The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving

  “Well, then. Uh, I guess it’s three o’clock,” he says. “Nice meeting you, Dan.”

  “Ben.”

  “Right,” he says. “See you at three.” And without further incident, Bob turns and nearly upends a floor lamp. I feel his pain. I’ve hit that fucking lamp two dozen times—it’s misplaced to allow for the wide berth of Trev’s wheelchair. Elsa heaves a sigh the minute she shuts the door on him. Through the window, I watch him bump his head as he climbs into his rental, a gray Taurus coupe, a mild automobile if ever there was one.

  TREV CALLS FOR me, not Elsa, at ten o’clock. It’s the first time he’s called for me in a week. At this point, I’m grateful to leave the couch.

  “You gotta go to the bathroom?”

  “Nah. Just ready to get up.”

  I pull the covers back, remove the pillow from between his knees, and shift him onto his back.

  “How’s Jake?” he says, referring to the cat, as I begin to slide his left sock on.

  “Oh, he’s fine. Just gave him a spook.” Slipping his right sock on, I note that Trev’s toenails need to be cut, and the flaky skin around his toes needs to be scrubbed off. Though completely useless, his feet are nonetheless high maintenance.

  “What an idiot,” he complains.

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why, because he stepped on the cat?”

  “No, because he flew out here.” I see a glint of the evil genius flash in his eyes, a little more pointed than usual. He’s back but irritable. Impatient. Ready to complain. Even by Trev standards, his body is stiff and uncooperative as I wrestle his cargo pants over his legs.

  “He’s a klutz,” I say. “That’s for sure.”

  “He’s pathetic. Do you know he carries around a little scrap of his baby blanket?”

  “What do you mean ‘carries around’?”

  “In his pocket.”

  “For real?”

  “Seriously. His fucking baby blanket.”

  “Wow.” I say, hoisting him onto my waiting knee, where I hitch his pants up around his waist, zip the zipper, and snap the button.

  “He rubs it when he gets anxious.”

  “Rubs it?”

  “Yeah, like in his pocket. Sometimes you can see him working at it—it looks like he’s scratching his nuts.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I say, nestling him into his chair. It’s sort of heartbreaking, actually—in a fucked-up way. But now is not the time to pity Bob. “Do you think he jacks off with it?”

  “Probably. Or maybe he just sniffs it while he jacks off.”

  I lean him forward in the chair and hitch his pants up another inch, tucking the tail of his shirt beneath his nonexistent ass so it won’t ball up uncomfortably. I pull the shoulder seams fast and straight, align the crew collar around his thin neck, adjust the fabric around his trunk so that his shirt hangs naturally, and finally, smooth out the breast pocket so it looks crisp. “You ready for some Eggos?”

  TREV REMAINS MOSTLY silent throughout breakfast. He eats impatiently and doesn’t finish his flaxseedless Eggos. He hardly drinks any of his Ensure. Beginning our day hours earlier than usual, the morning does not adhere to our standard regimen, though our television menu consists of roughly the same fare. We visit Myrtle Beach. We track tornadoes. We learn how to cook white chicken chili with fried tomatillo salsa. All the while, Trev shifts restlessly in his wheelchair, easily annoyed as afternoon approaches. Nearly every commercial elicits a grumble. In spite of repeated attempts to distract him—everything from idle speculation as to the size of Rachael Ray’s taco to the color of Kathy Griffin’s bush—he is not interested in childish repartee. After three hours of channel surfing and two trips to the bathroom, Trev decides to take a nap, just in time for Bob’s arrival. A minute after I put him down, he calls for Elsa, and they talk in their hushed tones.

  When Bob pulls in at 2:54 p.m., I see that the front left wheel of the Taurus is one of those undersized spares. Though he’s managed to muddy the knees of his Dockers, Bob is otherwise intact—shirt freshly tucked, fly tightly secured, as he walks across the yard clutching a giant bag of KFC, the bottom of which nearly gives out halfway across the lawn. Bob manages to get his hands under the bag and stop the breach before the bag ruptures completely but not before the beans start dripping down his shirtsleeve and a side of mashed potatoes tumbles out, bursting open on the lawn. He stands for a moment looking stoic like a clown, though I can feel his frustration. I’ll bet he wishes he had a free hand, so he could reach for his pocket and fondle his baby blanket. Instead, he just stands there dripping at the scene of the accident for a good thirty seconds, paralyzed by indecision, looking alternately at the mashed potatoes and the house, wishing, I presume, that the problem would simply disappear. Finally, he abandons the mess and resumes his progress, trailing beans and tomato sauce across the lawn. By the time I hear his steps on the wooden ramp, Elsa is already at the door to greet him, if you could call it a greeting.

  “I’m sorry, Bob,” I hear her say. “You should’ve called.”

  “But you said come back at—”

  “I mean you should’ve called before you flew out here. Showing up out of the blue is only upsetting him. He’s in bed. And besides, don’t you think it’s a little late in the game to expect—” She lowers her voice here, so that Trev, or perhaps I, cannot hear what she has to say. And judging from the length of her message, she has a lot to say. I imagine she’s been rehearsing it for years as she’s tended to Trev’s every special need, tossed through every fitful night’s sleep, while Bob was out breaking lamps and missing trains.

  For his part, Bob seems to offer little protest. Craning my neck, I see that his manner remains inexplicably mild as she dresses him down. Elsa’s repertoire of verbal blows seem to bounce off Bob like rubber hammers. But you know he’s crying on the inside. It occurs to me that this willingness to absorb, this absence of protest, this utter lack of resiliency, is probably somewhere near the root of Bob’s failure in all its guises. As if to prove my point, in the end he attempts to surrender the dripping bag of KFC across the threshold to Elsa, who refuses it. Seconds later, I watch him slop across the yard with it, a portrait of defeat. He sets the disintegrating hodgepodge on the roof of the car—where it bleeds and oozes—as he opens the door and bumps his head climbing in again. Closing the door, he fires up the Taurus and starts up the driveway. About halfway up the drive, the bag oozes off the side and bonks the side mirror on its way to the gravel, whereupon Bob clips it with a back wheel, leaving yet another mess in his wake.

  the trouble with bob

  When my workday ends at six fifteen, I rattle up the bumpy driveway and into the gathering darkness with a mounting sense of relief. This evening I’ll answer the call of the Grill before happy hour is over. Max’ll probably be down there, maybe even Forest. Cresting the rise, who should I find at the top of the drive, sitting on the hood of the Taurus, shirt spattered with barbecue sauce, fly wide open, but Bob?

  “Another flat?” I say through the open passenger’s window.

  He shakes his head.

  “You’ve been here the whole time?”

  Casting his eyes down, he begins scratching absently at some dried bird shit on the hood.

  “Are you waiting for Trev?”

  He shrugs and leaves off scratching the bird shit.

  “Chances are, he’s not going anywhere,” I say.

  “I figured.” He kicks his big loafers idly a few times and looks off toward the horizon.

  The guy is deflated. After the rubber hammers have been laid to rest, and the midgets have all gone home, here at last is the sad clown. It appears my workday is not over, after all.

  “Buy you a beer?” I say.

  PUSHING OUR WAY through the big sticky door, we’re swallowed instantly by the swampy environs of the Grill, where the husky strains of Bob Seger greet us, along with the rabble of two dozen patrons and the bitter bouquet of stale beer and b
urned hamburger meat. A quick inventory reveals that Max is indeed in the house, playing cricket with a big bear of a guy in a flannel shirt and dirty Carhartt pants. Max is wearing black sweats, the drawstring kind, and his O-fers jersey, though the season is long over. Otherwise, it’s the usual suspects populating the Grill: predominately rustic males in dirty jeans and dirty baseball caps and work boots. Bob looks out of place in his Dockers and dress shirt, though he hardly seems to notice or care.

  We soon join Max and his friend with a fresh pitcher and four glasses. Max introduces the big guy as Pete. I introduce Bob as Bob.

  “You guys up for some doubles after we wrap this one up?” Max says, with foam in his mustache.

  I look to Bob, who has already inhaled his beer and began to slump. He shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

  A moment later, while Bob is preoccupied draining his second beer, steadily and without relish, Max says to me in confidence, “So, what’s with Al Gore?”

  “He’s my client’s dad.”

  “You mean the retarded kid?”

  “He’s not retarded. He’s got MD, Max.”

  “What’s he so glum about?”

  “Long story.”

  “You’re up,” Pete says to Max.

  After two and a half beers, Bob is showing signs of life.

  “You have kids?” he says to me.

  “Nah.”

  “Wife?”

  “Nope.”

  He empties the dregs of the pitcher into his schooner. “Me neither. Seems like. Don’t worry, I’ll get another one.”

  “No worries. Drink up.”

  “I never drink,” he says, draining his glass.

  “Sorry they wouldn’t let you in.” The apology ought to feel like a betrayal, but somehow it doesn’t.

  He looks me right in the eye for an instant, then looks away toward the dart board where Max has just hit a pair of triple-19s. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t let me in, either. Would you?”

  “Yeah. I think I would.”

  “Guess that’s why you’re a nurse,” he says, considering his empty glass.

  “So you weren’t surprised they turned you away?”

  “Were you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, there you go,” he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  He clutches the empty pitcher, and rises to his feet a little unsteadily. As he walks to the bar, he stuffs his left hand deep into the pocket of his Dockers, and I wonder if he’s rubbing his baby blanket in there or if he’s just digging for money.

  Bob and I don’t stand a chance against Max and Pete. Especially not Bob, who misses so wide with every third throw that his dart eludes the board altogether. He goes through house darts like Tic-Tacs. By midgame he’s already busted four tips, and we’re throwing mismatched reds and yellows. The bartender is beginning to shoot me dirty looks, as if to say, Hey, fucko, tell your friend house darts don’t grow on trees. Max has his own darts, of course: grooved brass fittings and high-gloss Confederate flag flights. He’s started throwing left-handed just for sport, and it barely slows him down. He’s mauling us on 17s. He looks like a walrus toeing the line with his foamy dick-duster and his big amorphous body, but the man can throw a dart. Thankfully, Pete sucks eggs. Though he’s a behemoth, to be sure, maybe six four, three hundred pounds, his touch is too soft. You’d think he was throwing butterflies. The way he squints at the line and wrinkles up his big bearded face, I’m guessing he’s nearsighted. But at least he hits the board. Oddly, I’m probably throwing better than I’ve thrown in two years. Something about being saddled with Bob takes the pressure off, I suppose. I’m not aiming. My wrist is loose. The old muscle memory seems to be kicking in. Toeing the line, I sniff the air like a predator, lock eyes on my prey, and let the darts fly without a thought in my head. I’m money on 20. But it’s still not enough to compensate for Bob.

  Between turns, Bob sprawls in his wooden chair with his fly wide open. Though he’s curbed his beer consumption somewhat in the last thirty minutes, he can’t belie the obvious signs of an amateur drunk. He’s beginning to blurt things, and laugh at his own blurtings, which are as unintelligible as anything Jodi ever uttered. He’ll sort of half blurt, half mumble something, and it’ll sound like “Morley Safer’s gooch.” And when you say “What?” he’ll just wave you off.

  “Saginaw leatherneck,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Old chifforobe.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fucking-hic-boiled ham.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The front of his dress shirt is beer-sopped, and his dart game continues to deteriorate. Bob is a man who falls apart fast. His baby blanket is hanging out of his pocket as he toes the line unsteadily, hiccupping twice, then letting a double 7 fly.

  “Hum now, Bob. Think bull’s-eye, buddy.”

  Bob straightens up—wobbling slightly, chin out. “Rusty—hic—swing set,” he says.

  “What the hell is he saying?” says Pete, over the rim of his Styrofoam spittoon.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” says Max.

  When Bob’s next dart hits the coin slot, Max shoots me a concerned look.

  “I know, I know,” I say with a double nod.

  Undaunted by his failure, Bob laughs, blurts something that sounds like “knob gobbler” and lets loose an errant bull’s-eye attempt, which, to the horror of everyone but Bob, pierces the waitress’s neck just below the earlobe. Reasoning perhaps that she’s been stung by a mutant wasp, she cries out and slaps at her neck, letting go a tray of half-empties, which caroms off a table edge and crashes to the floor.

  Nice going, Bob.

  Ten minutes later, Bob is yacking in the alley behind the Grill while I stand watch. When he’s got nothing left but a dry retch, I guide him by the shoulders and shepherd him past his rental to the Subaru, where I pour him into the passenger’s seat and buckle him in as he groans and mumbles. His hair is all mussed and his fly’s still open, and his eyeballs are lolling around in their sockets. He smells like corn dogs and cheap cologne.

  On the drive back to the compartment, Bob presses his face to the window and continues his sad drunk mumblings. When we stop at the signal at the top of Hostmark, he turns to me in the half-dark of the intersection, and his eyes look hollowed out.

  “What would you do?” he says.

  But I don’t have an answer for him. I wish I did. The best I can do is deliver him to the compartment, where I make him a bed on the sofa, offer him a sandwich and a glass of water and a toothbrush, and grant him one of my flat pillows on which to lay his head. Before I can finish making his sandwich, he reclines fully clothed on top of the blanket and passes out. When I go to turn off the lamp, I see he’s clutching his ragged baby blanket tightly in his fist. He looks mercifully untroubled in his leaden sleep state, almost childlike. It would serve Trev well to see him like that, I think. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Removing Bob’s big loafers, I set them at the foot of the sofa, and he hardly stirs. Liberating part of the comforter from beneath his dead weight, I drape it over him as best I can and snap off the light.

  flight

  In the morning, I find Bob—hair combed, fly zipped—standing at the compartment window looking out at the rain. There’s still a little dried puke on his right loafer, and his dress shirt has apparently endured some recent and desperate attempt at laundering, for the front is visibly wet in large blotches.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a hair dryer?” he says, indicating his shirt front.

  “I’ve got a shirt,” I say.

  He smiles a little sadly. “Ben, you’re a lifesaver.”

  From the back of the bedroom closet, which smells of fresh Xerox copies and lemon-scented Glade, hanging to no purpose behind a bulwark of plastic containers governing the loose ends of a life which now seems impossibly remote, I unearth the twice-worn dress shirt that Janet bought me for the express purpose of job interviews. Grid matrix on pale green. Graph paper on cotton
. Very forgettable. Very Bob. And indeed, it looks good on Bob. I’d hire him.

  “I’ll send it back,” he says. “Or I can pay for it.”

  “Consider it a gift. It never fit me.”

  Bob extends a handshake. “Well, thanks,” he says, giving me a pump. “I just wanted to say thanks. I should get a cab. I’ve got a flight this afternoon.”

  “I can drop you off, no problem. You want coffee?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “Something to eat?”

  “I’ll grab breakfast on the ferry,” he says, gravitating back toward the window, where he turns his attention to the rain. “The novelty never wears off.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about breakfast on the ferry or the rain, which started sometime late last night and hasn’t let up. “How many times have you been out here?” I say.

  “I lost count.”

  “Do they ever let you in?”

  “Twice. Once on my birthday and once when I brought chicken. That’s why I always bring chicken.”

  I want to tell him to try fish-and-chips. But I haven’t got the heart.

  The radio is silent on the drive to the Grill. The rain is falling slantwise, slapping the windshield like paint spatter. The whisk of the tires and the fast thrumming of the wipers are the only other sounds, as we shoot down the hill on Hostmark past the Money Tree toward town.

  “Probably best not to mention any of this to Trev,” he says at last. “Or Elsa.”

  “Probably not,” I say. But what I want to say is: Fuck them. Quit apologizing. They don’t deserve your chicken. But I know that’s not true, either.

  I can see when I drop Bob at the curb that there’s a parking ticket pinned like a sheet of wet fruit leather beneath the wiper of the Taurus.

  “Thanks again for the shirt,” he says, leaning back into the car.

  “No problem. Good luck,” I call after him.

  When Bob pulls out behind me, I see in the rearview mirror that he’s neglected to remove the parking ticket from beneath the wiper, where it traces a smudgy trail across the windshield twice before disintegrating, and I begin to understand how Bob’s life works: that unpaid ticket will turn into a bench warrant and, eventually, probably even result in Bob’s arrest on a minor traffic infraction, inciting the cruel amusement of his estranged son and ex-wife. And poor Bob will never know what hit him.