Home Is Burning

by Dan Marshall

  The next day, our cleaning lady, Stana, stopped by the house with some chicken noodle soup and potato salad. I once lied to her and said I loved her cooking, so now every time I was in town, she’d make a massive pot of soup and a giant bowl of potato salad. She spoke in blunt, broken English with a thick Polish accent.

  “Danny, you is believin’ Daddy is sick, too?” she asked as I picked bones out of the chicken noodle soup, trying my best to act like I was enjoying it.

  “Yeah, crazy, but who knows. He might last a while,” I said with forced optimism.

  Stana just shook her head. “Daddy is sick. He get way, way worse. Soon he be…” she pointed down to the ground to imply death, like six feet under.

  “We’ll see. He’s still pretty strong,” I said.

  “Danny, Daddy is die before Mommy,” she said.

  It was starting to seem real. There was no denying that my pal was getting worse.

  * * *

  In mid-April, it was finally time for the marathon. I flew to Boston to meet up with the rest of the family. I was more excited that the Hyatt we were staying at had a steam room and hot tub than I was for the marathon. I was beginning to think my dad had put too much pressure on himself to run the race. His health was clearly waning, but with all the news stories and articles, it was impossible for him to back out. I wanted him to not run. I wanted him to say fuck it and quit.

  But I showed up to support him. Throughout the weekend, it rained like I’d never seen before—the wind blew our umbrellas inside out and the downpour drenched us in seconds. Say what you will about L.A., at least we never have to deal with that bullshit. I was hoping they’d cancel the race due to the weather. But it cleared up by Monday and my dad was raring to go.

  On race day, Greg, my mom, and I were loaded into a CBS News van to follow my dad around. They wanted ample footage for the report. Greg and I were awarded the privilege because Tiffany, Jessica, and Chelsea were interviewed for the news clip, and my mom wanted to be fair. We’d get out and see him at the ten-mile marker, then the fifteen, then at the finish line.

  The driver and the cameraman didn’t seem very interested in my dad’s story. Anytime my mom would try to tell them what a horrific disease ALS is, they’d instantly change the subject.

  “So they say people with Lou Gehrig’s disease usually only last two to three years, but we’re hoping Bob can make it longer,” said my mom.

  The cameraman nodded, then turned up the volume on the Red Sox game that was playing over the radio. They were up 6–1 in the first inning against the Angels.

  “Wow, you believe that. Six–one in the first inning,” said the cameraman. It was clear that they didn’t like to talk about anything tragic. I sort of admired their ability to block out sadness, but I was also sort of sickened by it. Was that what my denial over my dad’s illness looked like?

  We got out of the van and stood on the sidelines sipping on our Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as healthy people darted by us. Though I’d probably blow my brains out before running a marathon, I actually quite enjoy watching them. Marathons have a distinct energy and collective effervescence that I find exciting. The Boston Marathon is particularly thrilling because of all the cheering drunks, and everyone seems to be running for some cause. It really is a spectacular display of humanity.

  Finally, my dad and his pals emerged in the distance. I’ll admit, it was inspiring to see my old, kindhearted dad smiling and waving as he saw us cheering him on from the sidelines, even though he was hunched over and clinging onto his three friends for support. Running the thing might have been a medical mistake, but it made him as happy as I’ve ever seen him, so it was worth it. He ran to the sideline and hugged my mom. The two cried in each other’s arms. “I love you, Bob. Never give up,” she said.

  “I love you so much,” he said back, and then rejoined the race.

  “Give ’em hell,” my mom shouted after him.

  “Think the Sox have a legit shot at the pennant?” asked the aloof cameraman.

  My dying dad finished the race in six hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-seven seconds—roughly two hours and thirty-eight minutes slower than his time at the St. George Marathon, which he had run only seven months prior. If that didn’t prove how fast the disease was progressing, I don’t know what would. We all cried as he crossed the finish line, his arms linked with those of his devoted friends.

  After the race, we all went back to the Hyatt and drank champagne while my dad wrapped himself in one of those shiny, post-marathon Mylar blankets.

  My dad’s younger sister, Sarah, his sister-in-law, Martha, and a couple of our cousins had surprised him by coming to watch the race. There was no love lost between my mom and my dad’s family. She thought they were a bunch of rich-bitch, blowhard alcoholics who weren’t supportive enough of her when she got cancer. In her opinion, they were only around for the good moments in life and not the bad. She was really upset that they had shown up.

  “They can’t just pop up when they want to,” my mom said. “This is a special moment for OUR FAMILY. Fuck those blowhards.”

  But my dad wanted to see them. He loved them despite my mom’s hatred, and this day was about him. I always loved my dad’s family—maybe because I also loved drinking and acting like a rich bitch. So my dad tasked me with calling them and inviting them to come drink champagne with us.

  They now stood at one end of the hotel room chatting with him and drinking, while my mom vented on the other. I hated that they didn’t get along with my mom. Family should always be a good thing, not a bad.

  “We’re so proud of you, Bobby,” my aunt Sarah said, rubbing one of her older brother’s bony shoulders.

  “Thanks. I’m excited to see the CBS report,” said my dad.

  “Us, too. I have Jerry recording it back home,” she said. Jerry was her husband.

  Eventually, my mom shooed everyone out. The party was over. It was just us.

  “I can’t believe those fuckers had the balls to show up,” my mom said of my dad’s family after they left.

  My dad was so physically exhausted from the race that he couldn’t lift up his arms. They hung to his side like broken tree branches. He was sweaty and salty from the run. He needed a shower, and there was no way he could wash himself.

  “I’m not washing my dad’s balls, Mom,” I said when she suggested I help him shower.

  Unless they’re drunk or involved in an act of passion, most people are shy when it comes to someone else touching or even looking at the parts of their body they’ve been trained to tuck away from the world. My dad is a person. He was thus reluctant to have his privates handled by others. And he certainly didn’t want me of all people to help him shower. That was not within the bounds of our relationship.

  But my mom insisted. “Don’t be an asshole, Danny. You’re both guys. You both have dicks. Get over it,” she said.

  “No, DJ doesn’t need to do that,” my dad said.

  “Bob, you can’t even move your fucking arms,” my mom reminded him.

  “Yes I can,” he said as he tried to lift his tired arms, but couldn’t.

  “See, you can’t,” said my mom. “You have to accept the help you need.”

  And she was right. My dad didn’t like to bother or inconvenience other people. He didn’t like asking for help. But, if we were going to manage this situation, he’d have to become comfortable receiving help from us, and I’d have to become comfortable giving it.

  Although I was really enjoying listening to my passive dad and aggressive mom bicker back and forth, I said, “I don’t mind. Let’s wash those balls.”

  “It’s really okay. I’ll just rinse off,” my dad tried one last time.

  “No, Dan will help.” My mom slapped the soap into my hand and slammed the hotel bathroom door, effectively locking us in there. “Don’t forget to get his foreskin,” she added through the door. Like Greg, my dad wasn’t circumcised.

  “Sorry, DJ,” my embarrassed dad said as I beg
an to undress him. I slipped off his running shorts, looking away from his junk, but noticing how skinny he was from head to toe. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in my life looking at him naked (believe it or not), so I didn’t have much to compare it to, but I could tell that the disease was ruining him. He was always a little plump—like a king who’d had too many steak dinners and bottles of wine. He had started to thin down with all his running. But now he looked like he’d been plucked straight out of a POW camp. Each rib was outlined through his sagging skin. His shoulder blades were as sharp as volcanic rocks. His face was so gaunt, he already looked like a corpse. “Jesus, you’re skinny. We’ve got to get you a million hamburgers,” I said.

  “Or maybe I should just drink more beer,” he joked.

  “I’ll join you there,” I said, craving a thousand beers and thinking how being drunk would make all of this much easier.

  The muscles in his chest were twitching, really going wild.

  “Those are the muscle fasciculations,” he explained, once he noticed me looking. “That’s the Lou Gehrig’s disease working on me.”

  I placed my hand on his chest and felt the muscles pulsate just above his big, beating heart. I wanted to grab those muscles and tell them to chill out, to stop destroying my dad and relax. But they continued to shake and pop. The disease was in control. My dad was under attack.

  He was naked now. We didn’t make any eye contact. I turned on the shower, checking to make sure the water was warm. It was. Hotel water never seems to struggle to get hot. I helped him step into the tub and grabbed the soap.

  “Let’s get the balls out of the way first,” I joked as I slowly made my way down there. I had used a vacation day from work to come to Boston for the marathon. Weird to think I was using my vacation to wash my dad’s dick. “How was your trip?” I imagined a co-worker asking. “It was great. Washed my dad’s dirty dick,” I would casually reply.

  As soon as the soap touched his privates, he changed the subject to something we used to talk about before this mess. “So, you think the Jazz will make the playoffs this year?”

  “It’s looking good,” I said, rubbing the soap over the place where my life had started with a triumphant orgasm some twenty-four years earlier. “Seems like the combination of Williams, Boozer, Okur, and Kirilenko is finally working out.”

  “Would be fun if you came back for a playoff game,” he said. I had finished with the privates, but continued to look away as I soaped up his legs.

  “Yeah, it’d be nice to get back for another game. I’ll see about getting another day off work.” His body was now covered in soap from head to toe, from balls to butthole. I aimed the showerhead at him and washed all the suds off his brittle body. They ran down the drain as if they, too, were trying to get away from this horrific situation.

  As I wrapped him in towels, he said, “First ball wash. Not bad.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t vomit or anything. I feel like I could be one of those ball-cleaning machines on a golf course if the whole PR thing doesn’t work out.”

  “You should look into that,” he said. “And seriously, thanks.”

  “It honestly wasn’t bad at all.” And it wasn’t. It was just different. We got him dressed. He looked good as new. Well, he looked like shit because he had just run a marathon and he had Lou Gehrig’s disease. But he looked clean and refreshed, the best he could be. It was the first taste of how intense shit was going to get, the first sign that our relationship wasn’t going to just be talking about basketball.

  We left the bathroom. My dad took a nap. I went to the hotel bar for a strong one.

  * * *

  As May rolled around, my dad was still in good spirits. He and my mom walked the dogs up Millcreek Canyon every day—a stretch of national forest a few minutes from our house. My mom thought if he stayed active and kept his legs strong that maybe that son of a bitch Lou Gehrig’s disease would have a tougher time with him. My mom was doing her best to keep his spirits up. She’d pin an inspirational quote on his pillow every night so he could dream inspiring dreams about kicking Lou Gehrig’s disease in the nuts. He was going to live a long, long time with this disease. Hell, maybe he’d be the first person to beat Lou Gehrig’s disease. He’d be like Magic Johnson and HIV. Maybe he’d even be the first person to live forever.

  During this stretch, my mom was feeling pretty good, so she provided most of the care for him. They spent every second together and looked more in love than I’d ever seen them. They were happily designing the renovations to the house like they were planning their second wedding. They were holding hands and kissing all the time. It was sort of disgusting, really—a couple of dying fucks making out and shit.

  Mid-May, my dad was out in the Bay Area to run the Golden Gate Relay, which started in Calistoga and went to Santa Cruz—a span of 199 miles. He had two legs of the race, one through Napa and one over the Golden Gate Bridge. His team members gave him the coveted Golden Gate Bridge leg because he was dying of Lou Gehrig’s disease and they would’ve been dicks if they hadn’t.

  I decided to fly up to visit Abby and run the legs with him. Abby and her mom ran with us. Though he had finished the Boston Marathon a month earlier, my dad was clearly in worse shape. He couldn’t tie his own shoes. His hands were barely working. His breathing was more labored. He couldn’t undo his pants, so I had to help him go to the bathroom. Good thing I already had some experience dealing with his dick. We’d do run/walks, where we’d run about a hundred yards, then walk, then run. Then eventually we just walked.

  The Golden Gate Bridge leg took place at two in the morning. They normally close the bridge down to pedestrians after 9 p.m. (probably to prevent people from tossing themselves off it), so having access to it was unique. I ran alongside my dad, the love of my life and her mom running on the other side, the bay breeze cooling our faces as the city sparkled in the background. I looked over to my panting dad, barely able to stand up but still trying to run.

  “You sure you’re okay to do this?” I asked as we slowed to a walk.

  “Yeah. God, the city is so beautiful,” he said, not wanting to talk about his struggles. I started to weep as we walked. It was so hard to see him in decline, but I was thankful I got to spend this time with him. I knew this was the last run I’d take with him. I knew that we weren’t going to have many more beautiful moments with each other before it got really bad. I wanted my poor dad to get better, not worse, but was finally starting to realize that that wasn’t how Lou Gehrig’s disease worked.

  After our run, Abby and I went back to her place in Berkeley buzzing from the experience. “Your poor dad,” she said. “I’m so proud of him.”

  “I am, too,” I said.

  We fucked and then slept in the next morning.

  * * *

  In June, I flew out to Chicago to watch Greg graduate from Northwestern. It was his last taste of the good life before moving back home to Utah. I still had no official plans to move home. I had just been promoted at my job, and things were going great. I didn’t want to give that up until I absolutely had to. Greg and Tiffany were sure to make me feel like shit for not committing to moving back.

  “It’s okay, Danny. Have fun in Los Angeles while I spend all the time in the world with Dad and become his favorite son,” Greg passive-aggressively joked.

  “Yeah, we’ll get him to write you out of the will,” said Tiffany in a rare attempt at humor.

  “Last week, they made us dance for an extra two hours to get ready for our recital,” said Chelsea. “Two hours. Can you believe that?”

  Jessica didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry if I’m the only successful sibling with a good job,” I fired back.

  We all went out to dinner at a fancy restaurant on Rush Street to celebrate Greg’s graduation. As we waited for our large table (we always had to wait because there were seven of us), I played with my dad’s hands. He could hardly move them at this point. I uncoiled and recoiled his fingers. I didn’t know wh
at to say. My grandma Barbie, my dad’s mom, was eighty-four and had some kidney issues. She had been telling us she was ready to go.

  “So, do you think you or Grandma will die first?” I asked for some reason.

  My dad got a little teary eyed and said, “I don’t know. I hope we both live a lot longer, but probably Grandma.”

  Greg overheard the conversation. He started to cry.

  “Shit, sorry, I was just joking, making small talk,” I said.

  “I know, but still, it’s just—all of this is so sad,” cried Greg.

  “Relax, Gregor. Dad’s gonna live a long, long time, remember?” I said. “You haven’t had that much liquid on your face since your last blowie.” I smiled at him, trying to get him to laugh. He kept crying. I was attempting to fight Lou Gehrig’s disease with humor, but no one had the patience for cum-on-the-face jokes. Things were getting really serious.

  And Greg was right. It was all so sad. The thought that we might lose a parent before a grandparent would have seemed ludicrous only a few months earlier, but now it seemed like a possibility. I don’t know why I asked my dad this morbid question—probably because I’m an asshole—but it was the first time I’d outwardly acknowledged that my pal was going to actually die at the hands of ALS. My denial was officially beginning to give way to reality.

  * * *

  In July, we all went on what was depressingly billed as being our “last family vacation”—a twelve-day Mediterranean cruise that started in Barcelona and went to Cannes, Pisa, Rome, Naples, Pompeii, Capri, Florence, Venice, Corfu, and Dubrovnik, before returning to Barcelona. It was one of those luxury cruises full of a bunch of rich, spoiled assholes. We fit right in. We picked the cruise because it was the easiest way to see Europe. We just had to board the boat, get off to see the sights, then get back on.