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night that we had to be in Nat’s office this morning at ten-thirty. He had a puzzled look on his face. So I reminded him that it had been his idea to meet with Nat as soon as he returned from some legal conference over in Hong Kong. Saul has been going downhill and said he wanted to put his affairs in order while he was still well enough.
    Saul became agitated. “How dare you try to interfere,” he said. No, make that shouted—shouted so loud, in fact, that they could probably hear him all the way down on Sherbrooke Street. He said all I wanted was his money. That I didn’t give a rat’s ass—what a disgusting expression—about him. I sat through his tirade, which lasted only a few moments but seemed to go on forever. When he was finished, he got up and went into the kitchen, looking, I was sure, for the bottle of scotch that I had hidden under the counter. Dr. Tremblay told me it was okay for him to have a glass or two, but not his usual three or four.
    I waited for him to storm back into the living room, accusing me of hiding it. But there was only silence. A few moments later, I went into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, staring at the napkin holder. I figured it wouldn’t do any good to bring up the subject of our meeting again, so I helped him up from his chair and guided him into the bedroom beside the den.
    I had moved our bedroom down from the second floor a couple of weeks before, knowing that as Saul got worse, the stairs would become not only an annoyance but dangerous.
    This morning, I woke him up at seven-thirty and went into the kitchen to make breakfast while he got into the clothes that I’d laid out for him. It breaks my heart to watch him stare at a sock or a shoe, trying to figure out what to do with it. Sometimes it’s no problem, and other times I have to come back in the room and rearrange him. Today, he did it right and came into the kitchen with a smile on his face.
    “We’re going to see Nat this morning,” he said, as if we had never discussed it.
    I nodded as I placed his favorite pecan and banana pancakes with Quebec maple syrup in front of him. Although I sometimes wonder why I don’t just use the cheaper fake syrup, because, at this point, I don’t think he can tell the difference. But I would feel like a traitor if I did that.
    He always made such a big deal of knowing if it was the real stuff. He would sometimes put his hands over his eyes and dare me to trick him. “Go ahead, chou-fleur , try to fool me,” he would say. That was his favorite name for me. It sounds better in French than cauliflower, its English translation. But he doesn’t say it in either language anymore.
    Nat couldn’t have been nicer. He listened patiently as Saul rambled on about how he had scored a hole in one on the par three, seventh hole at the golf club we used to belong to. Not only was that fifteen years ago, but Nat was playing in the same foursome.
    After about ten minutes, Nat changed the conversation to a power of attorney for when Saul wouldn’t be able to handle his own affairs. I sat there, squirming in my seat. I knew that even though Saul and maybe others wouldn’t think me capable of counting past ten on my fingers, I was the one who should handle everything. Who else would have Saul’s best interest at heart? And who else loves the children as much as I do and would look out for them? And I’m no imbecile. You don’t have to go to school and get a degree to have common sense.
    Nat asked me if I would share with him the duties of administering the power of attorney, or living mandate, as he called it, when Saul could no longer cope, as well as be an executor of Saul’s will. I looked over at Saul. He was fumbling with the tassel on his loafer. I wanted him to say something, to give me permission. Finally, Nat asked him what he thought. He looked over at me and mumbled, “There’s no way.”
    Nat could see me turning red. He got up and whispered something in Saul’s