by Pamela Morsi
He couldn’t remember the last time they had worked together on such a mundane task. When they were newlyweds, every breakfast was a team effort, every supper was a collaboration. When had they stopped doing that, and why?
She filled him in on her call to his mother. He wasn’t surprised that the kids were doing fine. Though he had mixed feelings about the news that they were doing rounds with his father and brothers. Jack had never really liked the hospital that much, though he had craved the attention he had received at the side of his stepfather. Everyone from the custodian to the hospital administrator knew Ernst’s name and treated him with respect. Jack had basked in the glow of that.
“Who is this little fellow?” a pretty blond nurse had asked once.
“I’m his son!” Jack piped in the answer in a youthful soprano.
The nurse seemed momentarily surprised.
“Stepson,” Ernst corrected.
“Oh.” The nurse laughed as if that explained everything. “I was wondering about all that gorgeous dark hair.”
She ran her fingers through it and smiled at him. Jack remembered that, but the feeling of the moment stood out stronger than the features of her face. His stepfather had not claimed him. Ernst was not his dad and even strangers had a right to that information.
“Why can’t he just be my father, too?” Jack had asked his mother so many times.
“Because you already have a father,” she answered.
But Jack didn’t want his father, the dead father. He wanted Ernst, the cool father, to be his father.
He only hoped that his own children wouldn’t end up feeling the same. “I could take the kids to work with me sometime,” he said to Claire.
Claire, who was pouring ice water in glasses, raised her head to look at him curiously. It was as if his suggestion had come out of nowhere.
“You tried that, remember,” she answered. “You took Zaidi for me when the twins were down with the flu. You said she was in the way all day.”
He had taken her, he recalled it now. And she had been in the way.
“Maybe I’ll try again,” he said.
“That would be great,” Claire told him. “I’m sure the kids would love being with you. No matter how many hours you spend at home, there never seems to be enough ‘dad-time’ to go around.”
Her words didn’t seem like a criticism, so Jack didn’t take them as such. Claire knew how hard he worked and why. He could never do the work that he wanted, build the business and support them in the lifestyle that he wanted, without putting in long, long hours. Claire never heaped parental guilt on top of that. Jack was grateful and he told her so.
She shrugged. “The kids love you and know that you love them,” she said. “You don’t have to be a scout leader or coach soccer to qualify as a great dad.”
“Thanks,” he answered, and then added, “If I haven’t said it lately, I appreciate how you always pull up the slack with the kids. Whether it’s T-ball or a piano recital, I know you’ll be there even when I’m not.”
“And I know you’ll be there when you can,” she said. Jack realized that hers was a perfect opening for a new battle over the house. This was one of her arguments, that if they stayed in their old house he could cut back on work hours and have more time for the kids. Mentally he braced himself for the first volley. Surprisingly it didn’t come. Instead they sat down to eat their makeshift meal in peace and congeniality. It was very welcome, very pleasant. It made the food taste even better than it was. Jack wondered why they didn’t have meals together this way more often.
Claire came up with the answer without Jack’s even voicing the question.
“Your phone’s been vibrating away all afternoon,” she said.
“Oh my God!” Jack was stunned, both by guilt and disbelief. He hadn’t talked to the office since late the previous day. It wasn’t as if he were some cog in a big machine. His was a very hands-on business and his hands were on every part of it. Every design, every decision, every account was personally managed by him. He pictured all his employees standing around the office, uncertain what to do, and Laura, the receptionist, buried in those little pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT notes. Wordlessly, he left his plate on the table and hurried to his cell phone on the bedside table in the bedroom. He clicked it open to see nine missed calls. He immediately dialed the office.
It rang several times with no answer.
He glanced at the time. Of course there was no answer. Everybody had gone home for the day. He was just about to disconnect when somebody picked up.
“Swim Infinity.”
“Oh... ah, hi,” Jack said, momentarily taken aback by the voice on the other end. “Dana? Are you still at the office?”
“Hi, Jack,” she answered. “We’ve been calling all day. No, I had Laura forward the switchboard to my cell. That’s what you do, right?”
“Yeah...yeah. We wouldn’t want to miss any calls.”
“And we won’t,” she assured. “Stupid son of a bitch! Get your lazypoke ass outta my way!”
Her screech momentarily caught Jack off guard.
“Oh, you’re driving,” he said.
“Yeah, Stone Oak Parkway,” she answered. “Every stupid, lousy, thousand-year-old driver in America must be out here testing the road. Take a bus, grandma!”
Jack pulled the phone away from his ear and shook his head.
“So do you want to call me back or can you talk?” he asked her.
“I can talk,” she said. “I do some of my best thinking behind the wheel.”
Another curse sprang from her lips, saving Jack from any comment.
“I talked to Big Bob today,” she volunteered.
“What did he want?”
“I called him,” Dana said. “You know, just to touch base, have him keep us in mind and let him know that you are hard at work on the design.”
Jack frowned. “I don’t know if that’s necessary, Dana,” he said. “Butterman’s a busy man. We don’t want to become a nuisance.”
She laughed. It was a throaty sound.
“You might become a nuisance,” she said. “But a gorgeous woman on the phone is always welcome. I got right through to his direct line.”
Dana was obviously delighted with herself.
Jack was not as pleased, but he figured Dana’s little personal girl-games were harmless. And Big Bob probably was flattered to get a call from her.
“Is that what you called me about?”
“No,” she answered. “I think Laura was doing most of the calling. I told her not to bother you. I can handle things while you’re there among your hillbilly kinfolk.”
Jack ignored the jab.
“One good thing about that old man passing on, you’ll be able to deep-six the phone numbers of those cousins and completely forget that you ever knew those poor relations.” Jack was momentarily struck by the harsh suggestion. She hadn’t even politely inquired about his grandfather’s condition. It seemed so unkind, so heartless. Then he reminded himself that Dana’s opinion of his family had come directly from him. He was the one who had groaned aloud when he got a call from Catawah. He was the one who could never see clear to take his family to Oklahoma for a visit.
Not wanting to dwell on that thought, he changed the subject.
“Did Crenshaw get his crew back out to the site today?”
“I suppose so,” she answered. “I didn’t see them sitting around here, anyway. I had lunch with Matt Carmelo from the bank. He wanted to know if you’re going to take a construction loan for Big Bob’s start-up or get more up-front money for the design.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Well, I think we could get a really good rate with Matt.” Dana continued to talk and Jack tried to stay in the conversation. Surprisingly, he found it difficult to get wrapped up in the mundane details that normally filled his day. He felt removed from it as if the distance between San Antonio and Catawah was more than physical.
Jack interrupted her
. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got everything under control,” he said. “I’ll keep my phone with me. And if you need something, don’t hesitate to call.”
If his ending of the conversation was a bit abrupt, he didn’t really care. He stuck the phone in his pocket and returned to the kitchen. Claire was no longer there.
He sat down at the small kitchen table to finish his meal, but eating alone, the food somehow didn’t taste as good. He resisted the temptation just to wolf it down. Eating seemed to take an inordinately long time. It wasn’t as if he never ate alone. He frequently ate alone at his desk. And two or three nights a week he arrived home late and ate dinner after the rest of his family had gone to bed. Of course, he was usually on the phone or listening to the TV or checking e-mail. Here, he was forced to simply take bites and chew them. With nothing to take his attention from what he was doing except the neat little yellow kitchen, with the drop-leaf table and the ancient white fixtures. It was a small room. About the size of the his-and-hers closets in the master bedroom of the house he was building.
The kitchen in that house was expansive, with restaurant-grade appliances and casual seating for twelve. It had a walk-in pantry large enough to park a car and forty thousand dollars worth of custom cabinetry. And the hundred square feet of countertops were still waiting for Claire to choose the granite. She hadn’t picked out any flooring, either. Personally, Jack was hoping for travertine.
He glanced down at the faded linoleum of his grandparents’ kitchen. Inexplicably, he smiled. There was some memory, just beyond his grasp that was triggered by that floor. Connecting squares of mismatched size in red and black. He’d driven tiny metal trucks and cars along that roadway. He was sure of that now and he tried hard to recall exactly the time, the moment, the people nearby. He couldn’t quite retrieve this tiny glimpse of the past, but he could smell biscuits baking in the oven and hear laughter all around. It made him feel warm and safe and loved.
Jack knew he shouldn’t just continue to sit in the kitchen. He needed to get moving. He needed to clear the table and put dishes in the sink. To get showered and shaved and dressed. He needed to get over to the hospital to see about the old man. Yet he lingered in the kitchen, staring at the faded floor as if it were a window into his own soul.
Night was already upon them and visiting hours nearly done before Jack and Claire arrived back at the hospital. But they needn’t have worried about Bud being alone. They could hear the clatter of the family as soon as they got off the elevator. The Crabtree-Shertz clan was having an impromptu family reunion in the corridor of the neurology/neurosurgery wing. There must have been fifteen people milling about in the small waiting area and hovering around the doorway. In the center of the commotion sat three matriarchs, two in wheelchairs and the third had her walker parked against a chair nearby.
“Lord a-mercy, it’s our boy Jackie. Come give your Aunt Jesse a big wet sugar!”
The words of the woman in the wheelchair were accompanied by outstretched arms. And Claire watched as her husband stiffly but dutifully succumbed to a hug from her, the other older women and basically anyone who could get within grabbing distance.
Claire also found herself being swept up into familial affection as nearby cousins simultaneously introduced themselves and embraced her as if they were long-lost friends.
“I’m Patsy, Aunt Viv’s daughter by her first husband,” a heavyset woman in thick glasses told her.
“I’m Wilford, Aunt Sissy’s boy,” a thin man leaning unsteadily on a cane said.
She noticed that, like the older women, he pronounced the word aunt more like ain’t.
A handsome, distinguished man in his late sixties with a straight-shouldered military bearing spoke to her in a deep and rich baritone. “I’m Aunt Cleata’s oldest, Julius Shertz, or Julie for short.”
Claire was not aware of any Aunt Cleata, but she was distracted from any question on that point by the thought that Julie might be the worst nickname possible for a man. A few minutes later she was dissuaded from that.
“Nice to meet you, Cousin Claire. I’m Leo, but everyone calls me Poot. I’m Theba’s son. I think you met Mama yesterday.”
“Yes...yes, I did.”
“But you didn’t meet me,” interrupted a woman who looked very much like Poot except for an abundance of bleached hair and heavy makeup. “I’m Reba, Theba’s twin. She’s the one married to a preacher. My husband is more like a pagan, but he’s a lot better-looking than her man.” The names began swimming in her head. Claire would never be able to keep the identities of all these people sorted out. And apparently that was what was expected.
“Patience Carlene, I’m Aunt Sissy’s great-niece and Rudy’s baby’s mama. He’s Bernard’s youngest. Try not to mix me up with Kindness Sharlene—she’s my sister and Aunt Jess’s grandson’s wife.”
The hubbub of introductions finally quieted as Jack asked for an update on Bud’s condition. Viv was the spokesperson. Using medical terminology gleaned from her personal experience with doctors, she both stated the facts and interjected her own opinion.
“Basically, it comes down to this,” she said. “When it comes to the brain, they don’t know come here from sic ’em, but nothing looks good. It might be two months, it might be two days.”
Claire watched Jack nod with appropriate gravity. It was a little bit wooden. Even knowing her husband as well as she did, Claire couldn’t tell if that was a reaction of grief or simply Jack going through the motions of an expected response.
“If I was a betting woman,” Aunt Viv began and then hesitated glancing around the crowd until she spotted the face she was looking for. “And for the record Preacher McKiever, I am not prone to gambling of any sort. I’d say poor old Bud’s going to meet his maker sooner rather than later.”
This was not really news. Bernard had said as much with his first telephone call. But there was great poignancy in hearing it from the aunts, who had known Bud longer than any person living on earth.
While the socializing continued, family members took turns sitting in the room by the hospital bed. Claire was hurried into a turn after only a few minutes in the crowd.
Bud looked much as he had the night before. The muted light over the bed left the face in shadow. As she seated herself beside him, she noticed one difference that clutched at her heart. Padded tethers now braceleted his wrists and were attached to the bed rails. She had seen him agitated, the bad dreams made him struggle and fight. And she knew that with the bleeding in his head, the doctors were trying to keep him as still as possible, but it hurt to see the wonderful old man tied down.
Claire stroked his hand and began to talk to him.
“How you doing, Bud?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “It’s Claire. You sure have a lot of friends and family outside who’ve come to see you. And even people who aren’t here, they’re thinking about you.” She hesitated only a moment. “I talked to Toni today. You’re in her thoughts and prayers. She talked about all that you did for her. Taking her in after her husband was killed and taking care of Jack while she went back to school. That was a very good thing that you and Geri did. I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been. After just losing your own son, taking on a baby to raise. I can’t even imagine it.”
For several moments she just sat there thinking about Bud and Geri and what little she actually knew about their lives, feeling regret that she didn’t know more. That she and Jack hadn’t made them a priority. That her children would never know them at all.
Deliberately she stopped the direction of her thoughts. Regret was a cheap and frivolous emotion, especially when time was growing short. Immediately she began to speak again.
“The children went on rounds today with their step-grandpa and uncles,” she said with a light laugh. “Wouldn’t we have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see how the crazy Crabtree kids did among the stoic and stalwart doctors Van Brugge.”
Claire hoped that somehow, on
some level, Bud could hear her. She wanted him to know Zaidi and the twins, to know them as she knew them. And for him to have no regrets.
The time next to the hospital bed did not pass quickly, as it never did, but when Jack touched her shoulder she smiled up a him. There was a sad frown creased in his brow, but his words sounded light, almost teasing.
“Do you think he hears you today?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then he’ll be sorry to have me cutting in. I’m not much of a talker at the best of times. With him lying there like that, I can’t think of anything to say.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say,” she told him. “Just chat about anything.”
His brow was still lined, but his mouth widened into a grin. “Guys don’t chat, Claire,” he pointed out. “They argue or complain or explain, but they never chat.”
She laughed lightly and nodded agreement.
“Why don’t you try thinking aloud,” she suggested. “I think the sound of a human voice is as important as anything. Tell him about the Butterman project. I know you’re already designing it in your head.”
“Bud was never interested in my swimming pools,” Jack reminded her.
Claire shrugged. “So now he’ll have to listen to you whether he wants to or not. I guess the unconscious are the ultimate in a captive audience.”
Jack helped her to her feet and then, to her surprise, he kissed her on the top of the head. It was a sweet gesture that at one time had been very ordinary between them. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. And she wondered when and why it had stopped.
Back in the hallway the crowd had thinned significantly. She wondered if her husband had simply told his family to go home. She wouldn’t have put it past him. He was not particularly sensitive to these people, this family that he didn’t try to know.
Claire seated herself among the three aunts who eagerly demanded her attention.
“Plant yourself right here next to me,” Jesse said. “Viv, get that horse of yours out of the way, so the little gal can sit here next to my chariot.”
Claire smiled at the old woman’s nicknames for the conveniences mentioned. Viv’s, in fact, was a walker with yellow tennis balls on its feet. Sissy sat in a regular wheelchair, and Jesse rode in a bright pink self-propelled scooter.
