Leonard Bernstein Comes Home

“Lennie, your father is dead.”

Leonard Bernstein Lambig paused, trying to determine the proper reaction to this sort of news. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes, really. What kind of mother calls up her only son to joke about the death of her husband?”

“Just a minute, mom.” Lennie set the receiver on top of a copy of H. G. Wells’ History of the World and dug around under the seat cushion of his overstuffed chair, looking for his inhaler. It was getting more difficult for him to breathe.

His mother’s high voice squeaked at him from the receiver. “Lennie? Lennie! What do you mean, ‘wait a minute’? Lennie? Don’t tell me you have to get to a good stopping point in the book you’re reading! Lennie . . . ?”

No luck with the chair. Lennie noted that he had stopped reading on page 458 of Atlas Shrugged, closed the book, and set it on the coffee table on top of a pile of hard-covers. As his airways narrowed, Lennie felt panic welling inside him. He searched more frantically for his inhaler, toppling piles of books and shuffling dirty paper plates. He moved his search to the kitchen and finally found his inhaler sticking half out of the toaster.

He gave it a shake and took a hit. It tasted bitter, more bitter than he remembered it tasting. Still, it cleared up his airways enough that he could calm down. He turned the inhaler over in his hand and discovered that it had expired over a month ago.

He returned to his seat and retrieved the receiver. “Mom, you still there?”

“Of course. Where did you go?”

“I had to find my inhaler.”

“Oh!”

“What happened?”

“Well, your father had a heart attack on the way home from bowling, and his car ran into a telephone pole.”

“So did he die of cardiovascular failure or blunt force trauma?”

“What?”

“Did the heart attack kill him, or did the telephone pole?”

“Oh. I don’t know. It just happened a few hours ago. I’m still at the hospital. I’m doing okay, though.”

Leonard shook his head, realizing that he should have asked about her mental well-being after such a shock. “I’m sorry. Do you need me to do something?”

“Can you come down here? I need your help with the, uh, all the stuff that comes after.”

“You mean with the will and the funeral arrangements, that sort of thing?” Leonard suddenly needed another bitter hit from the inhaler.

“We took care of most of the funeral arrangements already. We thought it was a good idea after his first heart attack. We didn’t want to be a burden on you if both of us should go at the same time . . . ”

“. . . ”

“I’m not really sure what I need you to do. I just . . . I haven’t really had to deal with this sort of thing before. I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

Leonard looked at his watch. It was nearly half past ten on a Wednesday night. “Do you really need me down there tonight? It’s late as it is, and I’m supposed to be on call tomorrow night, so I’d have to arrange a substitution. And then I have to --”

“Yes. Lennie, this is your mother. I need your help.”

“All right, mom. At which hospital can I find you?”

“Ellen is here with me. She can drop me off at home. I’ll meet you at the house.” Lennie sighed loudly. Bargersville was a two-hour drive.

“Okay. Give me a little time to pack up some necessaries and make a few phone calls. I should be there a little after one.”

“Thank you, Lennie.”

“Bye, mom.”