In the months ahead, Larry first lost the strength in his arms; then his legs went, forcing him into a wheelchair. This caused Feldman to hire a so-called caregiver for him: a Filipino in his fifties named Felix Phau. He charged $900 a week, and earned it. Felix's job was to spoon-feed Larry, dress and undress him, carry him to bed at night, bath him, lift him on and off the toilet and clean him up afterwards. 

Feldman's power of attorney, which Larry had arranged earlier, kicked in. Feldman wrote the weekly cheques for Felix, paid Larry's utilities and condo assessment and other bills. Larry's speech grew slurred, and soon the slurry slipped into the unintelligible. His head, which he could no longer keep up, dropped to his chest. 

Feldman came over two or three times a week, and spent much of Sunday with Larry, standing in for Felix whose day off it was. They sat with the television set on, tuned to baseball and football games. Feldman brought in Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald CDs to play for his old friend. Larry would grunt — more like a gurgle — and Feldman would guess from the grunts what he needed: the bathroom, water, his pureed food, the television turned off. Larry was dying the slow death by subtractions that we all fear. 

His speech now entirely gone, Larry's only communication came through his blinking his eyes. Felix taught Feldman the crude system of communication he and Larry had worked out. Two blinks from Larry meant yes, three blinks no. One Sunday evening, Felix away and not expected back until ten, Feldman wheeled Larry in his chair into the bathroom, and lifted him onto the toilet. After he was done, he placed him back in his chair, and then set him on his back in bed. 

"Larry," Feldman found himself saying, "Elaine, my first wife, you remember Elaine, Larry did you screw her?" Feldman hadn't meant to ask it; it just came out.