I corral them all around the breakfast table and dish them up just as the toaster pops. Piper promptly refuses to eat her eggs on the grounds of runniness, and Jodi begins feeding Buster his faux bacon.
“Jodi, stop that,” I say.
“Buxuxer,” he says, grinning out from beneath his mountain of curly hair.
I plate the toast and set it on the table.
“Pretty crummy weather for summer,” says Piper.
“It’ll burn off,” I say.
“That’s what you always say.”
Janet sips her grapefruit juice and nibbles briskly around the edges of her unbuttered toast, as she scrolls through the Times.
“Daddy, can I have yogurt instead?” says Piper.
“Fine,” I say. “Just put the plate by the sink. And don’t give your bacon to Buster. He’ll poop on the floor.”
Jodi laughs, and snot runs out his nose. “Poop poop,” he says, then something else jumbled I can’t understand. When do we start talking about a speech pathologist?
Piper carries her plate to the sink, lobbing Buster some bacon on the sly.
“Do you have to read at the table?” I say to Janet.
“You’re right,” Janet says, pushing the paper aside, even as she finishes reading her sentence.
“Thank you,” I say.
She glances at the clock, takes a courtesy bite of her eggs. “So, what are you doing today?” she says, though I’m pretty sure I already went over it with her last night in bed. I suspect she’s just making conversation so she doesn’t seem like she’s in a hurry to leave.
“Taking the kids to your mom and dad’s.”
“Leaving them there?”
“Just visiting.”
“Are you shopping?”
“Yeah, afterward.”
“Don’t forget Kleenex.”
“I won’t.”
“What about the rest of your day?”
“Probably not much. Maybe go to the park if there’s time.”
“Sounds nice,” she says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything. It just sounds nice.”
“You know, you’re welcome to stay at home, Janet. I am employable, you know. At least marginally.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, I sort of resent the implication that my life is easy just because I’m not performing colon surgery on a shih tzu.”
“It’s a Lab. And it’s intestinal.”
“This is not as easy as it looks, Janet. Especially not when Jodi is sick, and Piper is home, and—”
“I know how hard you work, Ben. I didn’t mean anything. You’re just being defensive.”
She’s right. I’ve been defensive for weeks—ever since she found me sleeping on the job a couple of Fridays back. She came home for a surprise lunch and caught me snoozing on the sofa with my fly unzipped, a half gallon of Rocky Road in my clutches, and a Cat Stevens CD skipping. In my own defense, I was exhausted. Jodi hardly slept the night before. It wasn’t a big deal, and anyway, I was only asleep for a minute. Piper was still at school. And Jodi wasn’t farther than four feet away, sequestered in his Pack ’n Play. I’m not even sure Janet saw me sleeping, or if she just thought I was lounging. I think it was more that Jodi was chewing on the nail clippers that got to her. She didn’t say anything about any of it, but I felt her disapproval. A couple days later, she found my weed pipe in the gardening shed and accused me of being developmentally arrested.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re sitting around smoking pot and eating ice cream and listening to Cat Stevens, Ben. Isn’t that what you did in college?”
“I didn’t eat ice cream in college. And I’m not sitting around,” I explained.
“Daddy, can I show Grandpa my rat, today?” Piper says, peeling back the seal on her peach yogurt.
“Wait until Grandpa and Nanny come over, sweetie,” says Janet.
“But I asked Daddy, not you,” she pleads.
“Your mom’s right, honey. We can’t bring the cage with us in the car. We need to go to the store afterward.”
“I asked you, not Mommy,” Piper says. “How come Mommy’s always right?”
“She’s not,” I say.
“Well, whenever she talks first, you always say the same thing as her. Like an echo or something.”
Janet chuckles.
Sometimes it feels as though there’s a conspiracy afoot.
crossing the line
Elsa is made of impressive metal. She is resigned to her grief, breath by breath, day by day. Meanwhile, it is the suddenness of my own that has left me reeling. I crave Elsa’s strength, her resolve, the shelter of her self-assurance. I’m convinced I could love her, with her sad clear eyes, her starched work shirts, and the scent of timothy and manure that trails in her wake.
Two of her lessons have canceled, so she’s at home this morning, sweeping the kitchen, folding laundry, and emptying wastebaskets while Trev sleeps with the door closed and the baby monitor beside him on the nightstand. When I hear Elsa filling the sink and stacking dishes, I leave my post on the sofa and, without asking, station myself beside her at the sink. Sunlight floods the kitchen from the east, so I can see the downy hair of Elsa’s face, otherwise invisible. In silence, she washes, I dry. I could stand all morning in this square of light. Now and again, I look up from my plate or my dish or my mug to sneak a sidelong glance at Elsa squinting into the sun. It feels good to be standing next to somebody, hip to hip, almost touching. After years of being climbed on, and jostled, tugged at and embraced, I am needy. I ache for human touch, if only the graze of an elbow.
“You can only push him so far before he starts pushing back,” she says.
My scalp tightens. She’s caught me totally off guard. I’m not sure if the statement is an observation or a reprimand.
“I learned the hard way,” she explains. “The way I learned everything else. Do yourself a favor, Ben, and use a little finesse.”
“I . . . It’s . . .”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” she says. “Just take my advice—it’ll make the job easier. For everyone.” Her tone is not critical but matter-of-fact.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re absolutely right.”
“You’re welcome.”
She likes me. She wants me to stick around. And who knows, maybe not just for Trev’s sake. “I guess that’s true of everybody, right?” I say. “Push them too far, and they’ll push back?”
“Some people absorb better than others,” she says. “When you’re a parent, you learn to absorb.”
She’s left me no choice but to tell her the truth. “Elsa, look, there’s something I . . . In the interview when you asked if I had any . . .”
“I know,” she says.
“About . . . ?”
“Yes. Word travels fast.” She fixes her eyes on the murky dishwater, scrubbing absently beneath the surface. “I’m sorry, Ben. Very sorry.” Then she turns and looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight. And before she can say another word, I seize her about the waist with both hands and pull her toward me. Instantly, the world turns to ice as Elsa tears herself free of my clutches, glowering. It’s tough to say what all is written in her expression as she backs away from me across the kitchen, but surely there is a hint of ambivalence. She can’t look me in the eye.
“I think you better go home for the day,” she says.
“I . . .”
“Please,” she says, just as the baby monitor squawks out Trev’s summons.
the whistle stop
When Elsa encounters me in the kitchen the next morning, she is business as usual, starched work shirt, efficient bun, tack bag in hand.
“I may be a little late today,” she says. “Can you stay until six?”
“Of course,” I say. And I can only marvel at her capacity to move on.
I’m mid-crossword when Trev calls
me to the bedroom two hours early. Assuming he needs to be turned, I peel back the blankets to reveal his wasted figure, which fails to stir as the cold air greets it.
“I’m ready to get up,” he says.
“Bathroom?”
“Just up.”
His curtness makes me think he knows. Suddenly, I don’t want to lose this job. I begin to dress him on the bed, beginning with his gold-toed socks. When I’ve managed to wrestle his cargo pants up around his knees, I hoist him out of bed and prop him on my elevated knee, and with one hand I work the pants the remainder of the way up before nesting him in his wheelchair.
“White Chucks today,” he announces, even before we’ve assumed our post in front of the double closet. “High-tops.”
Chucks are shallow-bottomed and narrow shoes. Which also makes me think Trev knows about my pass at his mom, because Chuck high-tops are a pain in the ass to put on, and he knows it. The high-tops need to be unlaced most of the way to accommodate his gnarled feet. They can’t be comfortable with his buckled toes and high arches.
“Would you do Charlize Theron?” he inquires, much to my relief.
“Duh.”
“What about in Monster?”
“Oof. No way,” I lie.
By the time we move to the kitchen, I know I’m in the clear. I’m about to uncap his Ensure and pop his frozen waffles in the toaster when he catches me off guard once more.
“Let’s go out to breakfast,” he says. “I’ll buy.”
He must know. Either he heard us, or Elsa told him. He never buys, except for the matinee, and that’s his mom’s money. Suddenly, it occurs to me that Trev may be conducting me to the neutral confines of a restaurant for the purpose of firing me. But then who will drive him home?
“You pick the place,” he says.
And so, after three Digitek and two Enalapril, a morning piss, a brushing of the teeth (his, not mine), and two swipes of deodorant under each arm, we make for the van, where I lower the ramp somberly and buckle Trev into place as one might secure a piece of rented power equipment.
Forced to choose, I pick the ancient diner downtown for my last meal as a caregiver, the one that looks like an old Airstream splashed with neon.
“Listen,” I say as we bump up the driveway. “About yesterday . . .”
“My mom already told me.”
“She did?”
“As long as it’s just allergies, I’m not worried,” he says.
A warm sense of relief washes over me. “So, uh, why are we going out to breakfast, anyway?”
“I fucking hate those waffles. They taste like cardboard.”
“For real?”
“My mom makes me eat them. They’re healthy as shit.”
“Ahhhh.”
He bobbles his head toward the side window. Still, I can see in the mirror the suggestion of a grin playing on the corners of his mouth. “Fucking flaxseed goes through me like birdshot.”
“Ah man, why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve made you something else on the sly—smuggled you some Frosted Flakes or whatever.”
Craning his torso to one side, Trev does his best to wave the subject off, offering a little flipper motion with his right hand.
The Whistle Stop is so packed that the windows are fogging up. The tiny parking lot is at capacity but for the disabled spot. Unfortunately, a black Escalade is spilling over into the ramp clearance, so I’m forced to leave the van idling in the middle of the lot as I crawl around undoing the four buckles, circle the car, and lower the ramp, making Trev’s entrance all the grander as the platform eases him gently onto the wet pavement. It’s an entrance worthy of Queen Victoria. A few curious diners have pressed their faces to the window. On the pavement, Trev whips a three-point turn and waits off to the side in the rain as I raise the ramp, circle the van, and guide it in the handicapped spot, leaving a loogie on the driver’s door of the Escalade, as is my custom when somebody blocks the ramp clearance.
No sooner do we reach the entrance than I note the three cement steps and the absence of a disabled ramp.
“What the fuck?” I say.
Our predicament is not lost on the proprietor, a morbidly obese gentleman in a white apron with a film of sweat on his forehead visible from thirty feet. Just as Trev is whirring a one eighty, and I’m mentally preparing myself to jockey the van around, he rushes from behind the counter, waving madly at us, and drawing to our little drama the further attention of his patrons, who are now as attentive as any Greek chorus.
Bursting through the glass door, the fat man huffs and puffs as he beckons us back with his spatula. “Come! Come! Around back!”
Here we have no choice but to oblige. We circle the shiny structure and arrive at the back door between two Dumpsters, where the fat man greets us urgently.
“Just one little one,” he says, indicating the single cement step.
Before anyone can object, the services of the dishwasher have been employed to lift, and Trev finds himself hefted wheelchair and all, rotated, tilted, and generally finessed like an oversized sofa through the narrow doorway. Slightly unnerved but safely on the ground, he whirs past a stupefied line cook and through the kitchen, where he appears to the diners as a severed head gliding smoothly across the countertop.
By the time we emerge from the kitchen into the dining room, we are nothing less than a curiosity. People are craning their necks. The waitress and the busboy are clearing a booth furiously to accommodate us. Obviously, Trev’s not going to fit in a booth; thus his place is being set on the end of the table, where his wheelchair will occupy the better part of the narrow aisle, creating a clusterfuck for not only the waitstaff but anyone who wants to use the john. Adeptly, with a series of clicks and lurches, Trev finesses himself into these tight quarters. Almost instantly, a curious toddler in a baby blue onesie attaches himself to the back of Trev’s chair, where he begins exploring the hydraulic guts of the thing with chubby fists. Soon he is rooting around by the battery compartment.
I can’t tell who the child belongs to. “Psst,” I say. “Get lost, kid.”
But the boy is only encouraged by my attention. The little fellow is pretty excited, goggle-eyed and bubbling at the mouth. He’s got a tiny yellow bruise on his forehead, where no doubt his curious wanderings have met an abrupt end against a table edge or some other obstacle.
The toddler has now moved onto the tactile mysteries of the back right wheel. Trev, who is amused rather than annoyed by the attention, struggles to crane his neck in order to investigate matters, but his body won’t allow it. He is smiling nonetheless. The instant he rests his gnarled hand on the joystick, before I hear the mechanical click, I see the darkness descend, though I’m powerless to utter a sound. In a chilling flash the toddler is screaming not eighteen inches from Trev’s ear, and still Trev can’t see why or even where precisely the child is situated. He looks utterly helpless and confused as he backs his wheelchair up still farther with a click, whereupon the child’s caterwaul reaches a bloodcurdling crescendo. People are converging on us in a terrible instant. Somebody’s got coffee on their breath. Trev’s wheelchair is jostled and wrenched carelessly about, and finally it’s jerked off its right wheel to liberate the screaming toddler, who appears to be in one piece, though still terrified by his own vulnerability, as he is swept up in his mother’s arms. I want to berate her for not paying attention, for letting her child wander into peril’s way, for causing all of this.
Goddamnit, you can’t take your eyes off. Not for a second.
Poor Trev is mortified, his oily face has gone as red as a stop sign. I’m glad that he has diverted his gaze, so he doesn’t have to see the scowl on the mother’s face.
“Watch your kid,” I snarl.
profiles
According to Janet’s Facebook, she is currently “cooking eggplant Parmesan and listening to John Prine.”
Her networks are Portland, Oregon, and Oregon Metro Zoo.
Her status is “in a relations
hip,” though it should say “married,” because I still haven’t signed the papers.
Somebody named Jim Sunderland has tagged her in a note.
Somebody named Polly has written on her wall: “Yeah, I know what you mean. Those are the worst.”
Yesterday Janet “lit a candle that smelled like orange blossoms.”
She “liked” Jim Sunderland’s status update.
She became a fan of Jane Goodall.
She wrote on Jim Sunderland’s wall, and Jim wrote back: “You’re on, but only if I get a head start.”
Who the fuck is Jim Sunderland? He sounds like a real-estate agent. All I know at this point is that he wears glasses, has good teeth, and looks a few years older than me. He’s verging on handsome, I guess, in a beady-eyed way. But he looks like an NPR listener. He looks like he’d bore you at a party. I can just tell he’s one of those laid-back people with hidden agendas. One of those mild people who simmers beneath the surface. A fucking little prick who preys on vulnerable women. I want to write on his wall “Fuck you, Jim! You big fucking phony!”
But I don’t. Instead, I friend him.
And what will Jim Sunderland think of me when he views my profile? It’s doubtful he’ll mistake me for Johnny Depp. Jim will see that I have no status, no network, and that I haven’t cooked anything or lit any scented candles in months. He will see that nobody writes on my wall except Forest, who posts things like: “You okay? Give me a call,” “Remember what I told you,” and “When are you going to update your profile?”
Janet looks good in her most recent photos. She’s aged about the eyes, and her smile looks as though it takes some effort. But her color is good and she’s managed to maintain a certain radiance. I guess that makes her a survivor. In an album titled “Cannon Beach,” I find pictures of Janet on the beach with Jim Sunderland and a ten-year-old kid so hopelessly plain-looking I can’t even tell if it’s a boy or a girl. Whatever it is, the kid is doomed by the Jim Sunderland gene. Doomed to be unremarkable. Who’s to say that the world wouldn’t be better off without his kid instead of mine?