The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (26 page)

a year and a day

S
prung on a $762 bond, I'm free by 6:00 p.m. (at least until my court appearance next month). Elton, however, is not so fortunate. In violation of his parole, he's being held without bond, awaiting extradition to Mineral County, where according to Scruggs, he'll get a year and a day, if he's lucky. Getting that much information out of Scruggs wasn't easy.

Poor Peaches is beside herself with grief and worry. I've assured her that everything is going to be okay. I've promised her a ride to her mother's in Jackson, a detour that Trev has approved. All things considered—the fact that she's currently beholden to the kindness of strangers, one of whom has recently exhibited cannibalistic tendencies, while her fiancé, whose child she's due to deliver in three weeks, is at large in the Montana penal system—Peaches is taking it like a champ and doing her best to smile.

We've squeezed into a booth in the rear of Pita Pit, where I'm buying everybody dinner to commemorate my birthday. My optimism is seemingly boundless in this dark hour.

“Don't you see?” I tell Peaches. “You're going to be a mother—a
mother
. It's going to be the single most profound thing that ever happened to you. Seriously, everything will fall into place.”

While arguably not the most comforting advice from a forty-year-old soon-to-be divorcé with no job and a nearly maxed-out credit card, Peaches leans into my assurances from across the table.

Dot sits close to Trev at the end of the bench near the head of the table. She buckled him in on the way here. She jockeyed chairs around to accommodate his passage when we arrived. Together, they flip through pictures on Dot's phone while Dot offers personal commentary at every turn. Trev is as giddy as I am. He still needs a shower, but he's looking good. His hair is falling just right.

I'm feeling extravagant in spite of my financial woes, triumphant in spite of my aching ribs. And why not? Today I climbed a man. Today I've known the glory of battle. I've tasted human flesh. And tonight I gather my ragged tribe around me for a celebration: gyros, club wraps, how about some hummus? Supersize that Coke! And how about a veggie platter, no, two veggie platters, and throw in four of those Otis Spunkmeyers! Tonight my appetites are huge. My senses are heightened.
Th
e whole world pulses with the heartbeat of possibility. Every thought is a revelation. Around every corner is a reason to hope. I am expansive. I am inexorable. I am loquacious. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was high on something.

Peaches, I say, take heart, my mountain wildflower!
Th
ere is life beyond Henderson!
Th
ere are pleasures and mysteries unfathomable to your young heart! Do not measure out your life with coffee spoons nor lay waste your powers—live, I say! Invent yourself! Let your reach exceed your grasp! And pass the hummus while you're at it!

When there's nothing left of the feast but the crinkled paper ravages, we pile into the handi-van in search of lodging. Downtown Missoula yields an array of inexpensive vacancies, promising value and comfort and savings. But tonight, I'm in the mood for something grander. Tonight, we will have luxury, tonight, we will have opulence—wooden hangers and a minifridge!

After an hour and fifteen minutes of searching, the C'mon Inn out on Expo Parkway looks like Xanadu with its tropical courtyard.
Th
e night clerk is wearing a blazer. He eyes us doubtfully one by one as we filter into the lobby through the double-glass doors. Indeed, we are a ragtag cabal. Without hesitation, I produce my wallet and attempt to book a two-room suite with on-demand cable and complimentary breakfast, fairly confident my card will not be declined. I paid the minimum two days before we left, which should leave $480—give or take—after the cash advance for the bond (the bulk of the money that was supposed to finance my end of the trip). But I'm only reckoning to pass the time, financial trifles cannot touch me tonight, nothing can disrupt the smooth surface of my stability.

“You okay?” Trev inquires as the clerk runs my card. “You look a little sweaty.”

“Must be the tropical air in here.”

“Your current address is at 1599 Madison, sir?” says the clerk.

“
Th
at's the one.”

He punches keys like an automaton. “Sir, do you have a current driver's license?”

“Of course.”

“One I could see?”

“Ah.” I fish my wallet out again, and surrender my license.

He glances at the license, punches another flurry of keys.
Th
en another. I breathe deeply of the tropical air, admire the sturdy construction of the cedar mezzanine, cross my fingers in my pants pocket.
Th
e clerk punches and punches to the content of his bloodless little heart.

“You sure you're okay?” says Trev.

“Tip-top.”

“You wanna sit down?”

“I'm great.”

Th
e clerk stops punching, looks momentarily puzzled, then starts punching again.

“How's the ribs?” says Trev.

“I can hardly feel them.”

“Sure you don't wanna go to the doctor?”

“Oh no.”

Punch
-punch-
punch
-punch-
punch
-punch-
punch
goes the clerk.

“Is there a problem?” I say.

“Mm,” he says.

“Mm?”

“Mm.”

Abruptly, he stops punching. He shakes his head solemnly and right clicks his mouse. Spinning slowly on his heels, he gingerly removes a sheet from the printer, holding it at some distance from his body, before surrendering it over the counter.

“Okay,” he says. “You're all set. Elevator's down the hall to the right.”

Th
e accommodations are a considerable step up from Old Willard's motor court.
Th
e master suite smells of fresh linens and window cleaner.
Th
e coat hangers, if not wood, are passable replicas of wood.
Th
e art on the cream-colored walls does not offend: resplendent fruit bowls and women with parasols.
Th
e dramatic center of the master suite is neither the quilted king mattress nor the dramatic floor-to-ceiling view of the rear parking lot but a pair of brown faux-leather La-Z-Boy recliners situated like rooks facing the flat-screen TV.

Dot steps around me, trailing the fruity scent of perfume, and immediately plops her bag down in the center of the floor and flops into one of the recliners. Trev buzzes straight for the remote on the nightstand.

“Hey, the lamps aren't bolted down,” he says.

Peaches isn't exactly sure how to proceed. She lingers in the doorway, holding one of her gigantic suitcases.

“
Th
ere's two queens in the other room,” I say. “Dot, you take the other one. Trev, you're good with sharing, right?”

“
Th
at's cool.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Peaches says. “I don't mind.”

I swing open the door to the adjoining room. “Nope. You and Little Elton are in here.”

Peaches waddles through, one hand clutching her belly and the other dragging her klunky suitcase. Poor kid. She must be exhausted.

“Do you want your sweatshirt back?” she says.

“You can give it back when we get to your mom's.”

“You don't mind if I go to sleep, do you? It's just been such a . . . and I'm so . . .”

“Of course not.”

She's still clutching the suitcase like she's afraid to let go of it. I'm surprised she's not carrying Elton's, too.

I step in and pry the bag from her clutches, swinging it up onto the dresser.

“You get some sleep,” I say. “I'll tell 'em to keep the television down.”

“I can sleep through anything,” she says.

“Of course, you can.”

“Good night,” she says, sweetly. “Happy birthday.”

“Good night,” I say, closing the door behind me.

the calm

W
ith Peaches sound asleep, and Trev and Dot hypnotized by the big screen, I don my Speedo in the bathroom, snatch a towel off the rack, fish my cell phone out of my pants pocket, and retire alone to the chlorinated air of the atrium.
Th
e Jacuzzi is empty, as is the adjoining exercise room. Sinking neck deep into the warm effervescence, a calm envelops me. I should know better than to trust it. My ribs should be reminder enough, if not my current financial and legal status, or the fact that I'm harboring a teenage runaway, a very pregnant unwed mother, and a kid whose heart could give out any minute. I know I've lost my mind. But I'm not concerned, because it's the first thing I've lost in a long time that actually feels good.

When it seems that nothing can touch me, that nothing can disturb the imperturbable calm, twin headlights slice through the atrium.
Th
rough the window I see the Skylark swinging a wide arc in the parking lot. And just like that, the putrid stink of crossed wires smolders deep in my sinuses, and the electrical fire is raging in my skull again. I'm out of the water before I even know it. I'm dashing barefoot through the atrium, clutching my cell phone like a grenade. Bursting out the side door with a metallic clatter, I charge madly across the parking lot in my Speedo with murder in my heart. I've got an insatiable hunger for flesh. I'll devour this guy. I'll chew him up and spit him out in Janet's face.
Th
is time I don't charge straight at him, but cut a tight angle along the side of the building to head him off at the exit, sprinting right past the lobby. I jump a small hedge, nearly slip on the grassy divider, break stride with an awkward lurch, but manage to keep my feet long enough for something to pop near the base of my neck. I careen forward, go briefly airborne, hit the sidewalk, and skid to a stop on my knees and palms, just as the Skylark swings onto the thoroughfare.

Peeling myself from the pavement, I stagger to my feet, fighting for breath. My palms are hamburger, embedded with gravel. My knees are bleeding. I can hardly move my neck. Standing at the curb beneath the glare of the streetlight, my naked body steams in the night air, as the Skylark's taillights recede.

I fall to my knees. Sobbing, I dial Janet.

She answers on the second ring.

“Call him off, please,” I say. “It's over. You win.”

“What are you talking about? Who?”

“Please, Janet. I give up. I can't take it anymore.”

“What happened? You sound like a crazy person. Are you crying?”

I try to pinch off the grief in my throat, but I can't, and it only makes me angry. “Goddamnit, none of this is my fault, Janet!”

“Ben, I'm hanging up.”

“Where were you that day at the duck pond, Janet? Where were you for the bumps and bruises?”

Th
e air goes out of her like a ruptured balloon, and there follows a stunned silence. I huddle on the curb and grab my knees for warmth, teeth clacking, as I press the phone to my ear in the terrible silence and wish that my heart would stop beating. Faintly, I can hear Janet whimpering on the other end.
Th
ey are the whimpers of a dying animal, slow and agonizing, the whimpers of something begging to be put out of its misery.

Cars hurtle by on Expo Parkway, a blur of lights and a steady thrum. I don't know what day it is. I clench my eyes and stare at the back of the lids; the hum of the traffic washes over me, and I hope that when I open my eyes I will be somewhere else. Someone honks as they speed past.

“Pervert!” they holler.