Lucy Scott’s Grand Stand. Alan Sorem

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      “Ready for more?” Daisy asked.

      “No thank you. It makes me tipsy and that’s not a good thing.”

      “It’s a special day.” Daisy overrode her. She split the rest of the bottle between our glasses. The three of us sipped.

      “Pretty quiet for a birthday,” she said.

      “I’m still thinking of what my son said.”

      “Oh.”

      “I can take care of myself just fine. And even when I can’t, there’s all kinds of home care.”

      Daisy nodded and lifted her glass.

      “Here’s to better times.”

      She and I drank and put our empty glasses down.

      “Good wine,” I noted. “Thank you.”

      Daisy eyed the empty bottle.

      “I’ll have to go up home and get some more.”

      “No, no, there’s a half-bottle of Merlot in the ‘frig.”

      “I have a song now,” declared Rebecca.

      “Here we go again,” muttered Daisy. “C’mon, help me find the other bottle.”

      We rose and moved to the ‘frig as Rebecca started to sing to herself in a low voice. She had a lovely alto voice. She had been a vocal music teacher for many years at a high school in Manhattan. A very good one, from what I’ve heard. A number of her students moved on to Broadway and opera. It’s strange how the brain works. One part produces lovely songs even when the rest goes gaga.

      Rebecca sang: “The clock ticks on, my circle’s growing thin. I’m not at all sure who I am or where I’ve been.”

      “Very nice,” I called out from the kitchen.

      Rebecca sang on. Daisy found the bottle in the ‘frig.

      “God,” she exclaimed as she unscrewed the top, “we’re babysitting while he’s downstairs making whoopee with the widow in 1 C! I wonder if she takes her pearls off when they’re doing it?”

      “Shh. Let her have her song, poor dear.”

      “I think he’s picked his next wife.”

      “Daisy! How can you be sure?”

      Rebecca sang: “Living in a fog, nothing really clear, when my time is done, who will hold me near? When I’m gone, who will remember the old days, the golden ways, all that I used to be? Who will remember me?”

      I walked to her side and patted her on the shoulder.

      “Rebecca, I will remember. Such a lovely song! Drink up. We have some more wine.”

      She looked up at me with a puzzled expression and glanced at her glass. She pushed it aside and folded her arms on the table.

      “It’s time for my nap now.” She lay her head down. Her eyes closed.

      I looked at her and murmured, “Actually, this may be one of her better days.”

      “Well, she’s out now.”

      Daisy poured the Merlot into our glasses.

      “Cheers,” she said.

      “Happy days.”

      We sipped.

      Daisy smiled at me.

      “This birthday. Ever think you’d be 85?”

      “No. After Jim passed – well, you helped to keep me going.”

      “And you’ve helped me. That’s what we have to do, hon. Keep on keeping on.”

      We sipped.

      “Enough of that crap,” said Daisy. “Let’s look on the bright side. What are the best days you remember?”

      I gave her a glance. “I don’t want to be hurtful.”

      “It’s okay. I made my own decision not to have children.”

      We were quiet for a moment. Daisy poured more wine.

      “Okay. What about the worst day – other than your husband going.”

      I laughed. “That’s easy. It was seventh game of the ’47 World Series, when the Yankees beat the Dodgers. I cried for three days. But we got our revenge. In the ’55 World Series, game seven, Johnny Podres pitched a no-run nine innings and Brooklyn won. In Yankee Stadium!”

      We sipped.

      Daisy cleared her throat.

      “Change of subject. What’s the latest with Junior.”

      “You heard the noise while you were standing outside the door.”

      “Prince Charming at his best,” she replied.

      “Yes.”

      We sipped.

      “Still trying to get you out of here, huh?”

      “Yes. Jim Junior talks to me about a nice retirement home and then slips in things about professional nursing care and I have this mental picture of me tucked into bed in a sterile white room along a hallway of dozens of sterile white rooms.”

      “It might be a good thing – the retirement home. Some of them are called villas.”

      “Oh, Daisy, he and his sister are tired of feeling responsible for me. They just want to shuffle me off somewhere so I’m not a bother. Definitely not the silk glove treatment! They don’t understand what this apartment means to me. My home.”

      “I don’t understand why they think of you as a bother.”

      “I don’t either. Maybe it’s Fred.”

      “Junior knows about him?”

      “Yes. My mistake. Sophie knows. I’m sure she told her brother.”

      “Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject.”

      “Thank you. What’s new with you?”

      “New cleaning lady. And that restaurant down the street delivers dinners. Pretty good.”

      “I’ll remember that.”

      Daisy looked at her glass. It was empty. So was mine. She reached for the bottle and we finished it off.

      “Cheers.”

      I nodded. We drank.

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