He said: I said fine about her staying here. Not about giving her everything.
I said: Gabriel. What did you give her? You gave her a guest room that she would have used anyway and that she has not complained about once.
I said: and then the first time you wanted the room, you moved a sick woman to a basement floor.
He said: I think you’re overreacting.
I said: I want you to think about that sentence.
I said: I want you to sit with that sentence and think about whether you actually believe it or whether you are saying it because it is the most convenient thing to say.
He said nothing.
I said: goodnight, Gabriel.
I went to bed.
The next morning I called my friend Judith.
Judith had been my closest friend for fifteen years, which predated Gabriel by three years, and she had the quality of a close friend of fifteen years, which was that she knew me well enough to receive information without filling the space around it with her own reaction.
I told her what had happened.
She said: what are you going to do?
I said: I want to make a point.
She said: what kind of point?
I said: the specific kind that Gabriel cannot argue with.
She said: what does that mean?
I said: he says this is his house. He says he’s the man of the house.
She said: yes.
I said: I want to demonstrate to him what his house looks like without what I contribute to it.
She said: how?
I said: I’m going to invite someone for dinner.
She said: who?
I told her.
She said: oh.
She said: Sara.
I said: yes.
She said: that’s rather elegant.
I said: I thought so.
She said: when?
I said: tonight.
She said: all right.
She said: is there anything you need me to do?
I said: come for dinner.
She said: yes. I’ll be there.
I made two calls.
The first was to my mother’s attorney, whose name was Robert Kim, and whom I had called two weeks into my mother’s stay to have a conversation about something I had been thinking about for some time.
The conversation had gone well.
I had a document.
The document was in my possession.
The second call was to Patricia Greene.
