Bleeding Hearts(29)

Of course, what Martin had done for George was not all that unusual on Cavanaugh Street. In a way, it was the entire explanation for Cavanaugh Street. All these older women with their town houses and their Bermuda vacations and their fur coats—it wasn’t their money that was paying for it, or the money their husbands had left either. In Gregor’s generation, only one or two people, including Gregor himself, had managed to do better than low average in a financial sense. Lida and Hannah and all the rest of them had brought their children up on Cavanaugh Street when Cavanaugh Street was not much better than a slum. They had watched their husbands die of early heart attacks from working three jobs to put the children through college. They had lived on rice and beans to make sure they could send money enough for meat to their precious Karens and Stephens and Lisas and Alexanders, away at law and medical school and in need of protein to keep up their strength. It was the Karens and Stephens and Lisas and Alexanders who had made good. And paid off. Cavanaugh Street was a tribute to American upward mobility and Armenian family sense.

Old George was sitting in the overstuffed chair next to his fireplace, surrounded by what seemed to be a pile of shiny socks. On the table next to his right arm was a pile of food that looked like nothing Angela Tekemanian had ever prescribed for a diet for anyone. Angela had been a nutritionist before she went to law school. She tended to favor the low fat and the aggressively green. Gregor supposed the food on the table had come from Linda Melajian and Ararat. Old George had a plate of boerag on his lap. The socks had been made into balls and then—what? What had happened to those socks? And how many pairs of socks did old George Tekemanian own?

“Come in,” George said again. “Come in, come in. You must see this thing. And you must eat some food.”

“Martin and Angela are due in at six o’clock,” Donna told him. “George doesn’t want to be caught with the loot. He says Angela is beginning to get very, very sticky.”

“Angela is always sticky,” George said. “But she means well. This last time, though, Krekor, she talked for thirty-five minutes about arteriosclerosis. I tried to tell her if I don’t have it now, I’m not going to get it, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Angela never really listens to anybody,” Donna said.

“Watch what I do to these socks, Krekor. It is a wonderful thing.”

George reached to the table and took a pair of socks from behind a tall box of patlijanov dolma. The socks were rolled into a ball and not shiny at all. He put his plate of boerag back on the table and replaced it with what looked like a small white plastic box. Then he held the socks in the air and grinned.

“Here,” he said. “Observe.”

Gregor tried to observe. The socks went into the box. The socks came out of the box. The socks were turned over and went half into the box. Gregor couldn’t follow it. Suddenly old George was sitting there with his hands still and the box closed, and the socks were shiny.

Gregor walked over, took the socks out of old George’s hands, and held them in the air. They seemed to be coated in clear plastic.

“What is this?” he asked. “What did you do to them?”

“They’re vacuum sealed,” Donna Moradanyan said.

“It was Angela’s idea this time,” old George said. “With this device, you can do many wonderful things. You can freeze vegetables absolutely fresh. You can keep chicken without its skin in the freezer for months, without having to worry about freezer burn. You can have healthy food all the time, and never have to worry about going off your diet.”

“We’ve been vacuum-sealing George’s sock collection all morning,” Donna said. “Next we’re going to start on his ties.”

Old George put the newly-shiny socks on the pile and the vacuum-sealer device back on the table. He grabbed a couple of dolma out of the large box and started to eat.

“We will keep the ties for when Tommy gets home,” old George said. “Also the loukoumia. Tommy has gone to play group at the church school, Krekor. He likes it very much.”

Tommy was Donna Moradanyan’s very small son—three years old now, Gregor thought, though he had to work at it to remember. Tommy had been born the first year Gregor had been back on Cavanaugh Street. That much he was sure of.

“Play group,” Gregor said. “That ought to be interesting. I can see Tommy now, marching up to old Mrs. Hogrogian and saying ‘I’m not particularly happy with these weather conditions we’re having today, are you?’ ”

“Tcha. That’s Father Tibor’s fault,” old George said. “Reading the child Aristotle before he was even out of diapers.”