THE ONLY THING YOU'VE GOT / Ehud Havazelet THERE WAS THIS GUY on the television one time, he'd written a book and had gotten used to seeing his picture in the papers. Donna and I had the color set in the bedroom then, and this guy had on a suit that looked borrowed. He held a pipe in his hand and pressed into the bowl with his thumb. He didn't smoke, which was probably not allowed on the set, but he looked like he wanted to. He was all right, I suppose, but fame and glory had gone to his head, and you could tell he thought he had something to tell you about the way you were living your life. His book was about six generations in a New Orleans family, and the host asked him how he came up with that particular idea. The author sucked on the pipe once or twice, and looked into the camera. "It's a funny thing about family," the author said. "You spend your whole life wishing you didn't have any. Then there comes a time when you look around and realize it's the only thing you've got." I was out of bed before he finished, and had punched off the set. Donna was reading a magazine and waiting the eight minutes until she could take the ointment off her face. She looked up. "What's that guy know about it," I said, pointing at the emptying picture tube. "What's he got to say to me?" I said, and went out the door to get a drink of water. It started with the phone call from my Uncle Phil in Toledo. He said, "Joe. This thing I'm calling about is a favor. I've got a favor to ask you, Joey." "That's okay, Phil," I said. "You can ask." "It's your cousin. Margaret. You remember Margaret from the old days." I told him I remembered. "Well. She's married now, this guy she met over at the college. They've got a kid, and the guy, his name is Howard, Joey, Howard has a job lined up in Massachusetts. Deerfield." "What's Howard do, Phil?" I asked, so I could have something to say. "Office machines. Office supplies. He's doing pretty good, Joe. I think he's in the office supplies line." The Missouri Review · 269 My Uncle Phil paused, and I could hear him sucking hard on a cigarette. I remember his face, and it was never without a cigarette stuck in it, like the cigarette was as much him as his nose was. Every chance they got my family told Phil that cigarettes would be the death of him. When they finally were, two years after this conversation, I thought of calling various people and asking them if they felt good, now the tally was in. I thought about calling, but I never did. Back on that night, anyway, I listened to Phil draw the smoke deep into his chest and I could almost see the look on him as the nicotine kicked into his blood. I thought of lighting one up myself, and I decided I'd do the favor for Uncle Phil's daughter, though I saw it all coming as clear as I ever saw anything in my life. I remembered Margaret and her mother as hard silly women who understood nothing about life except what they could get out of it. Phil's wife, Joline, was a great one for advancement. She was always reading in the papers about someone she used to know who was now manager of a bank in Kansas City or moving to the coast to sell condominiums to movie stars. Every word she said somehow came out as letting you know Uncle Phil was not in the league of these acquaintances of hers. And when she talked, Phil got a look on his face like a man who's learned there's no arguing with the breaks. I'd moved 1400 miles to stay out of Margaret and her mother's line of fire. That's the way I thought about...