Part 21 (2/2)
”No,” I said.
”I don't think I do either. You have more?”
”Four more,” I said.
”Do you think any of them are funny?”
”No,” I said.
”It doesn't matter. Do you know why I told you to collect jokes?”
”To cheer me up,” I said.
She shook her head no vigorously, and said, ”It was to get you to make contact with people, to ask them for something that might help you, to let you know that people are willing to respond to a request for a little help. The important question isn't whether the jokes are funny, but whether the people who told them to you smiled when they told you. Did they smile?”
”I think so,” I said. ”I don't know about the ones I got over the phone.”
”Next a.s.signment,” she said. ”Memorize these jokes and the other ones you have and tell them to someone you care about.”
”I can't tell jokes,” I said.
”Of course you can. You just did. You simply tell them badly. Memorize them and tell them to someone.”
”You want me to do a stand-up comedy act?”
”If you want to put it that way,” she said. ”Before we get together again you present your act to someone.”
”Who?”
”To Catherine,” she said. ”Not the baby. Your wife. Imagine her responses. Come back and tell me if she finds your jokes funny, if she smiles, makes faces, groans.”
”I can't,” I said.
”You can do it,” she said soothingly. ”You can do it.”
”I'll try.”
”Don't try, succeed. You know who was a great teller of jokes and stories? General Patton. Loved to tell jokes and funny stories. I think he was depressed, too. I've been told he sometimes had his jeep driver completely naked when he drove him around after a battle. He'd pretend not to notice and people were too embarra.s.sed to look at the driver or say anything. Patton thought it was hilarious.”
”That rea.s.sures me,” I said. ”But I don't think the world's ready to see me walking around naked.”
”Sarcasm,” she said. ”A small step toward recovery. A step to one side of comedy. Let's try something. You've told me all the wonderful things about your wife, her beauty, wit, kindness, idiosyncrasies. Tell me things you didn't like about her.”
”There are none,” I said.
”She was a human being, not a G.o.ddess. It is not disloyal to remember her as a human being. Besides, it is easier to tell jokes to a human being than a G.o.ddess.”
I looked down at my cup of coffee, cocoa brown with two packets of artificial sweetener. I drank.
”Start small,” Ann prompted.
”She left cabinet doors open,” I said. ”I always had to close them. I told her about it at first and then I just gave up and did it.”
”You liked doing it, closing the cabinet doors?”
”I didn't mind. Sometimes it bothered me but usually...”
”You smiled and did it,” said Ann.
”Yes,” I said.
”I'm not sure I'd count that as a fault, but it's a start.”
”She told me what to do when I drove, told me if I was going too fast or too slow, or not pa.s.sing other drivers when I should or pa.s.sing them when I shouldn't.”
”That bothered you.”
”Yes.”
”Because you're a good driver?”
”Yes.”
”Progress. More.”
”She was always telling me to stand up straight, sit up straight. We'd be out somewhere and she'd come up behind me and press her hand into my lower back to remind me to straighten up.”
”She press you hard? Did it hurt?”
”No, it wasn't that she was wrong. I guess I didn't like the criticism.”
”Keep going.”
”She was almost always late when we had somewhere to go. She'd tell me she would be ready in five minutes and it was always fifteen or even twenty and we'd have to drive like h.e.l.l to get where we were going on time.”
”And she would be telling you how to drive during all this?”
”Yes,” I said.
”Do you want to cry?” Ann asked.
”Yes,” I said.
”Because you feel disloyal to her memory?”
”Because I miss her faults,” I said.
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