on the street. Apparently Owen was recently mistaken for me, and my impression was that he didn’t feel complimented.
    Be that as it may, he’s clearly embarrassed to have caught me gathering wool. “Mom’s going to be fine,” he assures me. “I was just out at the house. She looks great.”
    “I know,” I tell him.
    “They got it all,” he continues, as if I’ve disagreed with him. “There’s no reason—”
    “I know.”
    Tomorrow she and I meet with the oncologist to confirm this and, assuming there are no surprises in the blood work, we’ll be officially cleared for international travel. There can be little doubt that the promise of Italy has accelerated Sarah’s return to health and contributed significantly to her renewed sense of general well-being. Her physical strength and stamina improve daily, so much so that my warnings not to overdo now seem more grumpy than caring.
    I probably should tell Owen that he’s mistaken the cause of my melancholy, but concern for his mother’s health is a far better excuse for my puffy eyes than the actual reason, which I’m not sure I could explain anyway. Owen’s as good-hearted as they come, though he’s impatient, as the young are, with emotional complexity. Not that he’s so young anymore, as Sarah is always