The Director of Minor Tragedies

Adam Levtov wondered if he had died in his sleep. Joel was texting one of his high school friends, oblivious to Levtov’s synthetically cheery, “Hey, good morning, Dude!” Rebecca was on the phone with the roofing people, haggling over the estimate, which seemed to be coming in much higher than his lawyer wife felt justified. She was letting the roofer know of her intense displeasure, and did not turn her face from the phone when her husband entered the study, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

Levtov wondered if he might be nothing more than a ghost unable to accept his own ghostliness. Or perhaps his body was now inhabited by a dybbuk—a wandering soul or malevolent spirit. From his father’s Hasidic folk tales, Levtov recalled that the entry of a dybbuk into a living person’s body signified the person’s secret sin--the sin having opened a door through which the evil spirit can enter. Only Pupik, the family’s runt of a cat, seemed to take notice of Levtov, briefly rubbing her scrunched-up face against the leg of his pajamas. He smiled, reassured briefly of his own corporeality.

From upstairs, the sound of his father-in-law’s muffled soliloquy reminded Levtov that the dress rehearsal of Othello was only two months away. Sometimes, the old man’s brain seemed uncannily intact, given his condition. But the doctors had taught the family that this was how Alzheimer’s—if it was Alzheimer’s—often worked. The patient might be able to repeat flawlessly some poem he had memorized in grade school, or sing a Frank Sinatra tune from 1963, yet be unable to remember that he had eaten breakfast an hour ago. Something about “Ribot’s Law”-- the oldest memories were the most resistant; the newer ones, fleeting as dandelion fluff. And now the words, though indistinct, were unmistakable: the old man was reciting from Othello, in that grandiloquent baritone he had burnished over fifty years ago: "Rude am I in speech, and little blest with the soft phrase of peace."

Act 1, Scene 3. For reasons unclear, from cerebral depths unknown, Eliezer Kornbluth always seemed aware of the play his son-in-law was working on. And as a professor of English literature for over fifty years, the old man had plenty of advice to offer, his dementia notwithstanding.

Now the voice from upstairs was louder, more melodic, and definitely not Shakespearean. “Oh, do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man....” Then a huge, clattering boom shook the entire house, bringing down a poorly-hung Manet from the living room wall.

“Adam!” Rebecca’s voice rang out, “Would you please check on Pop! I’m on the phone with the roofer.”

Levtov was already running late. In another half hour, he would meet his nine o’clock class, then attend rehearsal at ten-thirty. Jabari Frazier, the kid playing Othello, had a raw and powerful presence, but lacked finesse and was having trouble with the Elizebethan cadences. Levtov wondered if there was some unspoken resentment on Frazier’s part, whose sullen looks and mutterings were now a growing distraction.

“Yeah, OK, I’ve got it covered!” he called back to Rebecca. Last week, it was Pop sneaking out of the house at five in the morning, winding up at the Levine’s, and feeding their dog the thick, porterhouse steak Rebecca had bought for Saturday’s dinner. “Sundowning,” Dr. Stolberg had called it--but lately, Elie’s confusion and wandering seemed to start closer to sunrise.

Levtov started to bolt up the stairs, then heard a hair-raising, “Mryeeowwww!” as his foot crushed Pupik’s scrawny tail. Poor, pitiful, Pupik: the runt of the litter, tormented by her first owner’s sadistic seven-year-old--and now so traumatized, you never knew if she would purr in your arms or take a claws-out swipe at your face.

Levtov entered his father-in-law’s bedroom: the usual clutter of stained underwear, empty tins of smoked whitefish, and carelessly tossed texts of Elizabethan drama lay partly buried by the huge, oaken book shelf that had been toppled over, probably as the old man was rummaging for some arcane volume.

“Jesus, Pop, are you OK? We felt the whole house shake and...”

“OK, OK, am I OK?” Elie Kornbluth replied, staring at the floor. He was still in his pajamas, the bottoms of which revealed a dark, spreading spot near the old man’s crotch. “How should I be? I have no staff, no retinue! My students have deserted me...Oh, how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!”

“Pop, listen—I have to get going to the college. Let’s get you back in bed, OK, then Rebecca will come up and get the room back to normal, and...”

Suddenly, the old man’s expression brightened, his face shorn of twenty hard years. “So, boychik, are you still working on Othello? Or do they have you back doing the dog-work plays? Othello, you know, it’s very demanding. Edmund Kean collapsed during his performance in 1833—Act 3, Scene, 3. Then there was...”

“Yeah, Pop,” Levtov interrupted, “I’m doing Othello. They gave me the good stuff this time. No more Timon of Athens!”

“Glad to hear that,” his father-in-law intoned, pulling up his pajama bottoms and struggling to organize his tangled thoughts. Placques and tangles in the brain—that’s what the doctors had told the family. “They need to make use of your talents, Adam. After all, how many drama teachers write a successful Broadway play, even if you...”

“It was off Broadway, Pop. And that was a long time ago. I’m the one-hit wonder, remember?” Levtov carefully maneuvered the old man back into bed and seemed eager to change the subject.

The old man’s face quickly darkened. His eyes narrowed, as if to see his son-in-law more clearly. “Ah, yes. Isn’t that what the Englishman in your department calls you? What’s his name—Summerfield? Summerstock? Well, Adam, it’s a shame, with all your potential! Honestly, my dear, how long are you going to let your guilt over that one play deter you from...”

“Pop, I really need to get going,” Levtov interjected tersely, feeling his face fill with blood. “I’ll get Rebecca to come up in a minute.”

Levtov lifted the empty book case off the floor, leaving tattered volumes of Shakespeare, Spencer, Marlowe and Chekhov strewn about. Even in his demented state, Eliezer Kornbluth still managed to get under his son-in-law’s skin. Being reminded of Ivor Somerset—that womanizing twit!—was bad enough. But being reminded of “Lustig the Tummler”—his smash-hit play—was the last thing Adam Levtov needed.