Later

34

In late June, Mom and I made our monthly visit to see Uncle Harry. He didn’t talk much anymore and hardly ever went into the common room. Although he still wasn’t fifty, his hair had gone snow white.

Mom said, “Jamie brought you rugelach from Zabar’s, Harry. Would you like some?”

I held the bag up from my place in the doorway (I didn’t really want to go all the way in), smiling and feeling a little like one of the models on The Price is Right.

Uncle Harry said yig.

“Does that mean yes?” Mom asked.

Uncle Harry said ng, and waved both hands at me. Which you didn’t have to be a mind reader to know meant no fucking cookies.

“Would you like to go out? It’s beautiful.”

I wasn’t sure Uncle Harry even knew what out was these days.

“I’ll help you up,” Mom said, and took his arm.

“No!” Uncle Harry said. Not ng, not yig, not ug, no. As clear as a bell. His eyes had gotten big and were starting to water. Then, also as clear as a bell, “Who’s that?”

“It’s Jamie. You know Jamie, Harry.”

Only he didn’t know me, not anymore, and it wasn’t me he was looking at. He was looking over my shoulder. I didn’t need to turn around to know what I was going to see there, but I did, anyway.

“What he’s got is hereditary,” Therriault said, “and it runs in the male line. You’ll be like him, Champ. You’ll be like him before you know it.”

“Jamie?” Mom asked. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said, looking at Therriault. “I’m just fine.”

But I wasn’t, and Therriault’s grin said he knew it, too.

“Go away!” Uncle Harry said. “Go away, go away, go away!”

So we did.

All three of us.