The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (32 page)

west yellowstone redux

F
or the first time in this oft-delayed, endlessly diverted voyage, we're actually traveling backward—back to West Yellowstone to stay with Peaches at the clinic, until her mother arrives from Jackson to take her home, where she and Little Elton will begin a new life.

As we retrace our path through the lower basin and into the canyon, I imagine the nursery as Peaches described it. A sunny little room with southern exposure, smelling of calendula and baby powder. I imagine Peaches's mom, a generously proportioned Mother Hubbard type, rocking baby Elton in a corner as he clutches at the generous folds of her frilly old-lady blouse, cooing blissfully to the tune of a music box. I imagine Peaches trying to catch a cat nap on the sofa. Even in her punchy state of exhaustion, in her baggy sweats and frumpy bathrobe with dried spit-up on the lapel, she glows. When she wakes up twenty minutes later, still exhausted, she will miss Baby Elton already. Her body will ache for him. Every time he cries at his inability to express himself, every time he coos while clutching at her breast, every time he follows her with his nearsighted gaze as she leaves a room, her body will ache for him. And with the thought of this aching, all the wonderment and humility and stupefying awe of parenthood comes flooding back.

Th
e Family Clinic is located on the south end of town on a wide, dusty thoroughfare not unlike Canyon Street but without all the frontier pretense.
Th
e edifice, squat, unadorned, four shades of faded brown, with long tinted windows, looks less like a medical facility and more like a place where you'd attend a transgender support group, or an indoor flea market. Somehow, Cash has managed to beat us here in the Skylark, where he's parked right out front, one arm out the window, listening to a warbling Guess Who cassette. He nods as we pass, looking a little crestfallen when Dot ignores him. But then, as though she can read his mind, she stops in her path momentarily and turns back to him, arms akimbo.

“Hey, Dad.
Th
e seventies called.”

“Yeah?” he says, hopefully.

“
Th
ey want their technology back.”

Cash smiles—he'll take what he can get.

Th
e clinic is actually quite sunny on the inside. New carpet in the lobby. Freshly painted corridors. Cheerful receptionist. Peaches is once again in high color, propped up in a hospital bed in a powder blue smock with her hair tied back. She clutches Baby Elton to her chest. His tiny blue and white striped beanie cannot belie his still-misshapen head. He's a hairy little guy. His breathing is a little raspy. He's got a wide flat nose, no lips, and a prominent brow ridge to offset his father's beady eyes and weak chin. On his forehead, he's got one of those blotchy wine-spot birthmarks. He's gonna need some really cute outfits.

“He's perfect,” I say.

“He looks like Elton,” Trev says from the foot of the bed.

“I think he looks like Peaches,” says Dot.

I think he looks like Gorbachev—but I don't say as much.
Th
ese things have a way of working themselves out. Piper was an odd-looking
baby, even through fatherhood's rose-colored glasses. It happens. But somehow homeliness makes them all the more precious.

Elton stirs, clutches at Peaches's smock. She liberates her left breast, and he suckles greedily. She strokes the dark downy hair at the nape of his puny neck as we watch him feed in silence. Now and again, the nipple eludes him, and we hear his desperate suckling, as he gropes and bats at her chest. She smiles and guides his little mouth back to the nipple, hushing him with a loving stroke. I'm watching this girl become a woman right before my eyes.

“Maybe we'll come see the Tetons next summer,” I say cheerfully.

“Totally,” Trev says. “Elton might be home by then.”

It'll never happen, and we both know it.

Peaches's mother arrives late in the afternoon. She's not the fleshy Mother Hubbard type I imagined but a small, hard, sun-baked little woman you could crack walnuts on. She looks about fifty. Clearly a no-nonsense type. Self-reliant—no purse, no wedding ring. Probably just what Little Elton needs in the way of a grandmother. No frilly old lady blouse, just a cotton work shirt with a western stitch, and a pair of bootcut jeans that look like they've been ironed. She's got a firm handshake, and her bony little bird hands are calloused on the inside.

“I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Benjamin.
Th
anks for seeing to my Peaches.”

“It was my pleasure. Call me Ben.”

“I'd like to reimburse you for all expenses, Mr. Benjamin.”

“No need. I wouldn't think of it.”
Th
e truth, of course, is that I've got thirteen dollars cash, and my credit card may bounce with the next purchase. I'm dreading the prospect of hitting Forest up for a loan, though I know it's inevitable.

“You will take my money, Mr. Benjamin. I'm a stubborn woman.”

She produces a wide leather billfold from her back pocket and removes a crisp pair of fifties and three twenties. When I balk, she tuts me and presses the bills firmly into my hand.

Before we can say our good-byes, both Peaches and Little Elton have slipped off to sleep, Peaches with her jaw set, as though fighting it, and Elton with his little mouth twitching as he dreams of the nipple.
Th
ey're beautiful—even if he does look like Gorbachev. I want to physically take hold of this moment before it escapes me. I never want to say good-bye to anybody ever again.

Leaning over the bed, I plant a kiss ever so lightly on Peaches's forehead. She doesn't stir. I think of the Wyoming sun slanting through the window of a circus-themed nursery, and I tell myself that everything will work out fine.

another long haul

I
t's dusk by the time we emerge from the clinic. Out front, Cash is asleep in the driver's seat of the Skylark, clutching a half-eaten sub, his other hand on the wheel. Dot pounds on the windshield as she passes, startling him awake. Hurriedly he rewraps his sub. We've got four hundred miles to Salt Lake City, and I intend to have us there by midnight.

We drive south toward Ashton in the darkness, with Cash's dingy yellow headlights glowing in the rearview mirror. To the west, vast rolling potato fields stretch out in the moonlight toward the horizon. Once in a while, the dark form of a grain elevator whizzes past, while somewhere up ahead of us, the backside of the Tetons loom in darkness. Trev and Dot are both asleep by the time we reach Rexburg. I could sleep like a baby myself, a thought I'm forced to chase away time and again. It's been a hell of a long day, a long week, a long couple of years. And Salt Lake City is still a long, lonely stretch from here. I crack the window to stay awake, and I tighten my neck brace as the wind flaps and flutters in my ear. Wishing I smoked again, I steady my gaze on the never-ending white lines, taking a small comfort in knowing those headlights behind me belong to Cash.

I'm already beginning to fade by the time I pick up I-15 north of Idaho Falls, but I manage to power on for another hour or so before hunger and fatigue finally compel me to stop at the Sizzler in Pocatello, ten minutes before closing. Trev and Dot awaken when the van motor goes silent.

“Where are we?” says Trev sleepily. “We're not here, are we?”

“Pocatello,” I say.

He angles his chair forward slightly with a whir. Dot unfastens his buckles as I lower the ramp, and the three of us pile out of the van, Dot yawning and stretching as she ducks under the threshold of the sliding door. We take a window booth that looks directly out on Cash, who's remained in the Skylark, where he's eating the rest of his gas station sub and listening to his warbly Guess Who tape.

“I can't stand it anymore,” says Dot.

“What?”

“Look at him. It's pathetic. I'm pretty sure he's been eating that cheese sandwich since yesterday.”

“Actually, I think there's meat on it,” I say.

“I'm seriously starting to feel sorry for him. Who has a tape deck still?”

She looks right at him, but he can't see her through the tinted window. She shakes her head woefully. “I mean, he's been sleeping in the car the whole time. I just like can't believe he's actually following me the
whole
freaking way. I thought he was totally full of shit. He's crazy. Who does that?”

“A parent.”

“Well, I can't stand it anymore.” She stands up and marches down the aisle toward the exit.

“Where's she going?” says Trev.

“To yell at him, maybe?”

Momentarily, Dot reappears outside the window directly in front of us, where she taps on the Skylark window. Cash rolls it down, and Dot begins talking a mile a minute. I can't hear her voice.

“What was he like?” says Trev.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“He seems like an all right guy to me. Musical taste notwithstanding.”

“I think she really likes him,” he says. “I just think he embarrasses her a little. And she wishes he'd man up, you know? I can relate. Don't tell Dot, but I kinda feel sorry for him.”

Out the window, Dot has coaxed him out of the car, where he's doing the talking now, looking down at his feet. She takes him by the wrist and tugs at him until he submits, allowing her to drag him toward the restaurant entrance. A moment later, they're both sidling into the booth across from me, with Trev at the head of the table.

“Hey,” Cash says to me, then gives Trev a little nod. “What up, bro?”

“Not much,” says Trev. “Just gettin' my Sizzle on.”

“Right on,” says Cash.

“You've got mustard on your shirt,” Dot says to her father.

“Bummer,” he says, without bothering to investigate. He goes straight for a menu.

Th
e waiter looks like a retired pensions and actuaries man, paunchy, with a gray comb-over, short sleeve button-up with a pen protector, a name tag that says
HOWARD
, and thick black rubber-soled loafers. He's not waiter material. Maybe he's the manager, because anybody but a manager would be put out that we've arrived just minutes before closing, and nobody but a manager would offer to restock the salad bar, which even at a distance, has a sad aura about it.

Cash orders the Malibu chicken. Dot and Trev both order the shrimp alfredo. I order coffee and the signature steak, emphasizing the rare, because something about Howard suggests that he's not a man who understands rare. As soon as he walks off with the menus, Dot retreats to the ladies' room. Once she's out of earshot, Cash turns to Trev.

“So, you taking good care of my daughter?” he says.

“How about you?” says Trev.

Cash smiles appreciatively, scratches his neck. “Tough job, right?”

“Nice work, if you can get it.”

Cash nods knowingly, and flips his coffee cup over, just as Howard returns with the coffee. I follow suit, and the three of us sit silently as the cups are filled.

Dot returns, sliding in next to her dad.

“What did he say about me?”

“Nothing,” says Trev.

“I told him how when you were seven years old you wanted to be the surgeon general,” Cash says.

“I never said that.”

“And how you were going to write a constitution for the house pets and how your mom was going to ratify it.”

“You're making that up.”

“I had to look up ratify,” he says. “Maybe I should tell them about the infamous Barbie boycott of 2000.”

“Do tell,” says Trev.

“Just stop,” says Dot, socking him on the shoulder playfully. I'm guessing she likes the attention. “Oh fine, then,” she says, waving it off. “Tell them whatever you want. It's probably all made up, anyway.”

Cash tells us about Dot's childhood propensity for the xylophone, about her love of chinchillas, about how she always insisted on cutting her own hair. Trev is riveted by it all. Howard arrives with the platters, bumbles through the service, and bids us adieu. Sure enough, my steak is tougher than a new saddlebag, with maybe a quarter inch of pink in the center—rare like a mosquito in the Everglades. But the rice is decent, in a TV dinner sort of way, and the cheese bread, though oily and slightly off-color, is strangely satisfying.

Cash, meanwhile, inhales his Malibu chicken, nodding enthusiastically throughout. Trev skewers the shrimp out of his alfredo one at a time with his fork while Dot picks around the edges of her plate, rearranging the pasta more than eating it. I can almost feel Trev's heart breaking as he watches her—stealthily, or so he thinks—spindle fettuccine around her fork.

After dinner, once we're back out in the night air, Dot stops in front of the Skylark, spinning the ring on her finger. “So, I think I might ride with my dad for the next stretch,” she says, a little apologetically. “Help him stay awake.”

“
Th
at's cool,” says Trev, but he can't hide his disappointment.
Th
e next stretch will probably be the last stretch, which means he's got nothing to look forward to but a good-bye. Dot can see he's forlorn, but she's not going to start pitying him now.

“So, we'll see you at the next stop,” she says.

“Cool.”

As Dot climbs into the Skylark, I hear her say, “Can we at
least
listen to a different tape?”

Th
e final long dark stretch to Salt Lake City is mostly silent. Trev is awake the whole way, gazing dully out the window, as the mile markers fly by faster than ever. I do my best to cheer him.

“Five to one your old man's fly is down when he answers the door. What do you bet he's got a bucket of KFC waiting?”

“Probably,” he says.

A little after midnight, the outskirts of North Salt Lake appear twinkling on the horizon and within minutes begin to fill the darkness until they're crowding in on both sides of the interstate.
Th
e time has come to cut the cord again. Signaling well in advance, I ease off the interstate, and Cash follows me a few blocks down a frontage road, until I pull over in the tiny lot of a power equipment rental joint, where we park on opposite sides.

By the time Trev wheels down the ramp, Cash and Dot are already awaiting us at the bottom.
Th
e night is cool, a touch of autumn in the thin desert air. Even perpetually underdressed Dot has her arms folded across her chest.

“Well,” she says.

I give Cash a nod on the sly, and we duck out in tandem, walking the fifty feet to the curb, where Cash leans against a flagpole, and I stuff my hands in my pocket. Off to the west across the interstate, a low flying jet descends, its wing lights flashing.

“So what's wrong with him?” says Cash.

“MD.”

Cash considers the diagnosis, looking down at his duct-taped flip-flop, and shaking his head. “How bad is that?”

“Pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

“No telling, really.
Th
ey can slow it down, but they can't stop it.”

“Life's a fucking class A bitch,” he says, his tone resolved more than bitter. “Seems like a hell of a nice kid. Funny. Smart.”

“He's a peach,” I say. “And so is Dot. You've got a great kid there. She's gonna grow into herself, you watch.”

He shakes his head and smiles sadly. “Well, then, maybe she can teach me a thing or two.”

Cash pushes off from the flagpole, and we begin drifting back toward the van.

“
Th
anks again, bro,” he says.

“My pleasure. And I mean that.”

We pull up halfway, in time to watch Dot lean down and give Trev a long, awkward kiss. Trev's arms are sort of in the way. His head is reared back at a funny angle. But it's not just him. Watching Dot bend down to him, tentatively, as though she's afraid she might injure him, it strikes me that she isn't as experienced as she'd have the world believe. When she stands upright after the kiss, she immediately folds her arms again.

“You've got my number,” she says, backpedaling toward the Skylark.

Cash and I shake hands.

“Be safe,” I say.

“Later, bro.”

Th
e Skylark is already pulling out of the lot as Trev mounts the ramp and maneuvers himself into place. For the first time in days, I buckle him in without Dot's assistance—crouching in back to wrangle the straps around the axle before ducking out and circling around to the passenger's side to secure the front. I'm gonna miss that kid in more ways than one.