I'M WORKING late on the Greatest Book of Quotations when a paramedic calls to tell me that Father has hurt himself again. She refers to him as Flynn, one of his made-up names, and for a moment I think of telling her no, that's not my father. That man you have there, I've never heard of him before.
In Quotations I'm just starting a new section, Proverbs. There it is on the laptop in front of me, the work in progress. So far I'm not impressed. A stitch in time saves nine, but Good things come to those who wait. Better safe than sorry, but Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Whatever your prejudice, there's a proverb for you. The wisdom of the mob. First this way, then that.
“Hello?” says the voice. “Are you still there?”
I close my computer, push it away. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah.”
I FIND THEM at a bus stop, Father dark and thin, an eighty-year-old schoolboy sitting with his hands meekly folded. It's April 2020, so the paramedic wears a mask. She's put one on Father, too, so I can't see if he's continued dyeing his moustache. The paramedic tells me he's fallen and bruised his hip pretty bad, but they're trying to keep the hospitals clear. Hence me. I tell her I understand. On account of Father I've met quite a few paramedics the past little while, and as a rule I like them. An amiable bunch. This one's
