The doctor, prior to inserting the heart, regaled us with stories of a calf who’d lived hundreds of days on an early model of the heart. But now the doctors referred to Dad’s as a jalopy of hearts and told us of newer, more infallible models. Not interested, Dad would say. When I was a boy, if you died, you were dead. Why keep a bunch of zombies my age running around anyway?
The morning of his latest date with Susan, Dad got going about storm-water collection. He moved in and out of lucidity, inhabiting the present for only moments at a time.
Rest up, Dad, I said. Big plans tonight.
The war for water begins, Dad said, launching one of his demented rants. I belted him into his recliner and set him up with lukewarm coffee and a large print projection of real-time news. His body hinged over the black safety harness, leering, eyes bulging, ready to reel off a dated tirade that would probably include references to the Symbionese Liberation Army, farm subsidies, Nixon, and, if he was really getting after us, Beyoncé.
Don’t get yourself worked up, I said, touching his forehead with the back of my hand. You’ll spill your coffee. And talking like that might scare Susan. Remember to ask about her kids.
I’ve been worked up for sixty years, he said. It started with Reagan . . . what was it he said about common sense and acid rain? If Michael Jackson hadn’t endorsed Pepsi, things would be different now, wouldn’t they? Endorsements change the course of the universe. It’s always about stuff. Electric sedans and petridish livers. You can buy anything. Who’s Susan?
Susan, I said, is your girlfriend. Silver hair in a bun, floral blouses, khaki pants. Smart as a whip when she remembers what she’s talking about.
I wrote Susan’s name down on Dad’s notepad in large print, showed him a picture of her. He claimed he could remember things better that way. We had a whole series of captioned photographs to help his recall stay fresh.
I want to buy her something, he said.
Do you want your shoes on or off? I asked.
I want to take her somewhere, he said. Do something I’m good at. Fishing, maybe. Link can bait the hooks.
I’d have to call and ask permission, I said.
I’m ninety-one, he said. Why do I need permission for anything except dying? Can Link take us to the beach? I’m tired of dinner at the Senior Center.
Link was Dad’s ideal avatar, the sentient being he sent out into the world to accomplish the things his aged body couldn’t. Dad admired Link’s rational approach to life, his tool-savvy, survivalist ways. Whenever we argued over the thermostat, the dying ocean, theocracies, or how to best grill sausages, Dad wanted to know: What does Link suggest? Ask Link what he wants to do. It was hard to see Dad embrace the role of a beta male when he’d been the alpha figure for most of my life.
Dad fingered the raised bump of flesh on his chest where his heart had been installed.
Hurts today, he said.
Rest, I said, and remember to stay out of the kitchen. Too much exposure to machines is bad for your heart.
This damn thing is invincible, Dad said, pounding it with his fist.
Dad had once requested that we help him commit suicide on his hundredth birthday. Link can figure out how to stop my heart, Dad said. Because we felt sure he’d never make it that long, we indulged him. Of course, Link said. I could wrap a lump of raw magnets around your chest, or sneak you into the hospital and jam your heart with radiation. Excellent, Dad said.
I’m so tired of being alive, Dad had begun telling me some nights, his voice a whisper of its former strength. His back hurt; he stooped like a shrimp when he walked. He wore soft caps over his melanoma-ridden bald head and refused new clothes, intent on wearing old fishing T-shirts and a reliable pair of baggy Levis that chafed his sensitive legs. His toenails were yellow, chalky, and coiled, his feet swollen and calloused. I hated to touch his feet; they were the saddest thing about him and, next to his mind, heart, and lungs, the things he needed most. He still walked on his own—though no more than two blocks—and until recently had fished once a day, standing up from his frayed lounge chair to reel in anything that tugged his line—a small tarpon, a fetid mound of seafaring trash.
I gingerly removed Dad’s fleece-lined moccasins so his feet could breathe. He ran them across the carpet like a child.
I want to get out later, he said.
I want to take Susan fishing. Dinner’s at four, I said. I’ll call the center and Susan’s son to see if a fishing date is possible beforehand.
Are my clothes clean? he asked. Do I have the heart of a pig? I saw a special this morning about putting pig hearts in men.
I’ll be on the roof, I said, patting his hand. We’re gonna use your design for the rain barrels. We’re taking precautions—Link wants to maintain our own water supply. When did you write the book?
Nineteen ninety-eight, he said, though I worked on chapters in the eighties.
Correct, I said.
I walked outside and grabbed the extension ladder—already hot to the touch—which Link had propped against the side of the house. I found him on the roof, shucking off sheets of historic Spanish tile in the morning sun. He hunched shirtless over the tile, cutting fasteners with a hacksaw. He was one of the few people I knew who still managed to work in the sun; most laborers worked by night under artificial light. Link’s skin was the color of eggplant, except for his butt and midsection, which, when uncovered, appeared white and phosphorescent in contrast to his deeply tanned legs, arms, and back.
Cover up, I said. You’ll burn.
He stood up, sweat sliding down his body in sheets. Just another half hour and I’ll go in for a break, he said. Almost done removing this patch of tile.
Using a design from Dad’s Living Rogue manual, Link was connecting our barrels to a gray water system with which we’d trap the Key West rains. He held plastic tubing up for inspection.
Gray water might be passé, Link said, duct taping the tubing to a black plastic barrel, but it’s genius.
Is that why we can’t understand it? I said, leafing through pages of numbered diagrams.
Living Rogue was an old book that had been handed down to me like a silver tea set. Link revered every word. My father had written Living Rogue in 1999 when he thought the millennium would bring Chinese rule, a barter economy, and rationed power supplies—none of which had happened. Regardless, I grew up knowing how to fish for sustenance, maintain potable water, and commit a painless suicide in the face of nuclear warfare. Link, whom I’d met in high school, liked to say that I was the only cheerleader who knew how to fire an Uzi and field dress a deer—fictional ideas that I swear turned him on.
When I was younger, I suspected that Dad had wanted his doomsday predictions to come true. Maybe he thought sociopolitical turmoil would increase his relevance to society; maybe he wanted to hang on to the physical world he understood. He’d always pictured himself a sort of blue-collar genius, but he wasn’t, and I think deep down he knew it as much as anyone else. Now Dad lorded the past over us with nonlinear rants and lauded the superiority of simpler times, though I’m not sure he ever enjoyed living through them. But when he was with Susan, he smiled easily and his face softened in a way I’d never seen.
I worry about the structural soundness of this design, Link said, thumping the tubing.
If you have questions, I said, I’m sure Dad would love to hold forth on water collection and home wind power.
Your dad was high on painkillers when he wrote that chapter, Link said. He told me so. It’s a Percocet-fueled manifesto.
I threw up my hands. Your time to waste, I said. I’m sure there are better methods now.
Link and I had been sleeping together on and off for twenty years. We were partners, not spouses. Friends one year, lovers the next two. No merged bank accounts, no children, no rules, no problems. Dad had raised me to be independent.
Dad wants to go fishing with Susan, I said.
She’s hot stuff, he said, for an eighty-year-old.
&
nbsp; Stop teasing, I said. You know she has a crush on you.
Susan always lit up when Link and I came to fetch Dad from the date. She referred to Link as “the handsome son” and reached out to lovingly pat his hand and kiss him on the cheek when it was time to go. I found her flirtations harmless and flattering.
Would you be willing to take them fishing if the center agrees to it? I asked.
Sure, Link said. He went back to work, looking at the book, then the barrels.
We had a great view of the ocean from Dad’s roof. I looked out at the gray expanse of water. It smelled different this year, like warm vegetable soup, or leftovers forgotten in the trunk of the car. The sea wasn’t stagnant—the tide was negligible but present, and waves broke on the dead reef miles out, sending timid ripples to lap against the rocky shore of the island. But experts said little to nothing but bacteria could survive in the ocean now; the water was warm and nearly oxygen-depleted. Anoxic, they called it. Two weeks after the big die-off, talking heads were still trying to assign blame, but I had stopped listening. Anyone with a brain knew it was everyone and everything, inevitable and awful, the beginning of the ugly end.
Hold this for me, Link said, handing me the torch he was using to solder the tubes.
His resolute industriousness was something to love and hate about Link. He had an affinity for projects. In a town of burned-out drunks, he was a doer, a prolific odd-jobber. Link was animated but hard to anger and had a sense of humor about everything. He’d once laughed at his own dislocated shoulder during a flag football match. But even he wasn’t taking the dying ocean well. I found him teary-eyed on the beach after the die-off. I think I’m ashamed to be human, he’d said, looking out at the water.
Thanks to Dad, I’ve lived my whole life waiting for apocalyptic events, environmental tragedies of epic proportions. The sun could explode, he’d say, and the world would still be looking at geriatric Madonna in a leotard. But now that a catastrophic event was happening Dad was oblivious, and I felt we’d irrevocably tipped our fortunes in the wrong direction, that my bones would, in millions of years, be like those of a velociraptor or trilobite. Soon, I told Link, we’ll be fossils, ripe for misinterpretation. I was sure some well-intentioned extraterrestrial would re-create my body, a hypothetical figure complete with unflattering body hair, and pose me participating in a drum circle on a fake beach in an oxygenated museum.
If I can’t convince you to come down and get out of the sun, I said, I’m going inside to call the Senior Center.
Make sure he has enough water, Link said. And tell him I’ll need him up on the roof later to supervise.
Fat chance, I said, unless you rig a harness with a sunshade.
Link smiled.
I know, I said. You can. But don’t.
I poked my head into the living room to look at Dad. He was blank-eyed, his favorite game show on full volume. He liked to watch shows where competitors used their wits to survive or complete daring physical tasks—drinking raw ostrich eggs from a glass, rappelling down skyscrapers, escaping from Plexiglas cages underwater. He liked to see fear, mainly because he still thought he was the kind of man who could avoid it; he’d maneuver his way through adversity with ex–Navy Seal cleverness.
I phoned the Senior Center.
My father would like to take Susan fishing, I said.
We can’t allow that, the director said. There are no unsanctioned visits. The liabilities . . .
I’ll supervise, I said. What’s the big deal? They’ve been together for a month. They need to switch up the routine, keep things fresh.
I can’t give you permission, the director said. Plus, what’s there to fish for anymore?
I called Susan’s son.
What do you think about Susan fishing with my dad this afternoon? I said. A change of pace. My partner and I will take them out. You’ll just have to drive Susan to Higgins Beach.
I don’t know, he said. Susan’s son was an antiques dealer who had always struck me as squeamish, but my judgment of men was harsh—the curse of being raised by a survivalist father.
It would really mean something to Dad, I said. He enjoys fishing so much; he’d like to share it with her.
Do they even know the difference between the Senior Center living room and the beach? he asked.
On a good day, I said.
A half hour, he said. Mom can’t take much sun time. I’ll send her with an umbrella and a pound cake.
I hung up and found Dad awake and hungry in the living room. He was a foulmouthed infant, needy and irritable.
It’s hot, he said.
Stay hydrated, I said.
I don’t want to waste the water, he said.
Drink it then, I said, pushing his cup toward him.
Paul McCartney, Dad said, advocated vegetarianism, but I don’t see how that helps the workingman, the man bolting up one of them cars in Detroit.
Men haven’t made cars in years, Dad, I said. And Paul McCartney is really dead this time.
What we all need, he said, is a little self-sufficiency, less flatulence. Fuel ourselves. Remember LeBron James? He’s giving schoolkids the old razzle-dazzle, trying to sell us the Chinaman’s leather shoes.
LeBron is almost seventy. You need a nap, I said, escorting him to his bedroom, where again I strapped him into bed to keep him from falling and breaking another hip. Getting him settled was an exhausting process for both of us, one that sometimes confused and hurt him. Why are you trapping me? he’d ask. Why am I tied into my own bed? Sometimes he would pull off his diaper, or lie with his blank eyes fixated on the ceiling, making me lean down into his face to check his breath like a new mother, assure myself that he was still alive.
Stay here with me for a minute, he said, gripping my upper arm.
I paused and held his hand, half loving, half impatient.
Can we go fishing when I wake up? he said.
Yes, I said. With Susan.
Who’s Susan? he said.
Your girlfriend, I said.
Do I love her? he said.
You tell me, I said.
Yes, he said. I’m taking her fishing today. Link will help me set up the rods, won’t he?
Of course, I said. We’ll meet Susan at the beach at four.
Link and I roused Dad at three and assembled our gear. It took us less than ten minutes to walk to Higgins Beach. Link ran ahead to set things up while I walked with Dad, holding him by the arm. He was moving more slowly than usual.
Your feet hurting? I asked.
Hmm? he said. He didn’t hear well, despite the cochlear implant.
Are your feet hurting? I asked, louder.
Everything hurts, he said. And then he laughed, but it was not a funny laugh, it was a sad laugh, the kind of tired laugh an old person uttered for lack of anything better to say. A laugh that said I pretend living is better than dying, but I’m never sure; I can’t think straight anymore. I can’t engage with your conversation. Where are we going? I’ll take the special.
Our neighborhood street was lined with palms, cinnecord and spider lily. Heat-stricken cats draped themselves across front porches; a skinny rooster crossed the road in front of us like a bad joke, then disappeared behind the tire of a parked truck to crow boldly. The tips of stucco resorts crowded the horizon. A bright orange tractor careened around old palms and trolled the length of the beach, its metal plow raking up dead fish and putrid sea grass. Rubber gloves, beer cans, cigarette butts, and dog shit littered the sand, which wasn’t natural sand—it was trucked in annually from a gravel pit. Dad once said Key Westers will stick a palm tree and a bar in any old dump and call it a resort.
Lately I’d found myself pausing on the public beach to watch the ocean, drawn to the dirty mass that, with its steady shore-slapping rhythm, deposited mounds of grasslike seaweed on the rocky coastline. Perhaps I was grieving it, the miles of water that had surrounded me my entire life, fed me, half drowned me as a child. To Dad, the ocean was the survivalist’s
answer to every-thing—starvation, escape, autonomy. You ever find yourself in trouble, he’d say, you take one of them old houseboats from the marina out at night, paint over the name, and fish for a few weeks over one of the reefs or old wrecks. Call me, of course. I’ll be waiting. I’ll know.
Dad, I’d said. I don’t plan on getting into trouble.
No one ever does, he said. But live a little, sweetheart.
Sometimes I thought it would have pleased Dad if I’d amped up my inner butch a little more, tattooed my forearm to match a Harley, ran immigrants ninety miles from Havana to the Keys in the blue morning. Instead, I bought storefront space and served homemade crepes and Cuban coffee to tourists and read books in the off-season, dutifully cared for my father, sat with him for hours as he fished in the afternoons.
For years the ocean had been in decline—overfished, polluted, diseased—sea species genetically weakened and unable to thrive. But every so often Dad could pull out a fish or two—nothing you’d be wild about eating—or you’d hear of someone finding a school in the deepest pockets of water.
When I was a child, Dad had read the fish report aloud every morning, carefully reviewing water temperatures, tarpon migration patterns, anecdotes about how wrecks and reefs were fishing. He’d trail plain ballyhoo from the back of his johnboat for dolphin and sailfish. He liked old-school fishing. If he pulled up anything under sixty pounds, he’d bludgeon it with his beer bottle the way his father had taught him. Whenever I was in the boat I tried not to let him see me cry as I watched the fish struggle to survive. It’s a strange thing to see a man kill something he loves with a blank face, beating the life out of another being. But every few months we got a real fighter in the boat, a fish that flopped and tossed violently until it launched itself overboard, and I silently cheered it on as it swam away into the vast ocean and my father swore like the part-time sailor he was.
Susan’s son stood clutching his mother under an umbrella. Her face was covered in sunscreen; he hadn’t done a good job rubbing it into her skin. Her khaki pants were cuffed and her pedicured feet were bare. Her hair was pulled into a small ponytail at the nape of her neck. A visor covered her eyes. Her red lips were vibrant succulents between liver-spotted cheeks.
Birds of a Lesser Paradise Page 16
