The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (13 page)

postcards from the hinterlands

B
ob has a new strategy. Either he's taken some vacation time, or he's logging heavy miles on the weekends. He's spending his money on postage in recent weeks.
Th
ey arrive almost daily—postcards from the Utah hinterlands, from all corners of the Industry State; from Logan and Monticello, from Cedar City and Provo.
Th
e first card came about four days after his last visit. By now, a thin stack of them have accumulated on Trev's tray table amid the pill jars and pushpins: Hobbitville, the World's Largest Dog Head. Even the aforementioned Biggest Pit in the World.

While Trev is sleeping, I make it my business to thumb through the stack. Bob's roadside missives are invariably brief—a smart move, since Trev isn't a big reader. Like the rest of Bob, his handwriting is mild-mannered. A cursory knowledge of graphology yields little in the way of insight. No felons claws or big looping letters to suggest his character flaws, no heavy pressure applied, no distinctive slant, no wavy baseline. He writes like he dresses. He signs them all Bob, not Dad—another wise move.

OF THE BIGGEST
Pit in the World, Bob has this to say:
You're right. Clifton is bigger.

Of the Mormon Tabernacle, he says:
Q: Why do you take two Mormons fishing with you? A: If you bring one, he'll drink all your beer.

Of the Two Story Outhouse near Moab, Bob offers this:
Unfortunately, no wheelchair access for the top one. But at least there's no line for the bottom one.

Who is this guy? Al Gore was never this clever. I can't help but feel a little proud of Bob. He's making progress. He's thinking outside himself. He's giving himself a chance, albeit a slim one, to finally reach Trev.

Bob, on the Bonneville Salt Flats:
Just when you thought it couldn't get more exciting than a big hole in the ground.

Bob, on the IRS Headquarters in Ogden:
Okay, the Salt Flats are starting to look fun now.

Bob, on Monument Valley:
Meep meep.

Maybe Bob's most brilliant tactic of all—if indeed it's a tactic—is the general tone he employs in these briefs, the dry postmodern distance from which he delivers his summations. From the languid to the downright bored, his tone seems to suggest that Trev's not really missing anything by sequestering himself in the living room all day long. What better way to arouse Trev's curiosity than by withholding one's own? What better way to entice his imagination than by forcing him to lean heavily upon it? What better measure to counter Trev's resistance to the extraordinary than by embracing the cause oneself?

Bob, on Bryce Canyon:
Six bucks for two triple-A batteries in the gift shop. Amazing.

Trev never talks about the cards, never really lets on that he even reads them, but I can't help but notice that he stacks them scrupulously.
Th
is morning, drinking his Ensure, he says out of the blue, “
Th
e Mormons build some weird-looking shit.” And after breakfast he says, apropos of nothing, “You don't really think about Utah being desert.”

desperate measures

I
've taken to parking the Subaru three blocks away on Hildebrand, so the Cockroach can't find it. Otherwise, he lies in wait behind the hedges clutching his legal envelope, and some form of foot race invariably ensues. I don't wear my Chucks anymore because they won't stick to the wet pavement.
Th
e Cockroach loves the chase. Whenever I look back, he's smiling.
Th
ough he's younger and faster than I, the Cockroach is easily outwitted. Wednesday I lost him by dodging around the northeast corner of unit A and quickly squatting between two Dumpsters, where I'm pretty sure Chuck saw me out his back window just as the Cockroach sprinted by. I waved sheepishly just in case, but Chuck didn't wave back.

Yesterday I was forced to shimmy out the bathroom window and drop eight feet onto the uneven knoll in order to elude not only the Cockroach, but Chuck, too, stationed outside my front door in his bathrobe, foot tapping.
Th
is morning, they've got me trapped in the kitchen again, pinned behind the counter. I scramble for my cell and frantically dial Janet from memory. She answers on the first ring.

“Call them off,” I say.

“I want the papers, Ben.”

“Look,” I plead, sneaking a look around the corner of the counter, where I see Chuck's bushy mustache pressed to the window. “I'll sign the papers, I swear. But I want to do it in person.”

“You had your chance at the mall.”

“Okay, I blew it. But I want to do it right, I just need to say one thing first.
Th
at's all. And it probably won't change anything—and I know that. But I need to say it.”

“So say it.”

“In person, to your face.”

Chuck and the Cockroach are tapping madly at the window pane. I think they can see my foot sticking out from behind the counter. I reel it in slowly.

“Ben, damnit, there's nothing to say.”

“But there
is
!”

“What, Ben? What is there to say?”

Wedging the phone between shoulder and ear, I sidle crabwise across the linoleum toward the mouth of the hallway, where I plan on making a run for the bathroom. “What I've got to say, I want to say in person. I need you to hear it.”

I'm only half lying. I
do
need her to hear it; I've never needed anything so badly in my life. I just have no idea
what
it is I need her to hear. What is there to say? What word or acknowledgment could possibly undo any of the damage? Why do I bother clinging so desperately to this crumbling hillside when I know in my heart of hearts that I'm destined to go over the edge?

Th
e fact that Janet has given even the slightest of pauses to consider this proposition, especially after what I've put her through, is another testament to her weak will.

I'm on my knees now, readying myself to slink around the corner undetected. I can hear Chuck and the Cockroach conferring on my doorstep. I hear keys jingling. “I'll come to you this time,” I say to Janet, darting down the hallway. “I'll bring the papers.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Because it doesn't cost you anything.”

“So far it's cost me nearly two years of my life.”

“So what's another week or two?” I can hear the doorknob rattling, as I wedge myself up through the bathroom window. “Hold on a sec,” I say.

She takes in a long breath. If there's no hope for us, why is she on the verge of caving in?
Th
e thought that maybe, just maybe, there's more at work here than Janet's weak will has me smiling ear to ear as I shimmy out the window and drop once again onto the grassy knoll eight feet below, landing with a thud and rolling over onto my shoulder.

“You still there?”

“Yes,” she says.

Yes! Like a welling of sunshine deep down in my belly, yes! Yes, she's still there—willing to jump out of windows with me, willing to sprint down Madison weaving between cars with me. Yes!

“Are you running?” she says.

“Just walking fast,” I say, stealing a look over my shoulder.

“You sound strange. Like you're out of breath.”

“I guess I'm walking pretty fast is all.” Another glance over my shoulder tells me I'm probably free and clear. Still, I tear around the corner at Wallace, jump a weed whacker laying across the sidewalk, slalom between a team of Mexican landscapers clearing ivy along the edge, and immediately slacken my pace, doing my best to disguise the fact that I'm out of breath.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“I'm fine,” I say. Especially fine considering the circumstances—and there really are so many to consider.

“You don't sound fine. You sound crazy.”

“I'm just walking fast.”

“Maybe you should slow down, then. Take a deep breath.”

“Maybe if I wasn't being chased down the street by a . . . Oh, look, never mind. What about you? How are you? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Ben.”

“Still working at the zoo?”

“Yes, Ben.”

“
Th
at's good. You sound good.”

I'm sitting on the curb in front of the Subaru now, fully intent on Janet on the other end of the phone, reminding myself not to rush intimacy, to disarm her first, to elicit casual conversation, rather than to leap headlong into full disclosure.
Th
e problem is, I can't think of anything to say. It seems that I'm only capable of full disclosure. With anybody. Maybe that's what happens to crazy people, they become too honest.
Th
ey can't see anything but truth anymore, and they're compelled to share it, when they ought to shut up about it.

“Is it raining down there?” I say.

“I'm not by a window. But yes, it has been. You need to pull yourself together, Ben,” she says. “Start thinking about the future.”

I should probably take offense, even if it's true. But along the hoarse edges of her exasperation, I hear strains of genuine concern.

“I'm trying,” I say. “It may not seem like it, but I am.”

“I believe you.”

“
Th
en call them off.”

“I've gotta go, Ben.”

“Call them off.”

“Ben, I'm at work. I've gotta go.”

“Please.”

“Don't do this to me. You always do this.”

“I'm not trying to do anything, look, I just . . . For everything . . . I'm . . .”

I'm too late. She's already hung up. Still, I can't help but feel strangely hopeful as I climb behind the wheel of the Subaru. My optimism is rewarded immediately.
Th
e car fires up on the first turn. She doesn't stall when I put her in gear. Rolling by the apartment on Madison, I spot Chuck and the Cockroach in the parking lot, conferring once again. Chuck is slightly hunched, breathing heavily, with his arms akimbo.
Th
e Cockroach is shaking his head side to side and looking at his wristwatch. He isn't smiling. I can see Madge on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, while the cat circles her ankle. I honk as I drive past.