I awake with a start when Nurse Brockovitch pulls up the blinds with a clatter.  This is her way of making sure I’m still breathing. 

“Did we have a nice nap, Mr. Fleming?  Many sweet dreams, I hope?”

I brace my arms on the bed and pull myself to a sitting position   I look at her and make an effort to blink away the blur in my eyes. 

“I should say our nap was fine, and my dreams were sweet until you awakened me with all that racket.  I was about to seduce a lovely young thing of twenty-one.  Her breasts were full and perky, just like yours, Francine.”

She pulls off my covers and swings my legs over the side.  “You’re hallucinating again, Mr. Fleming.”  She takes my hand and closes my fingers around a paper cup full of pills.  “Now take them all.  I’ll hold the glass for you.”

“I can very well hold it myself.  I’m perfectly capable.”

In spite of the commanding look in Nurse Brokovich’s large blue eyes and her never-changing pursed lips, I like her.  She’s around fifty, I’d say, and not altogether unattractive.  Her bosom is an exquisite promontory that cries out to be freed from its restraints. 

But she fusses over me as though I can’t do a thing for myself.  Since I’ve been in this place, I try not to appear helpless.  Even though I’m damnably forgetful, it’s important for my peace of mind to make Francine and the others believe I’m still in possession of my marbles.

I swallow the pills, and Francine peers hard into the cup as though certain I’d missed one.  I grab a tissue and wipe the wetness from my chin.  I can’t allow her to think I drool.

She helps me into my wheel chair. 

“I’m wheeling you down to the activity room,” she says with a rare smile.  “The Christmas tree has just been put up.  Mrs. Dutoit and Mrs. Berger decorated it.  It’s so pretty.”

I wave my hand.  “No, no.  Maybe later.  I want to do some reading now.  I’ve seen plenty of Christmas trees in my life, and they’re all the same.”

I watch Francine walk toward the hall.  She turns and leans against the doorframe, swinging the apothecary keys that hang around her neck. 

“Mr. Fleming, I’ve been thinking.  Even though we’ve been here together for nearly six months, I really don’t know much about you.  At ninety-five, you must have had many wonderful experiences in your life.  You have time on your hands.  Why don’t you write your memoirs?”

“My memoirs?  I’d rather have you stay so we can discuss the book you gave me yesterday.”

“Perhaps this evening when my shift ends.” 

Francine nods and, with her lips still pursed, curls them into a smile.  I don’t know how she does that.

 What I miss most about this place is conversation.  Francine fills that void whenever she can, but now she wants me to sit quietly and write a book about my life.  I’m not ready to admit my memory has become almost nonexistent.  It would never do for her to think I’ve finally lost my mind.  I’d probably be deemed a helpless vegetable and strapped to the bed. 

I smile at her. “I’ll think about it.”

Francine walks to the bed table and takes a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer.  She slips the lap board over the arms of my chair. 

“Here you are.  This should help you think about it.” 

“I’ll try.”

“I never had a dad, Mr. Fleming.  He left us when I was very young, and  I barely remember him.  So many times I’ve wondered about him.  Where did he go?  What was he like?  You owe it to your children to leave a testament to a long life well-lived.”

“How do you know it was well lived?  I’m not so sure it was.”

 “I’ll be back later for your ride to the dining room.”

A lasting record for my son and daughter?  Where are they now?  I don’t remember where they live.  Probably somewhere in Europe, still chasing their dreams and content with the knowledge I’m safely incarcerated in a lovely home for the helpless.  I try from time to time to think about my life.  But the years have become blurred of late—willfully, perhaps—like ill-formed clouds that quickly dissolve beyond the horizon.  I’m vaguely aware that I lived the life of a typical middle class, suburban husband and father with all the trappings.  Faint images of my wife fly before my eyes, but never linger.  Her name.  Laura.  Lucy.  Louise.  That’s it.  Louise.  I’m told she was beautiful and never grew old.  And then she was gone.  I can’t remember when.   

I recall with absolute clarity only one occurrence in my life.  An event so profound, it altered forever my view of human nature.  I can still hear every word spoken, every nuance in his voice.  My encounter with him was so troubling, so enigmatic, that every detail remains etched indelibly in my mind.  It will comprise the whole of my memoir.

I pick up the pen and close my eyes.  I can feel the cold mid-December wind swirling across New York’s Columbus Circle on that long ago day in 1937.    

As I waited for the light to change on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Central Park South, I watched the spirited antics of an animated old panhandler.  Every day was the same.  The open skirt of his black ankle-length woolen coat flapped like raven’s wings in the wind.  With his hands clad in fingerless gloves, he doffed his old-fashioned stovepipe hat to the ladies and greeted each gentleman with a small skip and a jump and a reverential bow of his head.

“A little magic for a quarter, please?  That’s what I’ll give you.  A little magic for a quarter.”

For as long as anyone could remember, he’d been known as Jake the miracle worker, the King of Columbus Circle.  With a bright yellow ribbon tied around the crown of his black hat, he stood out from the other listless men along the sidewalk like a marigold in a patch of weeds.  My curiosity grew stronger each time I passed by on my way to and from work.  But that day, I felt strangely drawn to him.

I stepped close and watched him perform some sleight of hand with a handkerchief and a stick.

“Excuse me,” I said.  “You have quite a business going here.  You don’t seem to have much competition from the others on the block.”

“Right you are,” Jake said.  “A man needs to work for his livelihood.”  He waved his hand toward the others on the sidewalk.  “These are mostly beggars and, as you can see, they’re not doing a very good job of it.  That little runt over there at the corner sometimes blows on his sweet potato.  He makes a lot of god-awful noise with it, but he never gets more than a few pennies tossed in his hat.  I gave him a couple of quarters once.”

“You do know,” I said, “there are soup kitchens all over New York.  You don’t have to beg for money to eat.”  I glanced at the row of dispirited-looking derelicts.  “Or don’t you classify yourself as a beggar?”

“Please, sir.”  Jake held his head high, his tall hat bobbing in the breeze.  “I do not suffer the degradation of begging for money.  I am an entrepreneur.  I earn my bread.  It’s a service I provide, albeit only a bit of amazing entertainment.  Each of these good people who favor me with their kindness gets value for the money he pays me.  I’m an honest person, as you can see.”

Jake turned toward two approaching women.  He touched the brim of his hat with one hand and extended the other. 

“Good evening, ladies,” he said with impeccable courtesy.  “Lovely weather.  A little magic for a quarter?”

The women sauntered on without acknowledgement.

Jake shrugged and arched his ragged eyebrows.  “I didn’t expect them to stop.  Women aren’t very responsive, especially that kind.”

“What kind is that,” I asked.

“Women of the beau monde.  The ones wrapped to the tops of their heads in genuine fur collars, shiny silk stockings, and a clever repartee that can be heard half a block away.  They’re not readily impressed with anything beyond their own sphere.”

The cultured tone of Jake’s voice impressed me, and I extended my hand.  “My name’s Harry.  I’ve enjoyed watching you work.  Are you a trained magician?  I’ve rather been expecting you to pull a rabbit out of that tall hat of yours.”

“Oh, no.”  Jake wagged his finger toward the sky.  “The rabbit has departed for a better life.  Am I trained?  No, no.  My skill comes naturally.”  He tapped his forehead.  “It’s a talent one is born with.  I can pluck a coin from your ear.  Like this.” 

He brushed his open palm over my ear and produced a quarter.  He held it out for me to see.

“That’s quite amazing.”

“I have special powers, you see.  I’m able to stretch a small rubber band all the way from here to Columbus’s statue without it breaking.  I can make a balloon inflate itself.  With a snap of my fingers, I’ll have that ruby in your ring changed to a diamond.”

I tried not to betray my skepticism.  “Incredible.”

Jake stepped back and executed several dancing steps and flapped his arms wide.  “I can bring a blizzard of blinding snow down upon us by waving my arms.  Without your being aware of it, I’ll have your fringed silk muffler around my own neck in an instant and your watch in my pocket.  You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Well, I . . . “

“That’s the trouble.  People don’t believe.  They don’t believe all things are possible.”  Jake lurched backwards as though startled.  “Oh, dear.  What’s this in my pocket?  Is it yours?”

I took my watch and stared at it for a moment.  “Why, yes.  It is.”

Jake ran his fingers across the stubble of his graying beard.  “Let’s see.  I would say the value of that watch is . . . .”

“Thank you, Jake,” I said.  “I’d say it’s worth at least two quarters”

I dropped them into Jake’s open palm and looked at the sky.  “They do look like snow clouds up there.  Perhaps you can persuade them not to drop their load until I get home.”

“I will certainly do that, my good man.  And thank you.  Do you live far?”

“An apartment on the upper East side.  It happens to be my forty-fourth birthday today, and my wife’s preparing a special dinner.”

Jake’s eyes widened and his expression changed to one of genuine interest.  “Do you have children?”

“A daughter and a son.  Both away at school.”

“That’s nice.”  Jake cast his eyes over my coat and shoes.  “And you’re comfortably employed, obviously?”

“I’m a lawyer.  My office is right down there in the next block on Eighth Avenue.”

“An honorable profession.  Now be off with you before I open up the heavens.  Whoosh!”

I arrived home to find my wife standing at the window, watching the beginnings of a light snowfall.

“I hope your special day went well at the firm,” she said.

“I dealt with only two divorces and one will today.  Standing before a judge in a courtroom would surely be more stimulating than coping all day with couples who hate each other and bereaved people trying to deal with the death of their loved ones.”

“We should be thankful you’re gainfully employed.”

“Speaking of that,” I said, “on my way home, I met one of those beggars who hang around Columbus Circle.  There’s something about him that fascinates me.  A rather strange mixture of sophistication and slovenliness.  He does magic tricks for people who give him money.  I’d say he’s a bit of a dilettante in that area . . . as well as a fraud.  He claims he can perform miracles.”

“He sounds like another crackpot.  There are plenty of those on the streets of New York.”

“I don’t think he’s crazy in that sense,” I said.  “He’s quite well-spoken, and I think he’s intelligent, for all his silliness.  There’s something about him.”

I stood at the window and watched the snow falling heavier, wondering if Jake had a place to go at night, especially in the bad weather.

“I have an odd feeling I’ve known him before . . . from somewhere else.  I can’t put my finger on it exactly.  It’s his manner, the way he talks.  I’ll visit with him again.  Maybe it’ll come to me.”

I left the office the next day and hurried up to Columbus Circle where I found Jake once again plying his magic.  Snow was falling and it blew in furious eddies along the sidewalk, disappearing in the clouds of steam spewing from the grates.

“You shouldn’t be standing out here in this blustery weather, Jake.  Even your buddies have disappeared.”

Jake whirled around, his eyebrows and beard covered with frost and his incongruous hat heightened by nearly an inch of fresh snow.

“Well if it isn’t my friend Harry.  Have you got some more quarters to spend?  What should I do for you today?  Shall I make old man Columbus over there turn around and smile at you?  Or shall I make the bells of St. Patrick’s toll for your birthday—even though it’s a day late?  If you’d like, I’ll make an apricot tree grow right there on that corner or turn all those hack drivers into gladiators.”

I put my hand on Jake’s elbow.  “Come on.  Let’s go into the arcade.  There’s a drug store, and we can sit at the soda fountain and have some coffee to warm us up.  With this snow, you’ll get no business out here.”

Jake backed away.  “People like me aren’t allowed in there.  We affront the more prosperous customers.”

I took hold of Jake’s arm and pulled him into the open passageway.  “That’s nonsense.  You’ll be with me, and there’ll be no fuss.”

The soda jerk seemed not to notice us as he idly picked at something on his arm.  Jake took off his coat and, with great deliberation and care, folded and placed it on the stool beside him.  He gently set his hat on top of it.  The soda jerk adjusted his paper cap and stared at us.

“Coffee for both of us,” I said.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask.  Where had I seen the old man before?  Why did I have this feeling of closeness to him?

I lowered my cup to the counter.  “It appears you’re very good at determining the right people to approach on the street.  I’ve watched you.  You seem to allow some to pass by unmolested.”

Jake grunted and put his cup down hard on the saucer.  “I do not molest those persons I approach.  I hope you would give me credit for more sensitivity in my work than that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “It was not an apt choice of words.  It must be difficult to see so many pass you by without so much as a nod.”

Jake took a few paper napkins from the dispenser and stuffed them in his pocket.  “I prefer to withhold judgment on the swells and swags I encounter.  All those creatures in their high-buttoned coats and cocky homburgs, leering at us like we were dirt under their low-cut patent leathers—like we brought all this on by ourselves.”

“With all your cheerfulness out there on the street, I didn’t realize you harbored this kind of bitterness.”

“I’m not bitter, nor am I resentful.  I’m merely telling you what I see.  I’m a professional and I stick to my business.  I can size up a man ten yards away.  It’s easy to spot a chap who wants value for his money.”

“How?” I asked.

“It’s the look in his eyes, his swagger, the firmness of his voice.”

“You are making judgments, Jake, and you are resentful.  I wish you could realize that all of us are moved by those of you who are in such despair.”

Jake raised his voice.  “Despair?  Despair comes only to those who are weak.  I scoff at weakness in anyone.  I choose to live the life I live, and I live it fair and square.  I cheat no one, and I give value for the money I earn.”

“I know you do,” I said.  “But I’m sure you’re aware there are many people in this country who shed tears over the state of affairs in which you and others find yourselves.”

Jake shook his head and looked at me, square in the eye.  “If there are any tears to be shed, let them be for people like you—all the bon vivants of the world—who flounder about frantically looking for ways to keep your fancy lifestyles from crumbling.”

We sat in silence for many minutes, looking straight ahead.  Jake turned and put his hand on my shoulder, his voice softened.

“I’m sorry, Harry.  I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.  I’m not resentful of anything.  I just don’t want to be pitied, that’s all.  I can bear the scorn of others, but not their pity.  I’m a strong man, and I’m doing what’s right for me.  I desire nothing more than I have—except maybe a hot water bottle once in a while when my legs begin to ache.”

I signaled for more coffee, and hesitated before I spoke.  “Even though times are tough, there are jobs out there.  You don’t have to stand out in the street like you do.”

Jake breathed an almost inaudible chuckle.  “No one would have me, I’m afraid.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t mean to shock you, but you need to know something.  I’m a jailbird, Harry.  Who wants to hire a jailbird?”

I was indeed shocked.

Jake ran his finger around the rim of his cup and said nothing as he watched the soda jerk building a banana split for another customer.

“I was sent up because I killed a man when I was thirty years old.  I’ve spent most of my life, almost forty years, up there in Sing-Sing.  It’s been five years since they threw me out of there.”

Jake folded a flimsy paper menu into an airplane.  “After living in a cell that presses in on you like the sides of a coffin for that long, life outside is like a paradise.  I’ve now arrived at my final destiny in this life.  I’m content.  More than content.  I have no weaknesses or vices, except perhaps a good cigar when the mood strikes me.  I’m never bothered by sentimentality and I have no unrequited ambition to keep me awake nights.”

“I’m sorry you had to spend so much of your life in prison.”  It was all I could think to say.

“No need for you to be sorry.  I suppose I deserved to be put away—taking another man’s life.”

“It must have been awfully dangerous there,” I said.

“Sure, but if you’re clever and use your wiles, you can get along.  I minded my own business, read a lot, refined some of my magic tricks, and had the honor of being pinochle champion of my cell block for several years running.”

I was curious about the circumstance of the murder, but believed I had no right to pry that deeply.  “Do you have a family?”

Once again, Jake stared into his coffee cup.  “I did once.  But I lost them when . . . when I was convicted and sent away.”

“Do you keep in touch with them?”

“Oh, no.”  Jake waved his hand in front of his face.  “My wife divorced me and made it clear she never wanted to see me again.  But that’s all right.  After the disgrace I caused my wife and son, I would never think of injecting myself into their lives.  Never.  It would be too painful for all of us.  I’ll never cast a shadow over anyone’s life again.”

I felt a prickling heat sweep across my cheeks.  A fleeting moment of recognition seemed to hover over me, but it passed quickly.  “Do you ever think about them?”

“Of course.  How could I not?  But I trained myself years ago to keep those thoughts well under control.”

“Do you ever think you’d like to see them again . . . to know them . . . especially your son?”

Jake ran his hand over his forehead and shook his head.  “I told you before I will never . . . .”

I suddenly felt compelled to change the subject.  “What kind of work did you do?”

“I owned a small bookstore down near Gramercy Park.  I had a good business going.  But that was in another life, and it’s all gone now.  I’m seventy-five, and all I intend to do now is to live as honorably as I can.”

Jake threw the airplane in the air.  It made a loop over the head of the startled soda jerk and landed in the open ice cream freezer.

Jake looked at me and smiled.  “You were curious about me, weren’t you?  Now that you know what kind of person I am, are you satisfied?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “But I appreciate your confiding in me as you did.”

Jake rose from his stool and put on his coat and hat.  “The coffee was good.  Here’s a dime to cover it.  It’s on me.  I’d better get back to work.”

I stayed in my seat and watched Jake slip his hands into his fingerless gloves and leave the shop.  Trying to return the dime to Jake would have been useless.  Jake was an enigma, and I still had no answers.  While we talked, I felt several flashes of recognition, but they dissipated before I could grasp onto them.

That evening, I sat alone at my desk.  I went over and over every word Jake and I had spoken that afternoon.  Nothing came together.  I tried to visualize everyone I’d ever known, hoping I could find something in the faces that flashed through my head.

My mother had died several months before, and I took possession of all the old family photo albums.  I hadn’t looked at them since I left home twenty years before.  But now, as I idly turned the pages, my childhood pictures, and those of my youthful mother, aunts, uncles, and my father amused me.

I came to a photo of my father holding me high in the air and laughing.  I couldn’t have been more that three or four at the time.  What was it about these pictures?  In each one, my father’s left eyebrow appeared raised in a high arch that gave his face a devilish appearance.  I’d noticed Jake had that same arched eyebrow over his left eye.  It had to be a coincidence.  I knew plenty of people with arched eyebrows.  That meant nothing.  But it was exactly like Jake’s.

My mother told me my father died when I was four years old.  He was cremated with his ashes scattered over the East River.  She never wanted to talk about him.  Except for these pictures, it was almost as though he’d never existed.  I never knew what he did for a living, and  regretted never having asked.

I remembered very little of my father, except he did little tricks to make me laugh, always using the words, “It’s magic.”  Once my father had three large metal rings all linked together and told me to try and separate them.  When I couldn’t do it, he took them and separated them with one swift motion of his hand.

The event that remained most clearly in my memory occurred when my father looked at the small birthmark on the inside of my wrist and asked if I knew what that odd-shaped thing was.  I told him it looked like a butterfly with its wings stretched out wide.  My father said, “No, they’re the wings of an angel—your guardian angel.  She’ll always be with you as long as you live.”  When I asked if the angel had a name, he said her name is Ernestine.  I thought it such a funny name for an angel, I remembered it all these years.

Telling Jake of my suspicion that he was my father might only make me look foolish.  I decided not to do it.  It was nothing but a coincidence.

During the next several days, I avoided crossing the street to talk with Jake.  I could see him scurrying about among the passersby, collecting his quarters.  What was there to say to him?

Then one day, Jake was not at his usual spot.  He was nowhere on the street.  I moved quickly and searched the faces of the men standing along the sidewalk.  I finally found him sitting and leaning against the wall in the passageway of the arcade.

“Jake, I’m surprised you’re not out there on the street.  Is something the matter?”

Jake looked up with a broad smile on his face.  “Oh, Harry, I’m glad to see you.  I thought you wouldn’t be coming around again.  You provided me with a little conversation.  I like that.  Don’t get much of it out there on the street.”

“You look tired.  Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I was taking a little snooze.  My legs are aching.  Just had a couple of hotdogs over at Dot’s Café on Ninth Avenue.  Her food’s real good.  You ought to try it sometime.  She knocks off a dime if you don’t dirty a plate.  And she gives you a glass of beer, too, if you open up the bungs for her.”  Jake let out a loud belch.  “God almighty, I sound like an old tramp.  Where are my manners?”

I slid down the wall to a sitting position next to him.  I thought I saw a hint of recognition in Jake’s eyes.

“Don’t sit here.  You’ll get your nice coat dirty.”

I settled down with my arms around my knees.  “I’m not as concerned with a few spots on my clothes as you think I am.  I’m sorry your legs are aching.”

“I performed three miracles today and I’m just sort of worn out.  I made a flowering crocus appear in a man’s breast pocket and I had dandelions sprout from the cracks in the sidewalk.”  He waved his arm through the air.  “And at the same time, I was able to make all the tomcats on the back fences of the city howl in broad daylight.”

I laughed.  “You’re a fraud, Jake.  Admit it.”

Jake looked at me and winked.  “You don’t believe me?  You don’t believe in magic?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

We sat for many minutes saying nothing until Jake let out a long sigh.  “Like I say, I’m glad to see you Harry.  You’re a fine chap.”

I gave Jake an appreciative pat on the arm.  “Today’s Christmas Eve.  Did you know that?”

“So it is.”

“My wife and I are alone this year.  Sadly, our parents are gone and our kids have other plans for the holidays.  We’d like to have you join us on Christmas Day.”

Jake bowed and shook his head slowly from side to side.  “Can’t do that.”

“If you’re worried about your clothes, you can come as you are.”

“It’s not that.  I don’t accept charity.”

“Charity?” I said.  “It’s not charity.”

Jake straightened his legs out in front of him and tapped his boots together in a nervous rhythm.  “You do pity me, don’t you?”

“No.  It’s partly for us.  You remind me of . . . someone.  My father.  It would be like a family gathering for Christmas dinner.”

I knew I wasn’t doing that right.  Charity?  Pity?  God knows my invitation had nothing to do with either one.

Jake turned his head and looked into my eyes.  “You said your parents are gone.  Your mother . . . she’s . . . .”

“Yes, several months ago.  Peacefully in her sleep.”

“I see.  I’m glad of that.  I mean . . . that it was peaceful.  And your father?  He’s dead?”

“I was told he died when I was four.  My mother said she had him cremated and his ashes scattered over the East River.”

Jake looked away and pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck.  “Cremated, eh?  That’s the best way, I suppose.  There’s a certain finality about it.”

“I have a few good memories of him,” I said, “but really remember very little, except he could always make me laugh.  He could do magic.  Like you.  Once he had three large rings linked together, and he . . . .”

Jake grabbed hard on my arm.  “You think bringing this old derelict home with you will help you relive some fantasy you have about him?”

“I loved my father.”

“Your father’s dead,” Jake said in a firm voice.  “You’re curious about a lot of things, but don’t let your curiosity carry you away to places you . . . .”

“To places I shouldn’t go?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s probably a good way of putting it.”

I pulled up the sleeve of my coat, far enough to expose the birthmark on my wrist.  I watched Jake for a reaction.

“I see you looking at this,” I said.  “It reminds you of a butterfly in flight, doesn’t it?”   

Jake  took hold of my wrist and examined it.  “It’s not a butterfly, my friend.  These are the wings of an angel.  They’re the wings of your guardian angel.  She’s been with you since the day you were born and will be with you until the day you die.”

When Jake dropped my wrist, I asked, “Does this guardian angel have a name?”

“Of course.  It’s Ernestine.”

I shifted my position and grasped Jake’s hand in mine.  I found it impossible to disguise the anxiety in my voice. 

“Jake, you’re . . . .  I’m your . . . .”

Jake pulled his hand away and stood up quickly.  “Don’t, Harry.  Just don’t.  Your father’s dead.  No magic of any kind will ever bring him back.  No way, Harry.  No way.”

I pleaded with him.  “Please, Jake.  Please come tomorrow.  You’ll have a good dinner and I’ll have a gift for you.”

Jake stepped close to me and put his hand on my cheek.  “You’ve already given me the best Christmas gift anyone has ever given me—that day you came up to me and extended your hand.  You’re a good boy.  I’m proud of you.”

Jake took several steps toward the street, then stopped and looked back at me.  I was still slumped on the floor.

“Merry Christmas to you, my boy.”

Through burning eyes, I watched the old man disappear into the crowd on the sidewalk.  A great loneliness swept over me at that moment—a loneliness I’d been only vaguely aware of through the years.  I wondered if Jake understood—even after all this time—the lasting love a son could have for his father.  Surely he did.  During the short time I spent with Jake, it became clear to me there are few human conditions as sad as a fatherless child or a man with no family. 

I rose to my feet and tried to smile.  I remembered Jake’s remark that it would be too painful to go back—too painful for everyone.  He would never do it.

I walked out into the street and toward home, passing a group of ragged young carolers at the corner.  I dropped several dollars into the container held by a little girl, and looked back for one last glimpse of Jake.  There he was, with his arms stretched up to the overcast sky and flapping his hands.  Suddenly the wind whipped up and snow fell heavily, sending pedestrians scurrying along the sidewalk.  I stood fast and looked up into the sky.  The snow blew in my face, and I was sure I could hear my father’s voice, laughing and shouting.

“It’s magic, son!  It’s magic.”

I lay my pen on the paper.  I’m exhausted, and my cheeks are wet with tears.  Why, after all these years do I feel my father nearby, but still beyond my reach?  I wheel my chair to the window.  The landscape is obscured by heavy dry snow swirling in all directions and spattering against the glass.  I close my eyes, and a cold wind blows across my face, biting my nose and cheeks.  Through the snow, I see Jake standing there on Columbus Circle, waving his arms wildly toward the sky.

“Well, now, Mr. Fleming, are we ready for our dinner?” 

Francine enters and swings around behind my chair.  I turn my head abruptly.  I’m once again enveloped in the room’s warm medicinal smell that never subsides.

“I don’t want to go down tonight.  I’m tired.”

Francine smiles and looks down at my paper.  “Well, good for you.  I see you’ve started on your remembrances.”

“I’m finished.”

“Surely not.  There are only a few pages here.”

“Everything’s there.  No more to write.”

Francine glowers at me like I’d been a bad boy.  “Your children will be very disappointed in you for saying so little.”

I push the pad forward.  “I’m not giving it to them.” 

“What?”

“I’m giving it to you.”

“To me?” 

I watch Francine’s jaw drop as she reaches for the pad.

“I hope you can read it.  My hand isn’t steady these days.”

Francine scans the first few words.  “It looks readable to me.  But why?  It should be for your children.”

“It’s too personal.  I would never share it with them.  They wouldn’t understand.  It’s for you, Francine.  Take it.  Maybe it will give you hope that someday you’ll come to know your own father.”

I reach out and take her hand.  “Miracles happen in this world when we least expect them.”

I turn my chair toward the bed.  “Now, if you’ll help me get in, I want to resume my dream you so rudely interrupted earlier today.”

“Your dream?”

“You know, the one about the sweet young thing with the breasts like yours?”