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...wants to go to sleep, she sleeps. He used to be like that. Time was he slept like baby. He shut his eyes and went to sleep.

That was a long time ago. Lately, he can't buy a good night's sleep.

Sometimes she thinks he's lying. Or at least not telling the truth. He's fabricating. Exaggerating. He can hear her telling her friends. Embellishing. She says embellishing just so she can say a big word. He knows a big word or two. His vocabulary isn't so small.

So she thinks he's lying. He can tell by how, when he says he can't sleep, she goes on to the next subject. She doesn't skip a beat. By the way she says yes and mm-hmm. She's humoring him. All those naps, she's thinking. Old people always say they can't sleep. They want you to feel sorry for them. But you add it up, an hour here, an hour there.... The morning always comes, she's thinking. He can tell.

The thing was she woke him up. He was almost sleeping. He was dozing off.

The news was on, Walter Jacobson talking about a fire on the South Side. He'd punched up a couple pillows, and from underneath him he felt them give way. His foot twitched. You could see the smoke for miles, he thought he heard an onlooker say. He reached out his hand, blinked his eyes. Faces flickered on the screen. No one was injured in the fire. Is it too late? she said. Did I wake you up? At first he didn't know who it was. He moved the receiver to the other ear. I'm returning your call, she said. He got the feeling she was repeating it. I'm returning your call, like he was some kind of business establishment.

He shook his head. The room was dark, except for the light from the TV. He pressed the remote a few times to turn down the sound. His call? Oh yeah, he had to call once a week to remind her he was her father.

Nah, he said, sitting up on the edge of the bed. His zipper'd come open, but he didn't even bother to give it a tug. On the floor was a copy of People magazine with Lady Di on the cover. He'd been reading about the nuptials. In the mirror above the dresser he caught a glimpse of himself. He had to look a couple times. The guy he saw had eyes looking up from the grave; his face was gray. You wouldn't look so good either, he thought, taking a quick peek around like he was daring someone to disagree with him. Boy, he'd been just about to slip under. Already that felt like a while ago. He pressed his thumbs over the bridge of his nose, the phone hunched between his ear and shoulder. I'm wide awake, he told her. My eyes are glued to the TV.

Because if you want to go back to sleep.... Her voice trailed off as if she might disturb him.

Then she mustered it up again. We can talk tomorrow.

Is there a ration?

Walter Jacobson mouthed some words he couldn't make out, then the picture switched to Vice President Mondale's daughter selling a car. Straining forward, he thought she said the word deal.

Dad, she said.

He waited for her to dispute him.

Cut it out.

She was starting to sound a little huffy. She had a tendency in that direction. He gulped some water from the glass on the nightstand, swiping the back of his hand across his lips. Should he tell her what happened?

After another swallow, he put the glass back.

I had a little incident. He looked down at his feet, plastered by the podiatrist, on the carpet. Those specimens belonged to him.

A little incident?

I couldn't keep it in.

What are you talking about? she said, and then it must have dawned on her. In the receiver he heard her draw in a breath.

A weather map filled up the TV screen, and he saw the five-day forecast. Rain at the...

NOTE: All illustrations and photos have been removed from this article.



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