Paul Peter Hinckley watched his father fall clumsily onto the seventh green of the Audubon golf course, his fingers fanned over the tight grass inches from the hole. He knew\u2014in a way he would describe as “uncannilly familial” every time he recounted the story for years and years to come–that his father was dead. In the hole was Paul’s father’s dimpled ball, resting patiently between its past on the seventh tee and its future home enclosed in glass and mounted in the clubhouse.<\/p>\n
“A hole in one, Pop,” Paul had just said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
There was a cry from far back at the tee box, an impatient foursome waiting for the green to be cleared. Paul turned to face their blurry forms, his eyes drawing in.<\/p>\n
“A doctor? Any of you guys a doctor?”<\/p>\n
He started to walk towards them, his putter still in hand, its rubber grip sliding in his sweaty palms.<\/p>\n
“Jeesum Petes. Hey, a doctor?”<\/p>\n
Underneath his immediate desire for a doctor the instinctual processes that whirr to life in reaction to unexpected ploys of fate presented him with his options. He could wait for the paramedics to arrive, their sirens halted in the parking lot and the paunchy uniformed men who would jog over the fairways with a stretcher, flap their latex-ed hands, push him aside and tell him to follow in his own sedan, or he could take matters into his own hands, call up Doctor Pochet, drive his father’s body to the hospital himself, and free up the hole.<\/p>\n
“What’d you say, buddy?” one of the players called out.<\/p>\n
“Nevermind, nevermind,” Paul said, waving his hands in a beckoning motion. “You guys play on, okay? We’ll be out of your way in two minutes.”<\/p>\n
He jogged back up the green, retrieved his father’s ball, and then knelt meaning to embrace his father or clasp his shoulder and pat it, but instead he only looked down into the pink, hairy canal of James Douglas Hinckley’s ear. For a few moments, his mind rode a mobius strip of childhood pictures and memories, the bright, ripe colors of reapprehended time, the slow pace of hand-me-down smiles and handshakes. In the background there were oak trees. Amidst the rush, there were single-noted chimes.<\/p>\n
“Jeesum.” Paul wished he could have one single, hard martini right at hand.<\/p>\n
After a struggle, first with the body, then with the two bags, Paul pulled a tight turn in the golf cart and headed back to the clubhouse. He saw the first member of the group who had been behind him bring down the driver and heard the ricocheting clack as it impacted the ball.<\/p>\n
Launched it<\/em>, Paul thought. He doesn’t know that on seven you gotta come up short.<\/em><\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Paul summoned a pair of black orderlies in maroon scrubs at the front desk of Touro Hospital to follow him to his car.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Paul Hinckley.\u201d He decided to shake their hands. \u201cCan you bring one of those wheelchairs?\u201d<\/p>\n The three of them jogged down the sloping circular drive onto Prytania Street. Paul dug through the pocket of his linen shorts and pulled out his keychain and disarmed the alarm.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat he got?\u201d asked one of the orderlies.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s had a stroke or a heart attack or\u2014god, is it hot or what? Come on, come on, come on, let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHardertack? We should fetch a stretcha.\u201d<\/p>\n Paul opened the passenger side door, leaned in, and carefully unlatched the seatbelt and pulled it over his father\u2019s stomach.<\/p>\n \u201cFellas, I hate to get sentimental, but he\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDead?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMister, what we gonna do with him?\u201d<\/p>\n Paul folded his arms and put his chin forward and prepared to talk out of one side of his mouth, a motion that had accompanied all of his irritated demands since childhood. \u201cLook, boys, there\u2019s a plaque in that building there with my father\u2019s name in big raised bronze capitals, so let\u2019s get this done.\u201d<\/p>\n The two orderlies looked at each other and broke a sweat on top of their sweat. \u201cLook, Mr. Hinckley, we can take him inside, but nottroo those doors. It\u2019s emergency only.\u201d<\/p>\n Paul threw his hands apart and brought them back together in a silent, angry clap. \u201cThis is<\/em> a damn emergency!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou want him in the lobby, settin\u2019 there dead with the waitin\u2019 folks?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI want him in Dr. Pochet\u2019s theater as soon as possible. Look, just put him in the chair and I\u2019ll wheel himself. This hospital used to have a reputation, you know. A damn good one.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Paul rode in the elevator watching the line of numbers pass the peach light from one to another. His father slumped in the wheelchair in front of him, sweating through the pique cotton of his shirt as eagerly as if he had been alive.<\/p>\n The elevator slowed and stopped. Paul triggered the Door Close button as soon as the doors started to part. A nurse with a baby in one arm and a sheaf of manila folders in the other scowled and tried to protest.<\/p>\n \u201cThere should be a \u2018Non-stop\u2019 option here, but otherwise, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d Paul said. The doors shut and the elevator resumed. He bent over as if to throw his words under the door: \u201cI\u2019ll send it back down, ma\u2019am!\u201d<\/p>\n Once he finally arrived on the ICU floor, Paul could feel his nerves start to calm. He was able to plan his next few hours: a phone call to Liza, who could then in turn call and assemble all his brothers, a quick shower at home, and steak at Crescent City. His mind placed the memory of a drop of olive-dirty vodka on the back of his tongue. The lead nurse eyed him suspiciously as he approached.<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Paul Peter Hinckley. And this is James Douglas.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s Mr. Douglas\u2019 concern?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, no. James Douglas Hinckley, my father.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe attorney.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSir? You are in the ICU ward. Does your father need intensive care?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m afraid he\u2019s passed on, actually.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh my god! He\u2019s dead?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCould you please page Dr. Carl Pochet for me, please?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSir, if there\u2019s some kind of\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDr. Pochet, please.\u201d<\/p>\n The nurse looked down at the body in the chair, its neatly folded hands, its evaporating pit stains, its paunchy fragility. Then she looked at the tall man behind it, his fifty-year-old freckles, thinning maple hair, and politely unreasonable eyes. She did not hear him say again, \u201cDr. Pochet, please<\/em>.\u201d She watched the words float out of his mouth and put her hand on the phone.<\/p>\n When his old friend turned the corner adjusting his bowtie, Paul mismanaged a look of simultaneous cheer and concern.<\/p>\n \u201cMy god, Paul. What\u2019s wrong with the old man? You should be downstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n The doctor reached for his stethoscope.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, no, you misunderstand. I\u2019m sorry. He\u2019s passed.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWould you believe on the seventh green? It\u2019s fitting, right? He loved that hole.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, he\u2019s dead? What are you doing here? You should be heading to the funeral home. I can call ahead for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI just thought maybe we could determine\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Dr. Pochet put his left hand up to cover his mouth. \u201cPaul, the man has had three stents put in and a bypass surgery. Jesus. This isn\u2019t a medical mystery. Come into my office.\u201d<\/p>\n In the tight office that Dr. Pochet kept generic and clean, Paul remained standing behind the wheelchair. The doctor opened a cabinet and pulled out a fifth of Jameson that soon relinquished two small shots in Styrofoam cups. Paul sipped at his, and felt his heart pump warm and hard, as if it was overcompensating for the past hour of shallow churning.<\/p>\n \u201cYou really want someone to do a post-mortem?\u201d<\/p>\n Paul laughed, \u201cWell I didn\u2019t drive up here at this time of day to enjoy the traffic.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, you\u2019re having a serious grief issue.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t think we could, maybe this afternoon, ah\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Paul, I don\u2019t. You need to call your brothers. You need to get a hold of yourself and\u2026and, frankly, stop pushing a corpse around as if you\u2019ve got all the time in the world.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you busy, is that it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m always busy, Paul, but that\u2019s not the point.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not looking forward to telling Mother.\u201d<\/p>\n Dr. Pochet moved close and nodded. He put a hand on Paul\u2019s shoulder and whispered, \u201cPaul, you know who you have to call. They can take care of everything for you and you can go be with your family.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll drive him myself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, come on.\u201d<\/p>\n Paul straightened up and tightened his grip on the handles of the wheelchair. \u201cHe\u2019s my pop.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know. I know.\u201d<\/p>\n The two of them looked down at the bald crown of James Douglas Hinckley, a pink, sun-spotted hide wrapped in a white Lacoste visor. As the seconds scattered, the doctor could feel himself getting drawn into Paul\u2019s fantasy that the body might shiver, convulse, then look up at them with that famous smile, those shining eyes that had sold hundreds of closing arguments to hundreds of jurors and judges.<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, without the weight of this man\u2019s character, the world is left a little unbalanced. And it\u2019ll be a few days before it gets its legs back. But you\u2019ll see. It\u2019s going to be all right. Why don\u2019t you leave him with me. We\u2019ll get him out to the home, and in the meantime, you can calm and collect.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was his heart, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s always the heart with guys like him. They\u2019re not like us, Paul, the previous generation. No use for a diet. Reminds them too much of rationing. It\u2019s always the heart and the arteries, clogged with success.\u201d<\/p>\n Paul pursed his lips and nodded. \u201cLet me take his wallet. And the shoes. They\u2019re actually Mr. Moynahan\u2019s. Pop always had a hard time finding a good pair of his own, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n The doctor nodded. \u201cMy best to Liza.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJoin us for dinner tonight? Steak at Crescent City.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOn call. Sorry, Paul.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing to be sorry about. You guys did everything you could save swapping your own hearts out for his.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s what he did for so many of us himself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, yeah.\u201d<\/p>\n Down in the street, Paul withdrew a parking ticket from under his windshield wiper. \u201cThe nerve,\u201d he said, then opened his phone to call Liza.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Elizabeth Rosenstein stood in front of a full-length mirror in the alterations shop on the second floor of Perlis\u2019 clothing store, her full figure eclipsing a second reflection of the Vietnamese tailor. She stood on tiptoe at the estimated height of her Minolo Blahnik heels and actively ignored the clattering sewing machines and the hissing pants press as she turned her head from side to try and see the fabric of a green silk dress fall over her body. The middle-aged latinas with needles poking from their tight lips looked up from moment to moment.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you see, Mr. Nyugen?\u201d she asked. \u201cIt\u2019s still drawing here and here. Sometimes I think you just like torturing girls like me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere?\u201d the tailor asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFace forward. There.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNow it no do it. It fall fine.\u201d<\/p>\n Liza turned her head again and contorted her body. \u201cNo, you see?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStand straight, it fall fine. You move, this pull.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean my stomach?\u201d She narrowed her eyes at herself in the mirror and tried to subtly suck in her stomach. \u201cThat\u2019s impossible. I\u2019m in the gym now four days a week.\u201d<\/p>\n The tailor shrugged and put his thumbs through his front belt loops. \u201cYou gain muscle then.\u201d<\/p>\n Liza huffed. \u201cShit. These fucking shoulders never felt right anyway. I would start buying clothes here again, but your bags are so unattractive.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay. You change now?\u201d<\/p>\n Her cell phone rang, echoing in the small changing room. \u201cHold on. Unzip me.\u201d<\/p>\n She closed the slatted door and opened her phone. \u201cShit, Paul, I\u2019m changing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMe too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat? No, I\u2019m at Perlis\u2019. Just hang on.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s Pop, Liza.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat about him? Abandon another game?\u201d She struggled with the dress until it let go of her and pooled on the floor.<\/p>\n \u201cHe died, Liza. Right on the seventh green. Can you believe that? Jeesum, he loved that hole.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh my god, what happened?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cListen, can you call my brothers?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, don\u2019t you think\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI need a shower badly. Have you been out today? You can taste the air. The air has calories in it.\u201d<\/p>\n Liza rolled her eyes. \u201cPaul, your father is dead!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think so. I left him with Carl.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou took him to Touro? I thought you said he died on the damn green.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAfter you call my brothers, you need to call Crescent City and make a reservation for\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, are you at home? Let\u2019s meet at home then we can sort this out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u2014you, me, Joseph, Robert, oh, and I ran into the Favrots outside Langenstein\u2019s and they said they\u2019d like to come.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCeline and Clay?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo! Samantha and Christopher. So that\u2019s one, two\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s six, Paul. Christ, can you just meet me at your house and we\u2019ll\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSeven. Tell Frankie to make a table for seven.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat? Who else now?\u201d<\/p>\n A long, digitized sigh came through the phone. \u201cLiza, we need an empty place.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t believe you\u2019re going to leave this up to me to tell your brothers that your father has died while you finish up your day off errands. This is typical.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean \u2018typical\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust how it sounds, with a capital fuckin\u2019 T, so\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t wanna fight today, Liza.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you at least call the firm?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThink, Liza. Do you want to spend dinner with fifteen junior partners? Cause that\u2019s what will happen.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t tell them about fucking dinner<\/em>. Just call Mr. Hart personally. He deserves to know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, yeah, okay. I\u2019ll see you at my house.\u201d<\/p>\n Liza hung up and looked down over her body, at the strange rolls that didn\u2019t belong, didn\u2019t align with her lithe memories of youth. She hadn\u2019t changed her life or routine since she turned eighteen except to drop a few bad habits. Yet she continued to expand and soften. It wasn\u2019t fair. While she gathered her white linen pantsuit and started to dress, she wondered what it would feel like to slip out of the body like Paul\u2019s father, a soul shedding pounds, a new-come youngster amidst the host of eternity.<\/p>\n It\u2019s not like me to think that way,<\/em> she thought. It\u2019s just not.<\/em><\/p>\n She emerged from the changing room and revisited the mirror to straighten her hair.<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-five dollar, Ms. Rosenstein.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPut it on my boyfriend Paul Hinckley\u2019s charge account,\u201d she said. \u201cHe won\u2019t mind. He just became a millionaire.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n The Crescent City Steakhouse was nearly empty besides the long table assembled for their group. Behind the long bar at the back the servers chatted with a bartender, waiting to be summoned. A few red, white, and blue streamers leftover from the fourth hung lightly from the crown molding, rippling from the current of the air conditioners that kept the bright room chilled at sixty-eight degrees. Paul looked between the gray heads of Mr. and Mrs. Favrot at the flat screen television rooted on top of a shelf beside the hostess\u2019 podium. He watched statistics appear in silver boxes that shared the screen with a Mets-Royals game.<\/p>\n \u201cI think if I tried I could remember which exact years this place upgraded the television. Jeesum, look at that picture. We saw game five of the 1973 World Series here in black and white. I know that for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaulie,\u201d Mr. Favrot grinned, \u201cI can remember when they had a radio.\u201d<\/p>\n Liza sliced a soft boiled potato in half with the edge of her fork. \u201cWell, I can remember when the staff at least still wore ties<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe rib eye hasn\u2019t changed for forty years, and that\u2019s all I care about.\u201d Paul\u2019s oldest brother, Robert sat to Paul\u2019s left separated by an empty seat.<\/p>\n \u201cForty years. Jeesum,\u201d Paul said. \u201cIt seems like too short a time for this neighborhood to change so much.\u201d Beyond the large windows, carefully hidden by gauzy white valences was a typical Broad Street line of empty storefronts and rust-locked warehouse doors. \u201cWe used to be able to ride our bikes through here. You remember? Pop and you and all the other usual suspects, Mr. Favrot. You\u2019d tell us kids to be up here by seven. We all shoved into one of those little booths over there and drew the curtains and talked girls while Pop did business the way he liked to best. With a knife and a fork in his hand instead of a fountain pen.\u201d Paul and Mrs. Favrot laughed.<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, we\u2019re gonna need to get down to business ourselves soon,\u201d Joseph said. Paul looked down at the table at him, annoyed for the fiftieth time that night that his younger brother was still wearing an open-collared button-down shirt with his company\u2019s logo embroidered on it.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n Joseph leaned in and lowered his voice. \u201cThe way I see it, we got our top-tier priorities. Obituary, the wake, and getting them started carving on the headstone. Then we got secondary. Flowers, catering, Father McCafferty. The like.\u201d<\/p>\n Paul shook his head. \u201cYou\u2019re going to upset Mrs. Favrot here, Joe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s gonna write the obituary?\u201d Robert asked. \u201cI sure as hell can\u2019t do it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGuys\u2014\u201d Peter pleaded. Mr. and Mrs. Favrot turned their heads back and forth to follow the volleyed sentences.<\/p>\n \u201cYou gotta do the eulogy, though, Robbie,\u201d Joseph said, pointing. \u201cYou\u2019re the oldest. But, don\u2019t worry, we\u2019ll get someone else to write that, too.\u201d<\/p>\n Peter looked into the parsley-flecked grease coating his empty plate and shook his head. \u201cGuys, I thought maybe I could\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe Aunt Irene.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cC\u2019mon, guys, I think\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul, are you going to let them run this whole show?\u201d asked Liza.<\/p>\n Peter picked up his empty bourbon glass, lifted it six inches, and slammed it down on the table, producing a sharp knock. Then eight inches. Then ten inches. It seemed to bounce on that try and his arm flew straight up above his head. \u201cCan I get a darn drink here, please?\u201d He yelled. A college-aged waiter jogged out from behind the bar like he was coming out of a dugout, called forward to settle down a wild pitcher. He took Paul\u2019s tumbler out of his hand and replaced it with a new one containing two inches of neat whiskey that were already causing the glass to sweat. Each pair of eyes around the table watched him bring the rim close to his lips and pause.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, guys, our family is Irish in history and in name. The only business we have to take care of tonight is getting cock-eyed and sharing stories. Here\u2019s to Pop.\u201d<\/p>\n Mrs. Favrot raised her mug of coffee and her husband clapped his hands. Liza\u2019s cocktail straw was already in her mouth. Robert and Joseph leaned across the table to see each other around Paul\u2019s pose.<\/p>\n Joseph spoke first. \u201cNow, look. I can take a few guys off a crew and send them out to 3131 tomorrow. They can clean the place up and air it out for the visitation. I don\u2019t have keys though. Who has the keys?\u201d<\/p>\n Hearing the address sent something swimming amidst the half-digested steak in Paul\u2019s stomach. The old family house on St. Charles Avenue was set back on a lawn too modest for its size and flourish. The brothers had each had their reverse graduation from that house to more accessible dwellings years ago. Once the baby Joseph had left, his parents gently unemployed the staff save for one maid. Then, years later, once his mother\u2019s mind had necessitated a move to Poydras Home, James Douglas Hinckley decided to move out, too. Peter could remember the year that the house\u2019s designation shifted from \u201chome\u201d to \u201c3131.\u201d It was the same year his father took a room at the International House Hotel in the Central Business District, just a few blocks from the office building that housed the contemporary offices of Hart, Hinckley, and Sternberg. It was the year Jordan left basketball.<\/p>\n \u201cThe keys are in a safe deposit box in the Whitney Bank downtown,\u201d Robert said.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd who has that<\/em> key?\u201d asked Liza.<\/p>\n Paul downed almost all of his new drink and rose. \u201cExcuse me,\u201d he declared, and marched away towards the bathroom, pausing only to watch the glide of a home run ball in high definition.<\/p>\n In the bathroom he fumbled with his fly and stared at the wall above the urinal but couldn\u2019t recognize the blank space. While trying to figure out if it had been painted a different color, the alcohol in which his neurons were soaking had set their own agenda, and his ambitions shifted from emptying a bottle passed from couch to couch in his living room with his brothers to achieving complete euphoria on a barstool at the Mayfair Lounge.<\/p>\n He washed his hands thoroughly and reentered the dining room. At the table Liza was chewing on her red plastic cocktail stirrer while Mrs. Favrot dug through her purse looking for photographs of her grandchildren. Joseph had traded seats and now sat in the previously empty place Paul had demanded so he could speak freely with Robert. Paul checked the front pocket of his navy blazer for his wallet then stepped sideways towards the door.<\/p>\n If they\u2019re not going to have any sense of decorum<\/em>, he thought, then how can I be bothered to say goodnight?<\/em><\/p>\n A hard, wet heat pressed down on him once he was outside in the parking lot. A couple pulled themselves out of a black and white United Cab and Paul slid into the vinyl backseat they had just vacated and crossed his arms.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Mayfair Lounge,\u201d he told the driver.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that address, mister?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJeesum!\u201d Paul muttered. \u201cDoesn\u2019t anyone know this city anymore?\u201d<\/p>\n