The Motion of Light in Water: Sex and Science Fiction Writing in the East Village

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MY FATHER HAD BEEN sick almost a year. Already he’d had one lung removed. But after a time home — which he spent mostly in bed, listening to programs of eclectic classical music (Penderecki, Kodaly’s Sonata for Unaccompanied Cello) on WBAI-FM, all of which were new to him and pleased him greatly, or sitting up in his robe and pajamas working on a few ordered and geometric paintings of cityscapes in which there were no people (he’d always wanted to paint) — he began to grow weaker. Soon he was in pain. Toward the end of September an ambulance was sent for to take him to the hospital. But the attendants who arrived to strap him into their stretcher, there in the apartment hall in his dark robe and pale pajamas, were too rough, yanking down the straps and buckles over his thin legs that, by now, could not fully straighten. After asking them twice to loosen them, he began to shout: “Stop it! You’re hurting me! Stop —!” Lips tight, my mother stood, flustered, embarrassed, and worried at once, perfectly still.

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