My parents and I aren’t there five minutes before my uncle’s roommate starts in. “SHUT UP!” yells Mr. Green.*  Our arrival in the middle of Christina’s Court is clearly a major inconvenience.   

I usually don’t talk back to my elders.  But it occurs to me to do it now because my gut tells me that Mr. Green would actually enjoy it.  “Hey, don’t tell us to shut up,” I deadpan just in case I’m wrong. 

But of course, Uncle Nelson takes this way more seriously than either I or my parents do, and he is having no such mistreatment of his guests. “You shut up, stupid.” He is much more coherent today than usual. 

“I’M NOT STUPID!” Mr. Green says. “I’M A LAWYER!” I get it now. He always yells. The family photos and greeting cards on the corkboard above his bed seem recent, suggesting that his relatives visit with respectable frequency. At least, that’s what I want to believe and so I do.

“He’s a correction officer,” I say, winking at my uncle.  “He can lock you up so you better watch yourself.” Since moving into this nursing home, my uncle has taken to curling his knees towards his face. I don’t think it pains him to straighten his legs as much as he finds comfort in the fetal position. Hell, I’ll be 39 on Friday, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I achieve occasional solace by rolling myself into a ball whenever life requires it. Or yelling like Mr. Green for that matter.

Or humor. Especially with strangers whom you suspect are really not all that strange. “You a lawyer?” my father asks Mr. Green. “I need a lawyer. You retired?” 

Mr. Green hesitates. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s not a lawyer and is trying to conjure up a believable answer or because he is (more like was) a lawyer and can’t recall what kind of law he practiced or because he’s ignoring my father in the hopes that he’ll shut the hell up and let him watch Cristina’s Court in peace.

Finally, Mr. Green says, “NOT ANY MORE.”

 “What kind?” asks Pa. “Criminal?” 

My uncle mutters, “Eso lo que dice.”  That’s a polite way to say Bullshit in Spanish. I grin, motioning to my mother as if to say Didya hear that? Orneriness is a sign of a good day.   

“NO!” Mr. Green finally answers. “NOT CRIMINAL! DOMESTIC!”

One day – if we’re all lucky – he will learn not to encourage my father. Today is not that day.  “Oh, yeah?  Good, I’m gonna retain you.  I want a divorce.”

Although she doesn’t say a word about it, I know what my mother thinks whenever Pa starts in on his marriage-is-prison shtick.  After forty-nine years of marriage, that fool ain’t going nowhere.  Ignoring my father – as she should – Ma turns her attention to my uncle.  In Spanish, she tells him how everyone in the family is, including the news that my cousin has moved back from Florida to the Bronx and will come visit him soon.

This upsets my father. He storms towards the door of the room and motions for me to follow.  He glares at my mother as he waits for me to reach him.  Once in the hallway, I whisper, “What?”

“She can’t tell him all that!”

“Why not?”

“Because the next thing you know she’s going to let it slip that Melissa is moving downstairs, and he’s going to start asking for Ma.”  Downstairs is shorthand for the first floor of my grandmother’s two-family home.  My grandmother passed in 2002, but stricken with the same Alzheimer’s that took my grandfather several years later, my uncle often forgets this.  “Then he’s going to start crying.”

But it’s too late. Uncle Nelson has already started crying.  This time, however, it’s because it’s almost two o’clock, and the nurses never brought his morning coffee. 

When Pa and I walk back into the room, Ma is promising him the coffee. Now I’m the one who’s annoyed. “You can’t promise him that,” I say in a strained whisper. “What if they didn’t give it to him because he can’t have any?” I jerk my head toward the IV tube attached to Uncle Nelson’s arm to reiterate my point.  Given that he is relatively spry today, there’s no telling what he’ll do if we promise him coffee and can’t deliver.  The man has been known to rip out the IV tube and attempt to escape.  My family chooses to count such incidents toward his good days, the snickering amongst ourselves as he repeats a Rikers Island war story for the thousandth time long behind us. 

In the middle of lecturing my mother, I catch Mr. Green shooting an obscene gesture at my uncle.  No, he’s not flipping him the bird. That’s way too pedestrian for such a proud man. And it’s not the fongool (technically the vaffanculo although I prefer to call it the Scalia.)  It’s the one where you slap the inside of your elbow as you punch your arm forward. Yeah, the one Danny Aiello does in that movie. That one.

My uncle says, “I dare you.” An odd response.  But it’s feisty so we take it.

“I’M NOT GOING TO HIT YOU!” yells Mr. Greene.  Of course, he’s not. Judge Alex has just started, and it’s Sugar Mama Week. 

“Mr. Green, who’s your favorite?” I ask.  “Judge Judy?” Apparently, he’s decided that it’s best to ignore me. OK.  

Needing to feel useful, I go to the nurse’s station to ask if my uncle can have coffee. He can’t, but the attendant is kind enough to bring me a carton of sugar-free juice.  We give that to Uncle Nelson, and it lets us off the hook for a while. No requests for coffee, no questions about my grandmother, no tears.  About fifteen minutes later, my father decides that we should not push our luck, and we start our goodbyes.  

So I walk over to my uncle and give him a kiss on the forehead.  Although it has thinned considerably over the years, he still boasts quite a bit of bordering-on-black hair. As I pull away from him and head for the door, I pray he doesn’t cry. 

He cries very easily these days, this man who served twenty-seven years in one of New York City’s largest correctional facilities. We laughed at his stories all those years, rolled our eyes, made cracks under our breath.  There he goes again.  Now sometimes during visits, we solicit those stories. Uncle Nelson, remember when that riot broke out…  Sometimes we tell him the story, filling in the details he can’t recall or is too incoherent to convey.  We ask to make him feel more virile, ourselves less sad. To remind everyone that for all our complaints to the contrary, we were eating up every word.  

Today Uncle Nelson doesn’t cry or call after me as I leave his room. Yes, as far as they go nowadays, this is as good as a day can get.  “See you later, Mr. Green.” And I actually mean it even though I expect him to continue to ignore me. It’d be nice to see him again.  Spar a little with him. Maybe we’ll even get to meet his family someday.  

“BYE!”

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