Early Morning Riser

by Katherine Heiny

  “Gary has bursitis?”

  “Yes, quite badly in his hip, and it’s acting up lately,” Aggie said. “He could never tolerate six hours in the car. He’d be in absolute agony.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that.” Jane had a sinking feeling.

  “What I wanted to talk to you about, Jane”—Aggie lowered her voice—“is that the doctor doesn’t want Gary to stay alone.”

  Wait, slow down. This conversation was going too fast for Jane. What doctor actually said that, and in what context? How recently? Was it a standing order?

  “He says Gary might fall over and not be able to get up,” Aggie continued. “He might even hit his head and have a brain bleed.”

  Jane had sudden insight into how Aggie sold so many houses: no tactic was beneath her. Aggie must know that Jane would never take the chance of being responsible for another person’s death, no matter how unlikely. Not after Mrs. Jellico.

  “Okay, fine,” Jane said, sighing. “Gary can stay here.”

  “Oh, Jane,” Aggie said in a sugary voice, “you’re an angel. I can see why Duncan married you.”

  So we turned out to mean Aggie and Duncan, just as Jane feared it would.

  * * *

  —

  Even though Gary wasn’t due to stay with them until Thursday night, Aggie came over on Wednesday with a picnic basket full of supplies and a sheaf of photocopied instructions on Gary’s care and handling.

  Jane was in the kitchen, slicing cucumbers for a salad, when Aggie arrived. Duncan was holding Patrice on his hip while he warmed a sippy cup of milk in the microwave for her. Glenn and Jimmy were sitting at the breakfast bar, playing Go Fish.

  Aggie set the picnic basket on the counter and began unpacking it. She took a brown paper bag of rolled oats out of the basket. “Now, Jane, for breakfast”—breakfast? Jane had to make Gary’s breakfast?—“Gary likes a cup of oats mixed with milk, a pinch of salt, and a dash of ground cinnamon, warmed up on the stove. I usually do something different each morning, like I slice a strawberry on top or sprinkle a few walnuts, but you don’t have to do that.”

  No, indeed, and Jane wouldn’t.

  “Does he have a special bowl?” Glenn asked. “Patrice, she only likes the Hello Kitty bowl.”

  “No, Gary’s not fussy about dishes,” Aggie said. She put just enough emphasis on the word “dishes” to make Jane sure that dishes were the exception that proved the Gary rule.

  “Now, he also needs to watch Jeopardy! every evening at seven,” Aggie said.

  Glenn frowned. “That’s when Patrice watches PAW Patrol.”

  “Is it?” Aggie gave Patrice a determined smile. “I’m sure you won’t mind sharing TV time with Gary, will you, Patrice?”

  Patrice bared her teeth at Aggie in a feral sort of way.

  Glenn sighed. “She’ll mind.”

  “Well, I’m sure you all can figure something out,” Aggie said. “Jeopardy! is how Gary keeps his mind sharp.”

  “Man,” Duncan said, “I hate to think what he’d be like without it.”

  Aggie made an annoyed clucking sound, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He handed Patrice her sippy cup, and she poked the spout of it into her mouth, still glaring at Aggie.

  Jane wiped her hands on a dish towel and paged through the instructions. They were somewhat dog-eared and tattered, leading Jane to believe that there were other Gary-sitters out there. Why couldn’t he be left with one of them? There was a long list of foods that Gary didn’t eat: eggplant, hummus, pine nuts, peppercorns, artichokes, bowtie pasta, American cheese, capers, paprika, anchovies, anything labeled “artisanal,” and every single member of the parsley family, including carrots. And another list of foods he disapproved of and preferred not to have in the house. Jane began reading aloud. “Grainy mustard, bone broth, beer cheese, salmon burgers, chunky peanut butter, frozen yogurt, garlic bread.” She looked up. “No garlic bread? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Duncan said. “There’s also his aversion to slipcovers.”

  “But—garlic bread,” Jane said. This seemed to her, of all Gary’s beliefs, the least understandable, the least forgivable.

  “Why does Gary get to have all those don’t-likes?” Glenn asked. “At school, we’re only allowed to have three. That’s what the teacher says.”

  “It’s how he remembers himself,” Jimmy said unexpectedly.

  Glenn looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s how he remembers who to be,” Jimmy said patiently. “Like if he goes to Glen’s and buys smooth peanut butter, he knows he’s Gary. But if he bought chunky peanut butter, he might forget.”

  “And then what would happen?” Glenn asked.

  “Well,” Jimmy said. “He might forget where he lives and go to the Huggleses’ house instead of his house because he’ll have forgotten he don’t like red-colored houses. And he’ll park in the garage because he’ll forget that garages bother him. And he’ll go inside and Linda Huggles will have made meatloaf with mushroom gravy and he’ll eat it because he’s forgotten he don’t like mushrooms. And then Linda Huggles will ask him to stay and watch TV and he will because he’ll have forgotten he’s married to Aggie.”

  They all stared at him, and then Aggie said frostily, “Gary happens to be allergic to mushrooms, no matter who serves them to him.”

  She set a Tupperware box of cookies on the counter so abruptly that Jane blinked.

  * * *

  —

  Jane and Duncan had just made love; the air in the bedroom was heavy with the scent of their bodies. They had rushed the girls through their bedtime routine and abandoned Jimmy to watch Bakery Boss on his own in order to make this happen. Jane had the bright, expansive clarity that happens after sex.

  “Have you ever thought,” she said into the soft semidarkness, “that Jimmy is like some sort of oracle?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.” Duncan swept a bare foot across the sheet idly. “But I do think Gary would make a good monk.”

  “I think there’s more to being a monk than disapproving of handheld mixers,” Jane said. “There’s, like, a whole spiritual element.”

  “But that’s what I mean,” Duncan said. “I feel like he’s simplified his life. He’s done away with all the unnecessary stuff, and only left what you need to live. I could learn by his example except I don’t want to.”

  Jane didn’t want to, either, and she wasn’t even sure she agreed. Yes, of course, you could live without handheld mixers and garlic bread, but could you live well without them? Jane didn’t think so. To live well, you needed garlic bread. Garlic bread and satin pillowcases. And leather jackets. And salad spinners, and rinse aid, and People magazine, and iTunes, and scented candles, and hair detangler, and eye masks, and sex, and love, and everything else Gary disapproved of.

  * * *

  —

  Jane was standing on the porch the next afternoon, holding Patrice on her hip and saying good-bye to Duncan, when Aggie drove over to drop Gary off.

  Aggie parked her SUV and marched Gary up the walk. She was wearing a purple wrap dress that reminded Jane of a plum—that ripe and sweet.

  “You still want to take your car?” Duncan asked.

  “Absolutely,” Aggie said. “The day we got divorced was the last day I agreed to ride in that death-trap van of yours. And the varnish fumes always gave me a headache.”

  “You said it was me who gave you the headache,” Duncan said.

  Aggie laughed suddenly. “I guess we’ll find out. Are you ready?”

  Duncan held up his overnight bag. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good-bye, dear,” Aggie said to Gary. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Not soon enough, Jane thought. She blew out a breath.

&nb
sp; “Good-bye, sweetie,” Duncan said to Jane, kissing her. “And other sweetie.” He kissed Patrice.

  “No.” Patrice was suddenly alert. “No bye.”

  “Just for a little while,” Duncan told her. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  He walked down the porch steps, and together he and Aggie walked to her SUV. Duncan said something Jane couldn’t hear and Aggie laughed again.

  Gary was standing at the bottom of the steps with his backpack, as meek as a guppy brought home from the pet store.

  “Come on in,” Jane said to him, striving for a welcoming tone and falling short. Perhaps very short.

  Aggie’s SUV pulled away, and Patrice reached one pudgy, star-shaped hand after it. “Back,” she said.

  Jane sighed. “I know,” she said to Patrice. “I know.”

  * * *

  —

  They made it through dinner that night, just barely. Aggie had left a foil-covered casserole dish of her baked ziti along with a note:

  Jane, dear,

  You will need to bake this at 350 degrees. Bake for 15 minutes with the foil on and then remove the foil and bake for another 30 minutes or until the sauce is bubbly and the center of the ziti is hot. I often serve this with a simple tomato salad with red onion and dill, and peach melba for—

  Jane crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash. Aggie was crazier than Gary.

  She reheated the ziti and made a tossed salad as well as a plain grilled cheese sandwich for Patrice while Gary and Jimmy watched the girls in the living room, and then they all sat at the table.

  Jimmy told a long, confused story about a lady who’d parked her car half on the sidewalk, Gary examined every bite of his meal suspiciously, Glenn complained that they were out of apple juice, and Patrice threw her spoon at the wall. Jane tried not to despair.

  After dinner, she tried to negotiate an armistice to end the Jeopardy!–PAW Patrol conflict, but neither Gary nor Patrice seemed willing to engage in conflict resolution or a cease-fire. Patrice liked to lie on the beanbag chair in the living room with a sippy cup of milk while she watched—she would start yelling if she had to watch on Jane’s iPad or laptop—and Gary told Jane that he refused to use computers or handheld devices outside of work because of the harmful radiation output. “I’d just as soon eat a Brazil nut,” he said, somewhat cryptically. Finally, Jane just set the kitchen clock ahead—Patrice couldn’t tell time, but Gary and Jimmy and Glenn could, and Jane didn’t trust any of them not to blurt out the truth. At six thirty, she said, “Patrice! PAW Patrol is on!” and Patrice watched a PAW Patrol DVD while Jane operated the remote from behind her.

  Just before Jeopardy! started, Jane whisked both girls upstairs. She ran water in the tub, and then prepared for battle with Patrice, who did not care for bath time. Every night she fought Jane fiercely, silently, in the manner of someone who knows her life is on the line and that the time for screaming has passed. Patrice tensed every muscle, one hand gripping her clothing, the other hand wrapped around the chair leg or changing table or whatever she could get ahold of, while Jane gently undressed her, murmuring softly, “The bath is going to feel so good, sweetie. Glenn is in the bath, Patrice! Don’t you want to see Glenn? We have bubbles, and the boats, and the water crayons.”

  Jane carried Patrice into the bathroom, patiently unwrapped Patrice’s legs from around her waist and Patrice’s hands from around her neck. Patrice made one last effort, assuming the rigid shape of a starfish, but Jane merely turned her sideways and slid her into the tub. As soon as she hit the water, Patrice said, “Ahhhh,” in a happy way and slid down until the water reached her chin. This happened every single night.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Jane asked Glenn, who was already in the tub, drawing loops and swirls on the tile with the water crayons.

  “I am,” Glenn said. She pointed to the crayon swirls. “Does this say anything?” She so much wanted to be able to write cursive even though she couldn’t read yet.

  Jane squinted, considering. “It’s mainly just Ls. But I can see I’ll and maybe will.” This was a game Glenn usually played with Duncan, who would claim to see lilliput and willful and malleable. “Careful now, I’m going to do your hair.”

  She used a plastic cup to pour water over Glenn’s hair and added a capful of baby shampoo. She washed Glenn’s hair, and then turned to Patrice, who was lying on her back with just her face poking out of the water. Her expression was serene, almost beatific. She reminded Jane of the pre-cogs in Minority Report.

  “How long is Gary going to be here?” Glenn asked.

  “Just tonight, and maybe tomorrow night.”

  Glenn pushed a toy boat in a circle. “Why don’t he sleep at his own house?”

  Because he thinks the toilet whispers. Because he thinks a cockroach might crawl into his ear while he’s sleeping. Because he’s worried the mirror reflection won’t match up with his body movements. Because he might fall over and suffer a brain bleed. These were not things you could say to a four-year-old. Not without possible lifelong consequences.

  Jane sighed. “I guess he’s just lonely without Aggie.”

  “Gary, he played Patrice’s xylophone,” Glenn told her sadly. “She yelled and yelled.”

  “Oh, is that what she was yelling about?” Jane said. “I wondered.”

  “That was only part of it,” Glenn said. “He also sat on Daddy’s chair. She only likes Daddy to sit there.”

  “This I know.” Jane smiled and patted the top of Glenn’s head. Then she straightened up and pushed her hair back. Her face in the mirror was flushed, rosy. She dried her hands and then stepped out into the hall and took the Tupperware container of Aggie’s cookies from the linen closet where she’d hidden them.

  “Are you going to eat those?” Glenn asked when she came back in.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” Jane sat on the closed toilet seat. “Would you like one?”

  “What kind are they?”

  Jane lifted the lid. “Chocolate chip and cherry.” She handed one to Glenn.

  “Can I eat it here in the bath?”

  “Sure.” There were eight small cookies in the plastic box. Eight undersized cookies for five people. Jane sometimes thought that was part of the secret of Aggie’s cooking: she always left you wanting more. She handed a cookie to Glenn and took one for herself.

  Glenn took small, dainty bites. “Aggie, she said those cookies were for everyone.”

  “I decided they would just be for you and me and Patrice.”

  “Patrice, she won’t like them. They have lumps.”

  “Well, just you and me, then,” Jane said.

  And she ate the other six before the bathwater had cooled.

  * * *

  —

  After bath, Jane went back downstairs, the girls following her in fresh pajamas, their hair drying into two-toned waves of red and mahogany.

  Jimmy and Gary were sitting idly on the sofa in semidarkness, waiting for whatever came next. Two travelers on the road to eternity. Jane’s was a heavy burden, no doubt about it. She had earned those cookies.

  “Hey, everyone,” she said. “It’s time for cocoa.”

  “Now?” Gary asked.

  “What time do you normally have it?” Jane asked.

  Gary glanced at the kitchen clock and then lapsed into silence, staring at it and frowning. Eventually, Jane said, “Let’s do it now so the girls can have some before bedtime.”

  Aggie had included the cocoa recipe along with the ingredients. First Jane was supposed to warm half-and-half in a saucepan, then add shaved pieces of Leonidas Belgian chocolate and a cinnamon stick and stir it until the chocolate melted. Then remove the cinnamon stick, add a pinch of salt, and stir in more half-and-half, and then use a blender to whip it all smooth. (Here’s what Jane would like to know: How, exactly, did Aggie ever
get anything done?)

  Still, she followed the directions, and it was, somewhat depressingly, the best cocoa ever. Jane even poured some in a sippy cup for Patrice, who tasted it and said, “Ohhhhh,” in a rapturous voice.

  Jane smiled at her. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Good,” Patrice said.

  “She likes cocoa,” Jimmy marveled. “How about that?”

  They all went to bed at eight thirty, mainly because Jane couldn’t face the prospect of staying up any longer. Jimmy went into his room, and Gary followed Jane and the girls upstairs. He was going to sleep on the single bed in Patrice’s room, and Patrice would sleep with Jane.

  Jane tucked Glenn in and kissed her good night and then stepped out into the hall, carrying Patrice. Gary came out of the bathroom, wearing blue-and-green striped pajamas. Patrice pointed at him and screamed, “Mo! Mo!” and burst into tears.

  Gary looked startled, and then alarmed. Jane wanted to explain that Patrice was upset because Gary was wearing the same kind of pajamas Elmo on Sesame Street wore and Patrice disliked Elmo. But better just to take Patrice into her room and shut the door. All three of them were probably traumatized enough as it was.

  Jane woke up at midnight. The smell of chocolate was strong, undeniable. Oh God, she’d left the burner on.

  She slid out of bed quietly so as not to wake Patrice and padded quickly down the stairs to the kitchen. But the burners were all off, the pan and cups soaking in the sink. Puzzled, Jane walked through the main floor, inhaling deeply, but the smell had disappeared.

  She turned on the porch light and stepped outside, wondering if the chocolate smell could be coming from some other house. But the outdoors smelled of nothing but spring and nighttime, loam and velvet. Jane stood there until the coolness crept though her nightgown and blew softly against her skin.

  She climbed the stairs again and lay down next to Patrice. Suddenly the chocolate smell was back, stronger than ever. Jane sat up on one elbow, frowning. Then she leaned over and sniffed Patrice’s hair. Chocolate. Patrice’s skin, her breath, her pajamas—pure cocoa. Maybe she had rubbed some cocoa into her hair, or spilled some on her pajama top, but it seemed more organic than that. She lay curled there in the moonlight, a literal sugar baby dreaming sweet dreams.