"Nope. Apparently she had a lot of trouble with the written work, so she gave it up. She's a cleaning lady. A cleaning lady with a broken heart, and broken dreams. That's why she looks old. Not because she got fat. Because she stopped dreaming."

"You may be right about that."

"I know know I'm right about that." I'm right about that."

When did I I stop dreaming, and is it possible to start dreaming again? I suspect my son knows the answer to this question, but I'm afraid to ask him. stop dreaming, and is it possible to start dreaming again? I suspect my son knows the answer to this question, but I'm afraid to ask him.

Then, suddenly, out of the blue, there's something I absolutely have to do, as soon as possible. I stop walking, grab Jake by the elbow. "Listen, kid, I need a favor."

"A favor?"

"I have to see Margie, and you've got to come with me."

Jake's eyes widen. "You sure you want me to go with you? I can wait at the house."

"No, no, no. I came with you to see Sarah, now you've got to come with me to see Margie. Give me your cell phone."

I refuse to carry a cell phone. This had been a sore point between me and Derek Slaughterchild. The last thing I want in life is to be reachable at all times. I'd sooner wear an ankle cuff that beeps every time you leave the house.

I call Margie, who's out someplace loud with laughter. It turns out to be a bar on the Upper West Side, where she's having drinks with the girls from her office. Not surprisingly, she's in a giggly state.

"You're interrupting my girlie night!" she says in mock anger.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," I say. "Listen, could we get a quick drink?"

"I thought you had your son tonight!"

"I do. He's with me."

"Oh my G.o.d, don't tell me I'm actually going to meet meet him!" him!"

"Can we get that drink?"

"Come on over!" Margie says. "You know where I am!"

She hangs up without saying good-bye. I turn to Jake. "Do you mind doing this, kid? It won't take long."

"Ooh. That doesn't sound good, Dad."

"It won't be good, but it'll be brief. I've got to clear the deck, just like you did."

It takes us less than ten minutes to walk there. It's an old-fashioned joint, dark and high-ceilinged. We walk in together at the height of a raucous happy hour. Margie yells my name before I have a chance to pick her out of the crowd.

Not too many things in this world look as good as a blonde in black. Margie is rail-thin, and the black pants and jacket make her look even skinnier. She's had a few white wines, and as she approaches me she staggers and falls into my arms.

She tends to get drunk fast, because she doesn't eat. She prides prides herself on not eating. I once cooked dinner for Margie, chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes, and after she'd eaten a mouthful or two she lit up a cigarette and used her plate for an ashtray. I can still see the cigarette b.u.t.t she jammed into the leftover mashed potatoes, angled like a sinking ocean liner just as it's about to plunge underwater forever. That was probably the moment I realized we were doomed. herself on not eating. I once cooked dinner for Margie, chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes, and after she'd eaten a mouthful or two she lit up a cigarette and used her plate for an ashtray. I can still see the cigarette b.u.t.t she jammed into the leftover mashed potatoes, angled like a sinking ocean liner just as it's about to plunge underwater forever. That was probably the moment I realized we were doomed.

But who am I kidding? We would have been doomed anyway, no matter how great a girl she was.

With my help, Margie struggles to her feet, kisses my cheek, and lets out a whoop. "Admit it, I make a great first impression, don't I?" She giggles, then formally extends a hand to Jake. "h.e.l.lo, I'm Margie."

"Jake."

"My G.o.d, Sammy, you never told me he has a beard!" beard!"

"He didn't, the last time I saw him."

"Well, Jake, it's good to finally meet you."

How can someone I've been seeing for barely a month talk about how good it is to "finally" meet my son?

"Listen," I say, "it's loud in here. Can we go outside for a minute?"

"Great idea. Let me get my cigarettes."

She goes back to her table full of girlfriends, none of whom I've met. They look appraisingly at Jake and me, covering their mouths as they whisper to each other and laugh like mad.

Margie sighs as she steps outside, leans against the building, and lights up a Marlboro. "Do you smoke, Jake?"

"No, I don't."

"Good for you. Don't start, that's my advice. I know it'll be absolute h.e.l.l h.e.l.l for me when I have to stop." for me when I have to stop."

And I know exactly when that will be-when she decides to get pregnant. As I mentioned, Margie is thirty-seven years old. Within a week of meeting her, she made it clear to me that one day not long from now, she wants to have a baby. Her biological clock is gonging away like Big Ben. She does not have time to waste, and the terrible truth is that I am a waste of time.

Margie inhales deeply and thoughtfully, really enjoying it, the way you enjoy something you know you are about to lose. She smiles at Jake, shaking her head in what appears to be wonder. "He certainly looks like you, under all that hair."

There's never a good time to pull the trigger. You just have to pull it.

"Margie," I say, "we can't do this anymore."

The cigarette in her mouth slants downward, just as I've seen it happen dozens of times to startled actors in the movies but never in real life, until now. She takes the cigarette and throws it toward the street. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that our relationship isn't going anywhere. I'm breaking up with you. I'm really sorry."

She's still leaning against the building. She puts a hand behind her back and pushes herself to a standing position on tottering legs. "I don't understand. Is this a joke joke?"

"I would never joke about this. You want things I don't want. You want to do things I've already done. There's no point in us being together."

She looks at Jake, the thing I've already done. It's hard to tell, but Margie appears to be more stunned than hurt. I'm hoping that's the case, and of course I'm wrong. She puts her hands over her face and starts to cry.

I stand there paralyzed, but Jake does not. He takes Margie in his arms like an old friend and strokes her hair. Margie puts her arms around Jake and cries on his shoulder.

"It's okay," he a.s.sures her. "You're going to be okay."

The other smokers outside the bar are staring at this oddest of scenes-a woman who's just been dumped by her middle-aged boyfriend being consoled by the boyfriend's teenage son, a kid she met five minutes earlier. Jake maintains the embrace until Margie pulls back. She holds him by the shoulders and asks, "How did a s.h.i.t like your father ever have a wonderful son like you?"

"He's not a s.h.i.t, Margie, he's just going through a troubled time. He likes you. That's why he doesn't want to waste your time."

"Is that right?"

Jake touches Margie's cheek. "Your dreams aren't his dreams. It's as simple as that."

At last Margie looks at me, then back at Jake. Her eyes shine with tears as she forces a smile. "Would you consider getting involved with an older woman, Jake?"

He smiles. "I have a feeling you'd be more than I could handle."

"Well, all I can say is, somebody somebody raised you right. Your mother, I suspect." She kisses Jake on the cheek, turns to me. "I guess there's nothing to talk about." raised you right. Your mother, I suspect." She kisses Jake on the cheek, turns to me. "I guess there's nothing to talk about."

"Not really, Margie."

"How can you be this cold?" cold?"

"I'm not cold, I'm numb. And I really am sorry."

She nods at me, her face all twisted in a kind of sour grat.i.tude. In the big picture, I've done the right thing, but it's hard to appreciate the big picture when you're stuck in the misery of the little picture.

Margie clears her throat. "I'm going back to my friends, then." She wipes her eyes, tosses her hair, and shakes a finger in Jake's face. "You, young man. Please don't ever change the way you are." She kisses his hairy cheek, turns, and walks back inside without even looking at me. young man. Please don't ever change the way you are." She kisses his hairy cheek, turns, and walks back inside without even looking at me.

Jake and I stand there for a moment on this sidewalk carpeted with countless cigarette b.u.t.ts, all spongy under our feet. Jake lets out a long, sad sigh.

"Okay, Dad? Are we even now?"

"We're even...Guess we've both got clear decks now, huh?"

"That's one way of looking at it."

"Let's walk."

I shouldn't feel good, but I do. There's a spring to my step and I almost feel like breaking into a run.

"This may sound bizarre to you, Jake, but it's actually kind of refreshing, refreshing, not having a job or a girlfriend." not having a job or a girlfriend."

"It's not bad being a dropout without a girlfriend, either."

"Funny, I never even got to tell Margie that I got fired."

"Did you really like her, Dad?"

"Jake. Except for you, I honestly don't know if I really like anybody."

By the time we get home, that feeling of exhilaration has melted. We're both exhausted, and neither of us is hungry. It's barely eight o'clock, but we flop on the beds and fall asleep watching the Yankees game. Jake sleeps on his back, arms stretched wide, his breaths long and even. His brow is slightly knotted, as if he's conked out without quite resolving everything that's on his mind.

In the middle of the night I get up to cover Jake with a quilt, and at the touch of it he opens his eyes.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Just covering you.... You know, when you were born, I wanted to move to the country."

"You did?"

"It was just an idea I had."

"Mom would have hated it."

"That's why we didn't go."

"Think it would have been good?"

I stroke his forehead. "I don't know, buddy, I don't know. It would have been different."

"Don't agonize over it, Dad."

In the moonlight I see something over Jake's right eye, a whisper of a scar that I've somehow not noticed in daylight. I trace it with my finger.

Jake catches my wrist. "What are you doing?"

"You've got some kind of a scar here."

"Ah, I've had that my whole life."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's from the time I fell off the monkey bars."

"Come on. It's got to be from something else!"

"It isn't."

"You were four when that happened! How could you still have a scar?"

"I fell a long way. Don't you remember?"

I stroke his hair, sigh at the memory of it. "I remember, all right."

We were at a playground in Central Park on a beautiful autumn day, just Jake and me. He was a very good climber, with an apelike grip that enabled him to climb the monkey bars faster and higher than any of his friends.

He was so good at climbing that I became a little lackadaisical about watching him. Sure enough, it happened just as my attention waned. Down he went from the top of the bars, opening up a gash on his forehead that bled as if he'd been shot.

I carried him howling to the emergency room at St. Luke's/ Roosevelt Hospital, where a kindly old doctor applied a local anaesthetic before doing the needlework. Jake lay on his back the whole while, eyes tightly shut, his feet trembling in their little red sneakers. The anaesthetic didn't totally kill the pain, so Jake winced and moaned every time the needle went in, and I held his hand and told him to squeeze me as hard as he could.

I was crying, and trying not to let him see it. The doctor-eyegla.s.ses perched on the tip of his nose, bald on top, squiggly gray curls tumbling over his ears-spoke soothingly as he worked.

"How did this happen?" he asked calmly.