The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (28 page)

ghost town

T
h
ough we're still twenty miles shy of Yermo, already this excursion to Calico promises to be the shriveled cherry atop this melted sundae of a vacation—the one I've been force-feeding my family for six days. If the Benjamins were so red-eyed and road weary as to be underwhelmed by the Grand Canyon—if say, the unfathomable sun-striped revelation looked to certain Benjamins like a collapsed wedding cake moldering under a heat lamp—well, then, we are officially beleaguered two days later, as we start backtracking east on I-15 toward Calico. It's ninety-two degrees. Piper's peeling sunburn has exposed a fresh canvas for the searing heat. In the passenger's seat, Janet is no longer blotchy—just solid red and sweat-soaked.
Th
e air conditioner is still kaput.
Th
e baby is dancing the Nutcracker in Janet's womb. Nowhere, but nowhere, in this vast moonscape surrounding us is there even a hint of shade.

Th
e nineteenth-century silver boomtown of Calico (that is, its reconstructed facsimile), squats in the dust at the foot of King Mountain. Upon approach, I'm thinking the place is sure to be a bust—just as sure as there's nothing even remotely regal about King Mountain, which looks to me like any one of a dozen piebald nubbins in the vicinity. Even as I'm paying the fifteen-buck admission, I'm visualizing another sticky fiasco in which I'm forced to ply Piper into submission with cotton candy and overpriced sarsaparillas. Janet will need to rest her swollen ankles. Some old lady will probably drop dead of a heat stroke at our feet while we're waiting in line for the Mystery Shack.

And yet . . . and yet . . . Calico surprises, even dazzles, in its hokey fashion!
Th
e whole town is air-conditioned.
Th
ere's a whorehouse. An apothecary. A jail. You get to chuff around the perimeter in a little train. You get to pan for gold. Even King Mountain seems to loom larger, a little more stately, against a blue sky.

“
Th
ey should've had this at the Grand Canyon,” says Piper, sipping her butterscotch milkshake at the Miner's Cafe (six bucks!), where Janet is elevating her ankles, and I'm watching the clock—I don't want to miss the Wild West Show. I know that the main event will be a hopelessly lame reenactment, a clinic on bumbling theatrics. I know that the sheriff will have a big mustache and a name like Bart, that the villain will be a hyena with bad teeth (presumably Mexican). Somebody will fall out of a saloon window. Old Doc will pronounce him gut shot. A histrionic woman of questionable repute will be dragged kicking from his prone body. I know the whole thing will end with a standoff at high noon in the middle of Main Street. And I know that Bart will be the last man standing. But somehow I can't help myself. I'm giddy like a kid.

“See, I told you this place would be worth the detour,” I say.

“Yeah, but you said the Grand Canyon would be worth it,” she says.

“Your mom said that, not me.”

“Same difference,” she says, slurping at the dregs of her shake. “Can I get another?”

“Absolutely not,” says Janet.

“Please.”

“No,” I say.

“What if I don't finish this one?
Th
en can I try chocolate?”

“No,” Janet says.

“Besides,” I say. “You already finished that one.”

“Nuh-uh! Look!” she thrusts the nearly empty glass at me. “And lots of it is still stuck in the straw.”

“I'm sorry, Piper, but the answer is still no.”

“Fine,” she says, folding her arms. “
Th
en I quit this dumb vacation.”

I can't help but laugh.

“It's not funny,” she says. “I quit it. It's the dumbest vacation ever.”

Again, I can't suppress my amusement. Poor kid. She's been a trouper. Look at her: a road-weary waif worthy of Dickens, greasy-haired and slump-shouldered, her ravaged forehead flaking like onion skin. By God, the kid has earned another milkshake. I might consider letting her have it, even if meant going to bat against Janet, were it not for three things: one, my foreknowledge of the inevitable two-shake sugar crash; two, I repeat, six bucks!; three, the Wild West Show starts in seven minutes, and I have no intention of missing it.

“Honey,” I say. “You can't just quit a vacation. It's not that simple.”

“Oh yes it is,” she says.

She's still pouting as we spill out onto the boardwalk into the breathtaking heat, wending our way through the gathering crowd, past the General Store and the Saloon to the Leatherworks, where we jostle for three spots against the rail. Main is cordoned off through the heart of town. Shutters creak in the hot wind. Dust devils dance midstreet. Horses whinny in the Livery. Somewhere in the wings, adhesive mustaches are applied, squibs are concealed, and lines are hurriedly rehearsed as Old Doc dons his stethoscope and Bart buffs his badge and straps on his six-shooter.
Th
e tension is palpable. For some of us, anyway.

“I've gotta find a bathroom,” Janet announces. “I'll be back.”

She turns and begins inching her way through the crowd belly first, just as the first gunshot rings out. Suddenly, a body crashes through the railing on the second floor of Hank's Hotel. A buxom redhead bursts through the saloon doors.

“
Th
ey got Gus!” she proclaims, falling to her knees. Her great chest begins to heave. “Oh, Gus!” she laments.

Here comes Old Doc hobbling down Main Street at a trot, as patrons spill out of the saloon and gather around Gus.

“
Th
ey got me,” says Gus through gritted teeth. “See to my mama, Darla. Send word to my people back in Laramie.”

“He's gut shot,” Doc proclaims. “Somebody round up the sheriff.”

“Round up the priest while you're at it,” says a gruff voice from behind the saloon doors. Now the Hyena steps out from the shadows, squinting snake-eyed into the sunlight, casting a long shadow down Main Street. He's wearing a sombrero and a serape and wielding a bottle of mezcal.

“You'll hang for this, Gomez!” says a bystander.

No sooner does Gomez draw his pistol in a sun-glint flash of silver than the bystander crumples in the street, clutching his chest.
Th
e squib fires late, and somebody's cell phone rings, but the effect is good enough.

“Don't worry,” I whisper. “It's not real.” But when I look down, Piper's
not there.

“Honey?”

She's not behind me or along the rail to either side.

“Piper!”

“Shhh,” someone says.

A cold hand grips my heart as I push my way back through the crowd, craning my neck to scan the neighboring storefronts. I see Janet navigating her way back from the bathroom. Before she can register my panic, she's upon me in front of the leatherworks.

“She's gone,” I say.

“What do you mean ‘she's gone'?”

“She was standing right next to me watching the show. When I looked down, she was gone.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben.”

“Check that way,” I say. “I'll look up this way.”

My panic hardens into something much denser, as I force my way through the throng, past the craft store. “Piper!” I call.

Frantic, I search the blacksmith, then the Sweet Shop.

“Have you seen a little girl?” I ask the clerk.

“What does she look like?”

Eight minutes later, I'm on the boardwalk in front of the livery, talking to two security guards.

“She's six years old. She's wearing—Christ, what the fuck is she wearing? She's wearing a dress. I think a red and white dress.”

Janet trots across Main Street toward us, clutching her stomach as she bounces. All the color has drained from her face. She's been crying.

“I've looked everywhere,” she says breathlessly.

“She'll turn up, ma'am,” says the pudgy security guard.

“She can't go far,” the skinnier one assures us.

“Why weren't you watching her?” Janet rasps, breaking down into tears again. “Goddamnit, Ben, why weren't you watching!”

“Calm down,” I say. “What was she wearing?”

“A blue-checked dress,” she whimpers.

“And you say her name is Piker?” says the pudgy one.

“Piper, with a
p,
” I say. “Her face is peeling. One of her front teeth hasn't come in all the way.”

As I'm describing her, I know with a terrible certainty that I'm never going to see my daughter again.
Th
at I've lost her.
Th
at somebody has taken her, forced her into a van, drugged her. Still, the hopeless search continues. Security personnel plumb the silver mine with flashlights.
Th
e schoolhouse is turned upside down. A half hour passes in a jangled blur as I dart frantically in and out of storefronts. To make matters worse, the Wild West Show has ended, and everywhere there is movement as the horde fractures and undulates, but there's not a blue-checked dress among them.

As hard as I try to push the thought from my mind, I can see the man who's taken her. He has a mustache. Sunglasses. A jagged little scar above his left eyebrow. He's wearing a sweatshirt in spite of the heat.

Suddenly, through the photo parlor window, I glimpse a dark head of hair and burst through the door. But it turns out to be a boy half Piper's age. My mind is playing tricks on me.

“Have you seen this girl?” I ask the photographer, thrusting a wallet-sized photo into his face.

Nobody's seen her. Not the woman in the Needleworks, not the old lady in the Candle Shop. Not the Chinese guy in the Boot and Saddle. My cell phone is running out of juice.
Th
e pudgy security guard continues to reassure Janet in front of the ice wagon.

Th
e grim scene plays out in my head.
Th
ere's no stopping it. I can see the van trailing a cloud of dust as it speeds out into the desert—there's not even a road where he's taking her.

At the far end of Main Street, I hurry up the hill through the cemetery toward the squat little Christian church. I push through the door.
Th
e place is empty. Still as a sarcophagus. Slants of sunlight swimming with dust. I walk down the aisle between the pews, feverish, heartsick, certain that my life will never be the same. Bile is rising in my throat.
Th
e room is starting to wobble. I'm going to puke. I double over, steadying myself on the last pew. Just when I'm about to lose it, I see her, asleep on her side on the bench with her mouth half open, her blue-checked dress pasted to her sunburned knees.

the edge

H
ighway 191 begins in the unassuming flatlands a dozen or so miles west of Bozeman, where it picks up the Gallatin River, running flat through sprawling pasturelands. Soon the mountains converge before us, and the road begins a winding ascent through the steep forested slopes of Gallatin Canyon.
Th
e snowcapped Madisons rear up to the west, buttressed by squat green foothills, while abruptly the craggy Gallatins crowd in on us from the east.
Th
e van labors in low gear, as we inch our way up the ever-steepening grade toward the Yellowstone plateau, a treacherous two-lane crawl along shoulderless overhangs.
Th
e vistas are among the most dramatic we've yet to encounter. Just over a guardrail, ominously buckled in places, strung intermittently with memorial wreaths, the world falls away precipitously into a bottomless tree-stubbled gorge. Mercifully, I'm unable to crane my neck. Above us on either side, the cliff faces are studded with sandstone and marred by recent slides. I'd grip the wheel harder if my bandaged hands would allow me.

In the backseat, Dot and Peaches converse with the familiarity of old friends, occasionally in hushed tones.
Th
ough Dot is younger, she is more worldly and does most of the talking. Peaches takes it all in like the gospel, her bright eyes shining above her cherubic cheeks. Now and again, I catch snippets of their conversation.

“Let me guess,” says Dot. “Every time you bring it up, he talks about wanting everything to be perfect, right? He talks about some future where all the details are taken care of and the timing is right.”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Because they're all that way—Ron, Kirk, my dad.”

“What way?”

“Scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything. So they invent a future where they've got nothing to be afraid of. It usually has to do with having more money.”

Peaches cradles her belly in both hands, and looks out over the gorge. “Elton was gonna make us rich,” she says sadly.

“Don't worry,” says Dot. “He still will.”

Beside me, Trev seems perfectly at ease.
Th
e transformation is remarkable. Never mind that our journey has been hopelessly derailed at every juncture, that we're overbudget, behind schedule, and have no clue where the nearest medical facility is located. Never mind that the dummy light is on again. Never mind that the man to whom he has entrusted his health is wrapped in gauze, wearing a neck brace, and teetering precariously on the edge of sanity. Trev is a rock.

“So, are you gonna come back to work?” he says to me, out of the blue.

“I mean, when this is over?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What else would you do?”

“I have no idea.”
Th
e fact is, I haven't given it a thought. I'm lucky to see my hand in front of my face in my current state of myopia.

Trev looks out his window at the cliff face hugging the shoulder, then rolls his head back toward me. “You gotta do something.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“My mom will be fine with it. It's my decision, really. Look, dude, you're old.
Th
is is serious. You gotta figure out what you're gonna do.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do before?”

“Nothing, really. I wrote poetry.”

“No, really, what did you
do
?”

“Worked some bullshit jobs.”

“Like what?”

“Like I worked at a bookstore. And I worked for a place that painted parade floats. And I worked as a courier for a reprographics outfit. And I worked at a bakery for a long time.”

“So, you were a baker?”

“No, I worked behind the counter.”

Trev considers this, as though contemplating my employment prospects. “Parade floats, huh?”

“Yeah, the big inflatables.”

“How come I don't know any of this stuff?” he says.

“You never asked.”

Arriving at West Yellowstone is like arriving on the edge of the world. Squatting near the edge of a broad plateau stretching from horizon to horizon, the town itself, a collusion of local merchants straining to summon the western frontier with splintered storefronts and swinging doors, huddles around one wide thoroughfare running north to south. It's not so different from a certain ghost town. For all its hokey frontier airs, West Yellowstone really is about as rugged an outpost as you're likely to find in the West, hemmed in by a seemingly boundless wilderness, snowbound half the year, and eighty miles from anything else you could call a town.

Th
ough it's late in the season, most of the hotels boast no vacancy. After three passes, we finally find a vacancy at the Roundup Motor Lodge on the edge of town.
Th
e room is sad but inexpensive, lit like an interrogation room.
Th
ere's no art on the walls, no Bible in the drawer. And maybe it's me, but the ceilings feel low.

I shower with Trev. He sits rigidly in his shower seat, clutching the handrail, as I sponge the ghostly white skin of his back and shampoo his hair. Afterward, Peaches redresses my wounds, while Trev sits in his wheelchair before the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist, running an electric razor unevenly over his face. When he's finished shaving, I put on his deodorant and carry him to the bed, where the girls look the other way as I dress him in clean cargoes and a black T-shirt.

In spite of my insistence that she needs to eat, Peaches refuses to join us for dinner, claiming she's not hungry. But I think she just wants to be alone. Dot makes one last attempt to persuade her while Trev and I wait in the parking lot under the huge night sky.

“Dude,” he says to me. “Don't take this the wrong way—but would you mind if like, uh, you know, I flew solo on this one or whatever?
Th
e dinner, I mean.”

“Ahhh, right, gotcha. I'll just grab a pizza and bring it back to the room. You have a key?”

“Yeah.”

“You need to go to the bathroom or anything?”

“I'm cool.”

“You warm enough?”

“Yeah.”

“Got your wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Just call me if you need—”

“Go,” he says, rolling his head back and waving me on with a little flipper motion.

I pat my own pocket for my wallet and cell and turn to leave.

“Are you really gonna wear that?” he says.

“What, the shirt?”

“
Th
e neck brace.”

“Why, does it make me look fat?”

“You don't want the ladies feeling sorry for you.”

“Sure I do.”

“You don't. Trust me.”

But the truth is, I don't care at this point what the ladies or anyone else thinks of me.

Th
e thin air of the plateau is unexpectedly chilly. I should have worn a sweatshirt. But at least my neck is warm as I angle across the lot toward the main drag. A quick check of my cell tells me it's 8:35 p.m.
Th
ough my search for pizza needn't take me far (I spot the Wild West Pizzeria right across the street, it's red neon abuzz), I feel like stretching my legs. At Canyon, I veer south. Neither the glow of West Yellowstone nor the moon waxing yellow on the horizon is bright enough to wash out a smattering of cold white stars splashed across the night sky. A black pickup crawls past, trailing salsa music. A chorus of muffled laughter seeps out of the saloon up the street, where out front I can discern the glow of a cigarette cherry. Otherwise, the town huddles warily in darkness, one eye open against the silent, patient menace of the wilderness, pressing in from all sides.

Stuffing my bandaged hands in my pockets, I walk past the darkened boutiques, past the hokey Trading Post, and the abandoned frankfurter stand, past the all-night retro diner, vacant save for a lone coffee drinker perched on a chrome stool at the end of the bar. Briskly, though I have no purpose, I stride past the desolate IM
ax
theater, past the visitor center, toward the far edge of town.

In the weeks and months following the disaster, those nights when I was courageous enough to stay sober but still too cowardly to end my life decisively, I used to walk like there was no tomorrow, no matter the weather nor the hour. Some nights I'd walk all the way down Agatewood, around the bend to Highway 305. I'd walk along the road's shoulder with the headlights at my back, north to the bridge, where I'd stand in the trade winds and peer between trusses out over the rail at the mutinous water seventy feet below. As if. As if seventy feet would even do the job. As if deep down I weren't too self- indulgent to ever remove myself from the corporeal realm, deny myself the fleeting luxuries of living on earth—the cheeseburgers, the sunsets, the bitter spoils of self-pity. As if I didn't deserve to die.

At the south end of Canyon, the town peters out, and the road ends abruptly in a wide tract of weeds and gravel. From there, the darkened plateau seems to stretch forever beneath the stars, studded with pines in the pale moonlight. Surely it is among the loneliest sights I've ever seen and somehow all the lonelier knowing that the little town is at my back. I venture a few crunchy steps off the sidewalk into the gravel, then a few more. After about thirty or forty steps, I stop and listen to the distant buzz of crickets. I turn and look back at the town. Even at 150 yards, it seems far away. I wouldn't have guessed it would have such a pull on me, this little postcard hamlet in the middle of nowhere, that it would call me back like this. Why should it? What promise awaits me there? On the other hand, the prospect of pushing farther into the darkness is at once thrilling and paralyzing. Obviously, I don't have the guts to go farther; maybe someday. Still, I force myself to linger, crossing my bare arms for warmth, digging my toe into the gravel and wishing I still smoked cigarettes. Suddenly a rustling in the weeds sets my neck hairs on end. All at once, the crickets stop. I spin around and peer into the void. Nothing.

Without further hesitation, I retreat hastily in the direction from which I came, as though something might be gaining on me. When I rejoin the sidewalk, I slacken my pace and begin doubling back through town toward the pizza joint. Passing the diner on the opposite side of the street, I see Trev and Dot in the window looking at menus, and I'm grateful, though I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing them both somehow.

When I return to the room, I find Peaches roosting on the edge of the bed with her head bowed, crying softly into a hand towel. Setting the pizza aside, I lower myself beside her and drape an arm over her shoulder, then begin to rock her gently back and forth as she clutches the towel. For a few minutes, we rock in silence. She sniffles and wipes her eyes.

Even in grief, puffy and ringed with red, her hazel eyes are lively, as she peers up into my face. “I don't want to be alone,” she says.

I squeeze her tighter and clear the stray hairs from her face. “You won't be.”

“But what about Elton?”

“Shhh,” I say. “Don't worry about Elton. Elton will be back.”