Arriving at work ten minutes late, I discover Elsa standing in the middle of the kitchen, tack bag slung shoulderwise. I wonder if she knows about Bob and me, or whether my tardiness is the source of her impatience.
“Morning,” I say. “Sorry I’m la—”
“I’ve got a nine o’clock,” she says. “Remind me I need to talk to you about the first week of September. We need to make arrangements.”
“Got it.”
“He’s up early,” she says. And without further pretense, she crosses the kitchen and walks out the door. Arrangements for what? I wonder, passing through the lifeless dining room. I find Trev sitting tall in his wheelchair with his tray table in front of him. His color is back. His eyes are lively. He’s wearing his checkered Vans.
“Check out the size of this chick’s taco,” he says, referring to the Travel Channel hostess, a lithe, trout-mouthed brunette splaying poolside at the Winn Casino in a skimpy yellow two-piece.
“Can you say she-male?”
When the TV goes to a commercial, he rears his torso back, gripping the remote Tyrannosaurus-style, and with a leaden thumb, flips to the Weather Channel. It’s seventy-three degrees in Salt Lake City, with winds out the southwest at ten to fifteen miles per hour.
“He’ll be back today,” Trev says, irritably. “You watch.”
“He left already.”
He lolls his head in my direction. “How do you know?”
“I don’t know. Just a hunch, I guess.”
Rolling his shoulders and arching his spine, he flips back to the Travel Channel.
“What does he think?” says Trev. “He’s going to buy my love with fried chicken?”
Sadly, it’s almost true. But at least he’s trying. “Ah, give him a break,” I say.
Trev furrows his brow, and his face darkens. “He’s had plenty of those.”
Maybe he’s right. Why am I so quick to forgive Bob? The guy’s a loser. While his dogged endurance may be admirable, it’s plain as day that he expects to fail at every turn. Sometimes it’s not enough to try. Maybe Bob doesn’t care enough to succeed. But I doubt it. As far as I’m concerned, the onus is still on Trev to be the bigger man. If he’s big enough to accept the complete and senseless betrayal of his own body, surely he’s big enough forgive his old man for being a well-intentioned deadbeat.
“He seems like an okay guy to me.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I think he means well. I really do. I think he realizes he fucked up. Maybe you should just give him a chance to—”
“You know what?” he says, glaring at the television screen. “Maybe you should just mind your own business, and show up on time.”
He’s right. I’ve crossed the line again, muddled the roles, brazenly defied the first fundamental of caregiving. I can feel myself blushing. Luckily, Trev’s quick to forgive me.
“I don’t either,” he says.
“What?”
“Know the guy. Seriously, I’ve seen the guy like twenty times in my life that I can remember. Maybe thirty. What I do know about him is that he left.”
He squints irritably at the television. I’m done pushing for today, I’m not crossing any more lines. I ought to know by now. Just as I’m about to duck into the kitchen and prepare his breakfast, Trev surprises me.
“I’m hard on him, I know,” he says. “In a way, it’s not fair. But whatever. He left me. And yeah, sometimes I am a little curious about him. Sometimes I even think he’s not all that bad of a guy. Sometimes I think I should give him a break, get to know him. But I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just don’t.”
no time
Bernard has me feeling pretty optimistic about the future by the time the kids pile back in the car. Maybe he’ll actually pull the trigger on the Discovery Bay property. I love it out there. I could see myself in a skiff on weekends, drinking a few cold ones. I could see us all out there together, all summer long, without all the distractions. Bernard in his goofy hat, burning steaks, while I ice the cooler. The kids splashing about in the water. Ruth making jam. Janet asleep in a lawn chair. Who knows, maybe we will build something out there. The thought is almost enough to make me forget my headache.
“Where are we going now?” Piper demands.
“Shopping.”
“You said we were going shopping at three o’clock.”
“I was wrong.”
“You lied.”
“No, I didn’t lie. I miscalculated.”
“That’s not our fault.”
“Okay, fine. What about the duck pond?”
“No!” says Piper.
“C’mon. That’s all over now.”
“No! I won’t go.”
“Okay, okay. What about the park?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Which park?”
“The waterfront park.”
“That’s not a park. There’s only two swings.”
“Then where?” I look to Jodi. “How about you, Jodi? Where to?”
“Squishity-squash-something-something,” he says.
“There, it’s settled,” I say.
“You don’t even know what he said!”
“What did he say?”
“He wants to see the octopus.”
“Octopus?”
“At the Marine Science Center.”
“Honey, there’s not time for that. We need to be home by four to meet Mommy.”
“Tell him that,” she says.
“You tell him,” I say.
She folds her arms and zips her lips up tight and looks out the side window.
I sigh. “Jodi, buddy, sorry, but there’s not time for the octopus.”
“Daddy says no,” Piper adds.
First, Jodi wrinkles his little brow. Then he begins to kick his feet a little bit, with a whimper, a single whimper. Once the bottom lip juts out and commences to quiver, it’s too late—time to put out or pull over.
The octopus is named Sam. I doubt anyone ever called him cute before Piper. He’s in a glass holding pen about the size of three phone booths, where he lays around in a blob to no apparent purpose, oozing and contracting just enough so that you know he’s still alive. There’s a placard on his tank, which I don’t read. Nothing against Sam, but I’m too busy watching hands—ever since Jodi got ahold of that sea cucumber back in February. Thank goodness it wasn’t a hermit crab or some sort of electric eel. We were asked politely to leave when Jodi started pitching a fit. I don’t think the lady at the reception desk recognized us when we came in this time, maybe because Jodi fell asleep in my arms before I could set him down, and now I’m stuck carrying him. He’s a sweaty little guy, thirty-two pounds of dead sticky weight, clinging to me like hamburger.
“Mr. Caruthers showed us a video where an octopus kills a shark,” says Piper, face pressed to the glass. “He says that the octopus might be the greatest predator in the whole ocean.”
“You wouldn’t know it looking at old Sam here,” I say.
“That’s because Sam knows he’s locked up in a tank. But if he could ever get out, you’d see.”
As if he were listening, Sam rolls over slowly, unfurls a huge tentacle, and peers at us with one of his big bulging eyes. He looks like he’s about to comment. But he doesn’t. He just rolls back over and oozes some more.
look at us now
Her choice of venue says it all. She has not selected the food court for its cornucopia of flavorful choices but for its singular lack of intimacy and plentiful escape routes. It’s easy to see from the way she strides purposefully past Quiznos, clutching her purse and a manila folder, that she intends to make this a short meeting. Even her attire is businesslike, from her modest lavender blouse (the color of sexual frustration), to her gray pencil skirt, right down to her close-toed leather flats. Her expression is benign but determined, thin-lipped and straight, neither hard nor soft in announcing itself—the expression o
f a woman collecting sperm samples. Though she’s walking straight for me, she does not invite eye contact but rather engages some fixed point behind me. Already, she is a stranger to me, yet achingly familiar.
Smoothing the back of her skirt, she sidles into the fixed metal stool across from me, heaving a sigh as she sets her purse and envelope on the tabletop.
“Tacoma was a mess, sorry,” she says.
Her hair has grown out a shade darker than almond. Two years ago, she all but shaved her head completely. She looked like a Polish POW. Now her hair is lustrous and looks as if it smells good—like peach-scented wax. She parts it in the center, just as she did when I first met her, from which point it cascades evenly down both sides of her face, two inches below the jaw line.
“You look good,” I say.
“I look old,” she says. “I feel old.”
Though I’ve dressed young myself, in jeans and Chucks and a Penguin shirt, I wonder if it doesn’t have the opposite effect.
“I’m the one who’s aged.”
“You look fine,” she says. “You look the same as you looked three years ago.” She’s managed to make it an insult.
She slides the envelope across the plastic table. “I brought you these in case you lost them.”
“I’ve got the papers.”
“Then you brought them?”
“I thought we were having lunch.”
She tenses up and stares out across the food court toward Macy’s, looking spent. She just drove 160-odd miles for this. I want to set my hand atop hers and give it a little squeeze, the squeeze I gave it a thousand times before the disaster—when they found the cyst, when her brother died, when Jodi had a staph infection, when Piper had the chicken pox, when it seemed at every turn that the winds of fate had blown our lives afoul, financially, emotionally, or idealistically. Look at all that we endured. Look at all we managed to light along our path through the long shadow of adversity. Look at the seemingly indestructible affiliation that was once us. And look at us now. She, pretending to be a stranger behind her cakey makeup and impenetrable eyes, and me, pining for access, knowing that if I dare reach out to her, she’ll stand up and leave.
“Ben, please,” she says, and sighs heavily.
Looking away, past the colonnade of potted palms toward Orange Julius, I can’t help but think of Piper’s favorite meal: french toast, shrimp cocktail, and Orange Julius (my version, anyway). I can’t help but remember all the blessed disorder that was the four of us nightly around the dinner table, more often than not eating four completely different meals but eating them together, unquestionably, indivisibly together.
“Please,” I hear her say again. I let it hang there, this desolate plea, realizing that it’s probably the last of its kind, for every remaining shred of her patience seems to have gone into it.
“Do you remember when we went to the ghost town,” I say. “When you were pregnant with Jo—”
“Of course, I remember,” she says.
“Do you remember how, right before it happened, Piper got—”
“Yes,” she says. “I remember.”
“It wasn’t so long ago,” I say.
“It was six years ago, Ben—two lives ago.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “More like four lives ago.”
“Speak for yourself,” she says, rifling through her purse.
My God but she’s grown hard. Somewhere the old Janet still lives inside of her, I’ve got to believe that. If only to reach her, if only for the briefest moment of contact. She needs me—now more than ever. Who but I could ever understand her devastation? Surely not Jim Sunderland.
“It could still work, you know.”
She looks up from the purse. “I’m tired of feeling like a heartless bitch just because I need to move on.”
“You mean Jim?”
I’ve caught her off guard. She searches my face. “What do you know about Jim?”
“I know all about Jim and his ugly kid.”
“Oh, so now you’re stalking me? What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t you done enough already?”
I’m stunned by the cruelty of it. The slackening contours of her face say that she wishes she could take it back. But she will not allow herself to soften. She stiffens up again almost immediately.
“Leave Jim out of this. I want those papers, Ben. Don’t make me get nasty.”
“You mean this isn’t nasty?”
“I gave you six months, I gave you a year. I did what you asked. Now it’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”
“Do I hear wedding bells? Please tell me you’re not marrying that clown. Whatever you do, don’t breed with him—the ugly gene is dominant.”
“You want ugly, Ben. Fine, you’ve got it.” Calmly, she hefts her purse, and picks up the envelope. Rising to her feet, she smoothes out her skirt and stands tall, a portrait of self-possession. “But remember,” she says. “You did this.”
Before I can even think about defending myself—though let’s be honest, I’m guilty as charged, and we both know it—Janet turns and strides away across the food court, past Quiznos, just as purposefully as when she arrived five minutes ago. She halts in front of Busby’s long enough to ram the envelope into the heaping trash bin, brushes a stray hair from her face, and does not bother to look back as she pushes through the glass door and into the gray afternoon.
Do I go after her? Do I attempt to right this ship with one of the two thousand apologies I owe her? My feet say no. My heart says yes. I can only trust one of them. Outside, the low sky has begun to spit rain. I am not proud of who I’ve become.
As I’m rattling out of the parking lot in the Subaru, I spot Janet in her silver sedan. She is too consumed to notice me. She has not moved from her parking space. Her forehead is between her hands resting on the steering wheel, and it’s obvious from the convulsions racking her slumped shoulders that she is crying. There is an opportunity here for some small redemption, if only I were man enough to seize it. With a mere signature, I could offer Janet comfort long enough to reach Jim Sunderland’s arms. I could offer her the chance to take a small step forward and start forgetting our apocalypse, to walk away from the rubble of our lives once and for all and forge some new path for herself. I could care enough to save Janet. Instead, I roll by slowly, fixed on her wrecked figure slumped in the driver’s seat, as though she were the scene of some grisly accident.
monday, monday
I’ve just set the kettle to boil and arrayed my coffee cone precariously on the rim of my oversized Les Schwab mug when a double rap rattles the compartment door. It’s never good news at 7:40 a.m. Probably Madge in 212 again, come to berate me for feeding chocolate bars to her thirty-pound cat, an offense of which I am decidedly not guilty. Looking up, I’m startled by a clean-shaven male face, late twenties, pressed to the window, fighting the glare of the reflection with both hands and a legal-sized envelope as he peers into the compartment for signs of life. Instinctively, I dive for cover behind the kitchen counter. Seconds later, rising tentatively on my haunches, I extend my neck and prairie-dog over the countertop to find that he’s still there. I pop back down, though probably not before he’s spotted me. Glancing at my watch, I see that I’m going to be late for work again.
A tap on the window.
I don’t budge.
Another tap.
Maybe he didn’t see me, I reason, just as the kettle begins to moan. By the time I scurry crabwise across the linoleum to the stove, the damn thing is screeching like a rabid spider monkey. Groping blindly around the stovetop, a bolt of lightning shoots down my wrist to my elbow.
“Ah!” I call out, releasing the kettle with a metallic clatter on the range, where it continues to warble and wheeze.
The doorbell rings. Immediately, the neighbor’s terrier starts going nuts. The kettle continues to squeal.
Thrusting my arm up again, I give the kettle a push until it clears the burner com
pletely and begins to settle. Sidling over toward the sink, I slump against the cabinet. Janet wasn’t bluffing this time. Nothing to do now but wait it out.
After two minutes, when the incessant tapping and dinging and yipping have finally subsided, I peep over the counter and see that my pursuer has apparently thrown in the towel. Forgoing my coffee, I rush madly about the apartment gathering my keys, my wallet, my crossword, and my sweatshirt. Poking my head out the apartment door, I scan the causeway in both directions, see that the coast is clear, and stride briskly down the corridor. I spot the courier below, leaning against the bike rack, tapping the envelope on his knee. If I can get to the stairs, I can sneak around back, run some interference if necessary, and circle the far side of the building to the Subaru.
No sooner have I passed 210 than Madge emerges from her apartment with folded arms, blocking my way like a sentry. She’s wrapped in a tired blue terry-cloth bathrobe covered with cat hair. She’s got curlers in her hair and a cigarette in her mouth. I glance at my watch, then over the rail, where I note that the courier has cut his losses and is crossing the lot toward a blue Bronco. I lean back out of sight.
“Stop stubbing your Winstons out in my planter box,” Madge wheezes.
“I’m not.”
“Don’t get smart with me, mister. I’ve seen you.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I don’t even smoke.”
I attempt to sidestep her, but she blocks my way.
“Not so fast,” she says. “Not until you pick every last one of those butts out of my gladiolus.”
Eyeing the planter, I see that the gladiolus are nothing but withered husks. Indeed, a dozen or more crooked butts jut out of the soil like gravestones.
The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Page 9