Jed Wolf

On my way to the memory care wing of mother’s assisted living facility, I stopped my truck, pulled back into my driveway, and returned to grab my portable Bose speaker. Despite Alzheimer’s, my ninety-two-year-old mother still remembers lyrics to countless Broadway and Standard songs. She could have been a great singer had anyone bothered to encourage her. These days, in lieu of conversation, I bring orchestral accompaniments when I remember.

I like to have music playing when I knock on her door and peer in. Frequently, I catch her roommate Francis snooping around my mother’s things while she sleeps. Francis scurries to her side of the room when I enter, timidly asking if I will visit her too. But her voice is too diminutive to hear, and besides, musical theater takes precedence.

I jiggle my mother’s shoulder, and when she finally recognizes me, she automatically starts acting like I’m rescuing her. Pretending I’ve been there for hours, “Maria, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard…” helps get her into her wheelchair and out the door. Her hallway is part of a closed loop that takes us through several sitting areas, past occupants glaring from their rooms and a fish tank where some new resident desperately pleads with me to take her home. Rather than get sucked into her vortex, I smile and keep our beat, edging past a gaggle of slow-moving “actives” with walkers and canes who either wave and smile—or don’t.

By the time we reach the community room, we’re already into the second chorus of “You Make Me Feel So Young,” which gives you an idea of the loop’s size. I know the combination to the exit doors, so in summer, my mother and I circle the courtyard. She used to say the exact same thing, the exact same way, about the exact same rose bush all afternoon, so now we sing instead. Sometimes we leave the compound altogether and head across the street to a bike path which leads under the Merritt Parkway along the Housatonic, where I read her graffiti or sing Italian opera for her and the pigeons.

Today, the community room linoleum is being buffed, so we duck into the snack room. The disoriented new resident soon finds us, dressed in her winter coat, hat, and purse, demanding I call her family immediately. This behavior is typical, especially for new folks—though apparently my mother, after almost a year, still does this every day. (For the record, I see her once a week.)

The woman is on the verge of tears. With my heart aching and the plaintive oboe introduction of “Send in the Clowns” ending none too soon, I launch into Sondheim. My mother mouths the words but lets me solo. The acoustics are pretty good in the lunch room. I take a place behind the huge granite counter and perform. Unlike the croak of Stritch or Close, my voice soars as I channel all my angst for the aged into the moment.

The new woman is mesmerized and plops down on a stool. Slowly, other residents arrive for their snacks, trying to order various food items while I sing. As a seasoned performer, I won’t stop. A nurse’s aide begins doling out Rice Krispy balls and red juice while I launch into “Fly Me to the Moon,” which gets everyone clapping. I dance with several women in “Llama land,” including Francis, while one man tells me repeatedly that I really ought to sing at weddings.

Suddenly, a fight breaks out between the wedding guy and a woman several seats away. “F— you, motherf—er,” he says. She gives him the finger and calls him a cocksucker. It’s obvious they have ongoing issues. The aide is telling them to “quit” and running all the way around the counter, but just as they’re about to get physical, without missing a beat, I throw my torso onto the granite counter and slide between them, singing “If I Loved You” to the City of Prague Orchestra. They smile and join me as if this is the way life should be.

Over the years, performing for my peers in concerts, restaurants, and galleries left me feeling weird or flat. I’ve never been into being hip or even an excellent musician. Truthfully, I never had the hide for it. For me, the music business is appalling, but singing live and well in a looney bin or for pigeons under a bridge—that’s ecstasy.