The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (5 page)

profiles

A
ccording to Janet's Facebook, she is currently “cooking eggplant Parmesan and listening to John Prine.”

Her networks are Portland, Oregon, and Oregon Metro Zoo.

Her status is “in a relationship,” though it should say “married,” because I still haven't signed the papers.

Somebody named Jim Sunderland has tagged her in a note.

Somebody named Polly has written on her wall: “Yeah, I know what you mean.
Th
ose are the worst.”

Yesterday Janet “lit a candle that smelled like orange blossoms.”

She “liked” Jim Sunderland's status update.

She became a fan of Jane Goodall.

She wrote on Jim Sunderland's wall, and Jim wrote back: “You're on, but only if I get a head start.”

Who the fuck is Jim Sunderland? He sounds like a real-estate agent. All I know at this point is that he wears glasses, has good teeth, and looks a few years older than me. He's verging on handsome, I guess, in a beady-eyed way. But he looks like an NPR listener. He looks like he'd bore you at a party. I can just tell he's one of those laid-back people with hidden agendas. One of those mild people who simmers beneath the surface. A fucking little prick who preys on vulnerable women. I want to write on his wall “Fuck you, Jim! You big fucking phony!”

But I don't. Instead, I friend him.

And what will Jim Sunderland think of me when he views my profile? It's doubtful he'll mistake me for Johnny Depp. Jim will see that I have no status, no network, and that I haven't cooked anything or lit any scented candles in months. He will see that nobody writes on my wall except Forest, who posts things like: “You okay? Give me a call,” “Remember what I told you,” and “When are you going to update your profile?”

Janet looks good in her most recent photos. She's aged about the eyes, and her smile looks as though it takes some effort. But her color is good and she's managed to maintain a certain radiance. I guess that makes her a survivor. In an album titled “Cannon Beach,” I find pictures of Janet on the beach with Jim Sunderland and a ten-year-old kid so hopelessly plain-looking I can't even tell if it's a boy or a girl. Whatever it is, the kid is doomed by the Jim Sunderland gene. Doomed to be unremarkable. Who's to say that the world wouldn't be better off without his kid instead of mine?

Not three minutes have elapsed before Jim Sunderland has accepted my friend request.
Th
ings are even worse than I thought. Jim is currently “listening to Strauss II and drinking Sauvignon Blanc.”

Jesus, Janet, what were you thinking?

Jim's networks are Portland, Oregon, Portland Metro Zoo, and UC Irvine Alum. He is a fan of Powell's Books and Koko the Gorilla.

He belongs to the groups
Th
is American Life
(I knew it!) and John Prine.

Jim's friend confirmation arrives in concert with a message: “Do I know you?”

“No, we haven't met. I'm just a fellow Irvine Alum and fan of Strauss, especially the waltzes.”

How long before Jim realizes we have one mutual friend—Janet—and begins making connections? How long before he realizes I don't know anything about Strauss except what I learned in three accordion lessons when I was thirteen?

Now Jim IMs me: “Go Anteaters! LOL. Have you heard Wein Weib and Gesang by the Vienna Boys Choir?”

Boys choir?
Th
is guy gets creepier by the minute. “Haven't heard that version, I'll have to check it out.”

“Do. It's transcendent.”

Transcendent? Who talks that way? What the fuck is Janet doing with this guy? And who does he think he's fooling with all his transcendent bullshit, anyway? I know he's a heartless little fucker deep down.
I fucking see you, Jim! You're not fooling me with your Bordeaux wines and your boys choir bullshit!
And if Janet were awake enough to see you through the splintered glass of her broken life, she'd recognize you, too.

“Fuck you, Jim!” I want to type. “You little fucking prick!”

But I don't have the guts to post it.

pins and needles

T
rev is back on waffles. Our recent dining disaster has probably set us back months. I can hardly blame him for not wanting to venture out into a world that refuses to cooperate. Pushing pins into a map is so much easier. We like to tell ourselves that we might someday actually make Livermore, California, our destination, for that is where we would find the world's longest continuously burning lightbulb. Or maybe we'd keep driving south to Monrovia to see the Wizard of Bras. Or maybe we'd go for broke and head clear to Smithfield, Virginia, to see the World's Oldest Cured Ham, which from all reports is quite impressive and looks like a petrified gunnysack.

It's ninety-four degrees in Orlando. Seventy-one in Minneapolis. Today we learn how to make pineapple chutney. Today we learn how to upholster an ottoman. We learn more about Richie Sambora from E! Entertainment than we care to know. Once you surrender to this routine there are certain comforts. To wit, Rachael Ray is cute but not so cute that it's impossible to imagine being with her, and the fact that her arms are a little chunky and she's carrying a little pooch above the waistline makes her all the more real.
Th
ere's a certain comfort in knowing that the Ottoman Empire survives, if only to rest our feet on. With double Doppler and round-the-clock coverage, even the weather is predictable. And it's good to know that Richie Sambora is still out there, because it means there's hope for me. But where is the comfort for Trev? Sit Rachael Ray naked in his lap, and what could he do with her? Try giving a Bulgarian Gas Mask when you can't even stand up. Maybe ten years ago he could've propped his legs on an ottoman. While Richie Sambora is pushing fifty and still banging Heather Locklear the last time I checked, Trev may not see twenty-five. Trev's life is subtraction. At twenty, he's aging in reverse. It's only a matter of time before he's helpless as an infant once more, and slicing his waffles into thirty-six pieces will no longer be enough. Eventually somebody will have to feed him the forkfuls. And yet what choice does he have but to mark the time?

Around two, our routine is interrupted by the ringing of Trev's cell phone. Retrieving the phone from the nylon pouch near his arm rest is no simple task for Trev, and it's frustrating as hell to watch. But watch I must, for nowhere is it outlined in our service plan that I should answer his phone. It is among those tasks, technically speaking, that he can still perform on his own. In this way, I am helping Trev help himself—simply by sitting on my ass.

For leverage, Trev is forced to arch his back and roll his head to one side and lean slightly forward before he can go fishing in his pouch with his inflexible right arm. Once he's got a purchase on the phone, it dangles precariously in his clutches as he raises it to his ear like a human steam shovel. Trev hates talking on the phone. And watching the way he's forced to bow his spine and loll his head to execute the task, it's easy to see why. Everybody understands this implicitly, so nobody calls Trev unless it's a logistical matter of some import. Nobody but his dad.
Th
e timing of his father's calls adheres to no schedule or routine, which further irritates Trev.
Th
at his father does not know enough about Trev to accommodate his need for structure is irritating even to me. Trev could easily ignore these calls—he's got caller ID. But he seems to savor these opportunities to make his father work. What's more, he even seems to savor my audience.

“Hello?” he says, as though he doesn't know who's calling.

“Oh, it's you,” he deadpans.

And from there it is a stilted and awkward dance, all the more so because I am witness to only one side of the conversation—and it's the mostly silent side. I can only imagine—as the cat sleeps curled in my lap, and Hurricane Dean sweeps silently across the screen in satellite—that his father's part consists of false starts and errant stabs at small talk, inquiries into whether Trev got this message or that, whether he ate turkey for
Th
anksgiving, whether it's humid in western Washington. And when his inquiries attempt to delve deeper into Trev's life—yielding nothing but the most cursory yes or no answers—he is forced to share the details of his own life in Salt Lake City.

Meanwhile, Trev's end of the conversation consists of little more than the occasional withering commentary on his father's failures, jagged remarks along the lines of “Well, that figures” or “Hmph, that's a first” or “What did you expect?” And who can blame him? How dare a father deign to engender intimacy from halfway across the country with a child he forsook. How dare he grope around in the dark years after the fact, grasping for forgiveness. How dare he wish to undo what can't be undone.

bernard and ruth

M
y real father, Benjamin Benjamin Sr., sired me at the venerable age of sixty-two. He died of natural causes two years before I dropped out of college. He was the father who threw the football underhanded, when he threw it at all. He was the father so far removed from the cultural currency of the day, so oblivious to the pulse of all things immediate, that you could smoke pot or steal his liquor or have sex right under his nose. I always believed that this ignorance was willful, that he chose not to notice, that my father looked upon me as though I were some baffling new technology he wanted no part of, something he stubbornly ignored, like call waiting. It's not that I didn't love my father.
Th
e fact is, I hardly knew him. I probably had more heart-to-hearts with my high school gym teacher than with my dad.

Not until I married Janet did I get a taste of the sort of fatherly propriety for which I'd always secretly yearned. Her father, Bernard, has been a revelation, with his smiling eyes and shoulder squeezes, and hair-mussing affections. For eleven years now, he's called me son. I blush to think how much I enjoy this familiarity, how right it feels to be claimed by Bernard, to recline in the den beside him on blustery Sunday afternoons in the fall, with the wind rattling the panes and the central heating rumbling up through our slippered feet, sipping scotch (a drink I normally hate) and watching football (a sport I normally hate) and talking about things that normally don't interest me: the economy, history, civil engineering. What matters is that sitting beside Bernard, I belong. In my hopelessly romanticized conception, our sequestered Sunday afternoons have the weight and substance of presidential summits. Our manly forays seem all the more momentous because of the life buzzing all around us outside that den, the plenitude that surrounds us: Janet and her mother happily engaged preparing a feast, Piper thumping up and down the carpeted stairs, squealing with laughter. Jodi howling with delight from his playpen at the bottom of the stairwell.
Th
e smell of ham hanging so thick and tangy in the air that you can taste it.
Th
e clink of silver, the ease of our own unhurried voices marking the hours. Surrounded by such bounty, it is impossible not to feel like a man of consequence.

Today, of course, it's just the kids and me going to visit Bern and Ruth. Janet is probably elbow deep in a Lab's intestinal tract. Great day for it—the visit, I mean. As I predicted, the marine layer has burned off, and the afternoon promises to be mild and the sky blue. On the drive over, Jodi fidgets in his car seat, garbling away, while Piper is too busy sulking about her rat to translate any of it.

It's 11:37 a.m. by the dash when we roll up the driveway. Ruth is working in the front garden. She removes her gloves as she walks to greet us, brimming with grandmotherly delight. Trailing her red cape, Piper jumps out to greet Grandma, leaving me to unbuckle Jodi, who is kicking his legs spastically.

“Squishity-squish, Na-nana,” he says, pushing his way past me, and rumbling out the door toward Nanny.

“How are you, darling?” Ruth says to me, as Jodi clutches her.

“I'm good, thanks.”

“I'm so glad. And how is Janet?”

“She's great. Busy.”

“Well, that's good. Bernard's in back,” she says. “Tying those stupid contraptions. Frankly, I'm sick and tired of vacuuming the darn things up. And I'm terrified the kids are going to step on one. Or the cat's going to eat one. I've been telling him he should look into model making, but he complains he can't do it outside. Well, I'm not convinced. Would you like me to bring you back something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, darling, I've got an entire pitcher of Arnold Palmers, and you know the kids will only drink lemonade.”

“
Th
at'd be great,” I say.

“What about a sandwich?”

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Bernard has a sandwich at noon—let me make you a sandwich.”

“Honestly, Ruth, I'm not that—”

“No, really, Ben. It's no trouble. I'll make you a sandwich, and you can just nibble on it.”

“You know, a sandwich would be great.”

“You kids come inside,” she says. And without need of further persuasion, she spirits them away, no doubt to the kitchen.

I find Bernard in the backyard, under the umbrella, tying flies, his newest obsession (though I've never known him to fish). Mostly, I think, he just dreams of fishing and enjoys the busy work with his hands. So he ties flies and gives them names: Horse Hair Special. Belle of the Ball. Green Skunk Butt #5. Ask him what they're good for: “Beats me,” he'll say. “
Th
ey look like insects, though, don't they?”

Some of his finished flies wind up dangling from his fishing hat. I have no idea what happens to the rest of them—those that don't go the way of the vacuum cleaner.
Th
ere's a little pile of them on the side table next to his untouched Arnold Palmer and his ancient transistor radio. He's listening to the M's pregame show.

“Ahoy, Bernard,” I say, lowering myself into a padded Adirondack.

“Sit down, Ben,” he says.

“Afternoon game, huh?”

“Chicago.”

“What's that you're tying?”

“Haven't named her yet.”

“How do you know it's a she?”

“Good question.”

Ruth must've sprinted from the kitchen, because already she's arrived with my Arnold Palmer. She clutches the half-full pitcher, signaling me to drink up.

“I need the pitcher,” she explains. “You too,” she says to Bern, who sets his fly aside with a sigh to take a long pull of his Arnold Palmer. Ruth promptly refills our glasses and hurries off.

“How are you, son?”

“Ah, you know. Little stir-crazy. But good.”

“No shame in being a father.”

“Oh, nothing like that,” I say. “It's just that when you're living on a steady diet of fruit leather and Nickelodeon, it's hard to feel like a grown man sometimes.”

“What's Nickelodeon?”

“Television.”

“Like this high definition I keep hearing about?”

“No. It's a network. Children's programming.”

“Ah,” he says.

“
Th
e idea is, I am what I eat, Bern. And everything in my life is made for children's consumption.”

“Have Ruthie make you a sandwich.”

“No, Bern, I mean I just want to work at something. I want to feel productive outside my home. I don't even care if I get paid anymore.”

He pauses in his fly-tying duties, lowers his reading glasses, and sizes me up for a long moment until he begins to nod his head sagely. He's about to say something fatherly, when the kids spill out into the backyard. Bernard smiles contentedly as Piper wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek.

“You're it,” she says.

And here comes Jodi bounding toward his grandfather with a head full of steam, all but knocking him out of his Adirondack. Bernard delights in Jodi's boyish roughness.

“Get this boy a helmet,” he says.

Ruth stands nearby, knowing that I could use a break. “You kids come play on the grass,” she says. “Let Daddy and Grandpa talk.”

And once again, the kids spring obediently into action, rushing toward Bernard's fastidiously kept lawn.

“You're a lucky man, Ben Benjamin.”

“I know that, I do.”

He resumes his fly tying. “But I think I understand you, son. You want to see beyond one day at a time. You want to engage a larger slice of life.”

“I just want to get out of the house.”

“You're out of the house now.”

“No, I just brought the house with me.”

He smiles. “I see your point.”

“Watch this one, Grandpa,” Piper yells, and proceeds to execute a perfect somersault, cape and all.

Bernard sets his fly in his lap and applauds her. “Atta girl!”

“Watch
this
one!” she calls.

And as Piper does one nifty somersault after another, Jodi tries desperately to win his grandmother's attention, clumsily aping Piper's every move. But his efforts are mostly fruitless. No sooner does he execute a respectable somersault than Piper moves onto cartwheels and handsprings. Ruth does her best to split her attention, smiling this way and that, but Piper commands attention. Sometimes I wish Piper didn't crave the limelight so much, if only because Jodi could use some center stage. Bad enough he can hardly talk.

“What you need, son, is to build something,” Bernard says, having resumed his fly tying. “I mean, build it with your own hands. Something that will last. Something you and Janet and the kids can enjoy long after Ruthie and I are gone.”

“You're talking about one hell of a tree house,” I say. “We're mortgaged to the hilt, as it is.”

He leaves off tying once more and lowers his reading glasses. “What if I told you I bought three acres on Discovery Bay? Hundred feet of low bank. Already got a building site, a well, septic approval for three bedrooms, and electricity to the road—what would you say, then?”

“You didn't?”

“No, not yet, but I'm seriously considering it.”

“Dock?”

“It's a teardown.
But
.”

“But?”

“But we're lucky it's there, because we can use the footprint. Otherwise, we'd never get a permit. Same goes for the boathouse. We can use the footprint.” He leans forward in his chair. “
Th
ink of it, Ben. Whole weeks of summer out on the bay. Christmas,
Th
anksgiving.”

“Weekenders,” I say.

“Exactly.
Th
ree tiny bedrooms, a big dining room. But rustic. Cabiny. Even one of those cedar kits. We build it with our own hands.
Th
ere's a creek out back. We build a little footbridge over it. Make a gravel path. Rebuild that dock.”

“Sounds like a dream, Bern.” And it does.
Th
e whole enterprise. All that work.

“Could be a reality,” he says. “If we can only make Ruthie see.”

“She doesn't like the plan?”

“
Th
e place. Says it's muddy. Can't see the whole picture. Wants something closer to town.”

“How can we persuade her?”

“Beats me. Something to think about, anyway. For the future.”