From 'ephron' 5 Poem by Morgan Michaels

The next day was Wednesday. Bellam called early. After a few 'how's the weather, there' type remarks, he spoke his peace.

'So, I talked with Pop'.

'Was he glad you called'?

'Unh-huh'.

'Don't you feel better'?

'Unh-huh. But, Pop isn't so sick. He's getting out, soon. He said so. What's the big deal'?

'Bellam', I chided, your father's very ill. He just doesn't know it. His doctor didn't level with him'.

'He doesn't know'?

'No, it's been kept from him. For the best possible reasons'.

There was another silence of the kind to which Bellam was prone.

'Who did you say you were'? , he asked me.

'Bellem', I said, brushing the question aside, your father's very sick. You never know how things may go. How long since you've seen him'?

'I dunno', thought Bellam, 'a few years, maybe. Not since he came to New York for some baton-makers conference. No', he mused, ' not since then'.

'Well, I don't like to tell you what to do, but I can't help thinking a visit might cheer him up'.

'I hear you', said Bellam, abruptly.

I thought a lot of him at that point.

'And I agree.There's just one thing'.

'What's that'?

'Um, I'll tell you tomorrow. Let me just say my girlfriend's sick, too'.

'Oh, I'm sorry. Is it serious'?

'We're not sure. Listen, I'll call you tomorrow'.

We hung up, me wondering if Bellam would ever call back.