I Was There the Night He Died (7 page)

My hands are cold and my mouth is dry in spite of the half bottle of wine in my stomach, and I must have said something right because even I'm sad. I get up from the bench without looking at the girl and head home.

From the direction of the swing set, “What else about Ronnie Lane?”

“There is nothing else.” I don't like the way that sounds. I pause at the front door. “Listen to him,” I say. “Listen to Ronnie Lane.”

 

* * *

 

When I woke up the next morning
I felt ashamed of myself. You simply don't talk about your work. It's bad manners, it's bad for the writing itself, it's bad to blather to strangers. Bad, bad, bad.

That wasn't me, I'm not like that.

I'd rant and rave to Sara, sure. Wouldn't discuss or dissect or delineate, but when something work-related was cooking in my head, I'd occasionally spout verbal steam while we were out walking the dog together or while doing the dishes or over breakfast's second cup of tea. Which would never detract or impair what I was up to—would only, in fact, turn up the inspirational heat a notch or two higher. Someone to talk at, basically, someone to help you discover what it is you really want to say.

But that wasn't someone. That was different. That was Sara.

 

* * *

 

There's a message on my cell
phone from Thames View asking me to please drop by the director's office as soon as it's convenient—it's urgent—obviously the oral follow-up to the written-word warning that Uncle Donny has just sprung on me. I feel like I'm being called into the principal's office for something I didn't do but that I know I'm going to take the heat for anyway. That's what I get for forgetting for fifteen minutes what I was supposed to be so upset about. Bad news is always just one voicemail message away. I'll call them back once I'm finished at Uncle Donny's.

Visiting Uncle Donny is like seeing the Grand Canyon again for the first time in decades: the only thing that's changed is you. Maneuvering around the stacked cases of Cott Cola on the way from the cold room to the kitchen is a challenge, particularly as there's a light switch but no light bulb, Uncle Donny a firm believer that feeling your way along a wall is a cheap and effective substitute for seeing where you're going. The same gold-speckled, white Formica kitchen table supports the same two-slice toaster, dual
am
radio/alarm clock, clear plastic seven-day pill dispenser, and several years' worth of
Farmer's Almanac
that were there the very first time Dad took me along on one of his innumerable service calls disguised as Uncle Donny social calls. From the wiring inside the walls to the carpeting in the hallway to the shingles on the roof, Uncle Donny's house is a museum of Dad's dedicated handiwork. For that, anyway, I'm glad I'm here, despite the reason I'm here.

I hang my coat on the back of a kitchen chair and am on my way to the living room when Uncle Donny practically steps in front of me. “That room's a mess,” he says. “Let's sit in here.”

The table in Uncle Donny's kitchen is for a lot of things, but eating at it, never mind simply sitting at it, has never been one of them. Just as Uncle Donny will never stand if he can sit, slouching is always preferable to sitting upright. Uncle Donny's default position is leaning back as far as his recliner will allow with the TV remote control in one hand and a cigarette and a can of Cott Cola alternating in the other.

“Like I care if it's messy,” I say. Maybe it's because I'm already weary of what we're doing before we've even begun, but I'd much rather go through Dad's financial records on the couch. Or maybe it's just laziness by osmosis, a classic case of when in Uncle Donny's house, do as Uncle Donny.

“Well maybe I do,” he says. “Ever since this business with your dad has been going on, I've had to let a lot of things slide around here.”

“I'm sorry that your dusting time has been compromised by my dad losing his mind.”

“Now, don't say that.”

I can see the spark that this fight could easily flame into if I don't stamp it out. It's for times like these that I stopped taking speed. I wish I could tell someone how happy I am with the decision I made. I wish I could tell Sara.

“Look,” I say. “I'm just worked up about this screw-up with Thames View. But I'm sure that once we get Dad's papers sorted out we can get to the bottom of why they think we owe them so much money.”

Uncle Donny lowers his eyes and nods—once—as close to an apology as I'm going to get.

“The table will be better for what we're doing anyway,” I say. “That way we can spread out all of Dad's documents so we can have a clearer idea of what we're doing.”

Uncle Donny grants me another silent nod, which I reward with making the first move, pulling out the chair that my coat is draped over and sitting down. Uncle Donny goes to the cold room and comes back with two cans of Cott Cola with all of the enthusiasm of a condemned man helping himself to his last liquid meal. There's a can opener lying on the table, right next to a pink plastic back scratcher and the glass novelty bird who's been dipping his beak in and out of the same glass of water for the last thirty years, Sisyphus
à
la Uncle Donny. I open both cans while he goes to get the file I'd asked him to keep chronicling Dad's financial affairs since he's been at Thames View. The single-speaker cassette player that's small enough to sit on the window sill plays Frank Sinatra's greatest hits, “Summer Wind” in the middle of winter.

An hour and two cans of Cott Cola each later, we're no nearer to understanding how Thames View can be so adamant that Dad's fees are in arrears fifteen thousand dollars. Uncle Donny goes to the sink and runs the tap. Frank croons away about how he did it his way.

“I guess the thing to do is to just pay them and let it all get settled out later,” he says.

Uncle Donny stands at the sink with his back to me. “Are you crazy? Why would we pay them money we don't owe them?
How
would we pay them money we don't owe them?”

Uncle Donny shuts off the tap but stays where he is, stares out the kitchen window. “I thought maybe me and you could pay them. Just until everything gets straightened out.”

“Where would you and I get fifteen thousand dollars?”

He finally turns around from the sink; sticks his hand in his pants pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. “There's nearly a thousand dollars here,” he says. “If you could put in the rest, maybe we could get this all behind us.”

I stand up. “Uncle Donny, there's no—”

“I'd pay you back my fair share. I know I'd owe you half.” He holds out the money like a begging old man with a wad of bills in his palm.

“Just put that away, okay? There's no reason for anyone to panic. I'm going to talk to someone at the bank tomorrow. That's where I probably should have gone in the first place.”

“Why do you want to get the bank involved?”

“I don't want to get anyone involved. But they're probably our best bet at figuring out why Dad's cheques aren't getting through to Thames View.”

Uncle Donny is looking at the money in his hand like he can't remember how it got there. “I don't know,” he says, slowly shaking his head.

“You don't know what?”

Uncle Donny just shakes his head.

I take the hand with the money in it and carefully push it back inside his pants pocket. Uncle Donny isn't the sort of uncle you hug—in forty-four years, I can't remember doing it even once—but once the money is returned I rest my hand on his shoulder.

“Don't worry about it, all right? I'll take care of it. You stay home tomorrow and take a break and I'll get my own ride to Thames View. I'll bet you by this time tomorrow it'll all be sorted out. And as soon as it is, I'll give you a call, okay?”

Uncle Donny doesn't speak, but looks as if he's going to say something anyway, eyes anxious in their sockets, tongue licking his lips.

“Go get your car keys, okay?” I say. “I better get home. I've got work to get to.”

Talk of my leaving returns his attention to me. “I've got a call to make,” he says. “It'll only be a minute.”

It's only now that I notice he's not wearing his latest and only fashion accessory. “Where's your cell phone?” I say.

“What the hell do I need a cell phone for? Do you know how much one of those things cost? It adds up, you know.”

I don't argue with him, and Uncle Donny goes to his bedroom to make his phone call while I remove my coat from the back of the chair. While I'm doing up the buttons on my jacket I wander into the living room to get a peek at what Uncle Donny's idea of a mess really is.

Where I'm shocked. Not because there's stuff lying everywhere, but because there is no stuff. Almost no stuff: a crisp brown plant rotting in a green plastic pot on the floor where the TV used to be; several empty Cott Cola cans scattered around the room; a pile of Pro-Line tickets raked and ready to be made a bonfire of. But certainly none of the things that make Uncle Donny Uncle Donny, like his heated, vibrating recliner or his chair-side, glass-encased mini-fridge or his fifty-two-inch television or the revered collection of several remote controls laid out for easy access. He must have sold all of it to get the money he offered me to help pay Dad's bills. I can hear him coming down the hall, so I duck back into the kitchen.

Poor old bastard, I wouldn't want him to know that I know, I wouldn't want to embarrass him. Poor old bastard.

 

* * *

 

The person in charge of accounts
overdue at Thames View isn't in, but everyone in room #131 has had their supper. And had their dishes cleared away and been cleaned up for the evening and had their catheters and diapers removed, emptied, and replaced. I know it's their job and they do it because they get paid to and not because this is how they'd choose to spend their weeknights if they won Lotto 6/49, but the caregivers at Thames View allow Dad and me both our dignity. I can't claim to know much that goes on inside his head, but I know Dad prefers to be clean and comfortable and well fed, and he always is. As for me, even though there's a tablespoon of guilt seasoned with a dash of shame in knowing that I couldn't possibly do for him what the strangers who work here so capably can, that's offset by the reassurance of knowing that, even if I'm not here—
especially
if I'm not here—Dad is clean and comfortable and well fed.

Speaking of dignity:

“Do you know who I am, Grandpa?”

What sounds like a man who's swallowed a chicken bone but who's too feeble—or too afraid—to do more than attempt to wheeze it free of his blocked windpipe. Between Dad's advanced Alzheimer's and the daily cocktail of drugs he takes, his days of struggling to speak, of sputtering his way to frustration, rage, and tears, are over. Not so for the man with the bed closest to the door.

“Do you know who I am, Grandpa?”

The same man, making the same terrible sound, only slightly louder and with more urgency this time, panic taking hold now, the bone clearly impeding the oxygen intended for his rapidly emptying lungs.

“He doesn't know, Donna.”

“Yes he does, don't you, Grandpa? You know who I am. You know who I am, don't you? I'm Lizzy's daughter, Grandpa. I'm Donna.”

The same man, the same sound, until, eventually, struggling free from somewhere, “Du, du, du … ”

I can feel my own tongue and teeth involuntarily coming together to finish the man's stutter for him.

“That's it, that's it—who am I?”

“Du, du, du … ”

I can feel sweat—real sweat—pushing through the pores on my forehead while I wait for the man to complete the word, embarrassed to anxiety for both of us: for him to have to try and say it; for me to have to hear him suffer.

“You're almost there, Grandpa, you're almost there.”

“Du, du, du … ”

I can feel a single drop of sweat slowly roll past my left eye and down my cheek. Obviously, for the remainder of eternity the man is doomed to never say what he wants to say, just as I'm condemned to everlastingly witness his two-syllable torture.

“Du, du, du, duna.”

“Donna!” Donna shouts, clapping her hands. “That's right, I'm Donna!”

I breathe, not aware I'd been holding my breath.

“See,” Donna says to her mother on the other side of her grandfather's bed. “I told you he knew who I was.”

His vindicated granddaughter's identity finally established, Grandpa—actually, Mr. Goldsworthy, that's what the white plastic nameplate affixed to the end of his bed says—can now return to the incessant lip wetting and tongue sucking he seems to enjoy best. I know I'm wrong—we're all taught that until they reach Dad's irreversible silent stage the Alzheimer's patient needs to be encouraged, prodded even, back, if only temporarily, from the edge of endless night that every moment shadows his mind just a little bit more—but I can't help but be thankful that Dad's losing battle for dying daylight is over.

I know it's wrong, but I can't help but be relieved that Dad is past the point of
putting the TV remote control in the freezer or his wristwatch in the sugar bowl, or that his mood doesn't whip from calm to tears to arms-flailing anger for no apparent reason, or that he no longer insists that one of the care workers is stealing his socks and underwear, or that he doesn't endlessly open up his wallet and take everything out only to put it all back in before five minutes later starting all over again. Where we're at—here he's at—isn't where we want to be, but since this is where we all knew we were going to end up, I'm glad that the struggle not to be here is over. I overheard one of Mr. Goldsworthy's other daughters tell the nurse that her father had been a mechanic at Chatham Motors for forty years. Any man who knew—without ever having to bother lifting the hood—every nut, bolt, and belt that made the engine run in every North American car built since about the time Diefenbaker was Prime Minster shouldn't be subjected to being tested on the name of his granddaughter. I know I'm wrong, but it's not right.