My father is back. He says, “Oh, son?”
I stand up, dripping incurable virus and disease. He tosses me a damp facecloth.
He says, “You’ll be fine. Clean yourself up.” He walks away whistling.
48
THE MORNING AFTER THAT NIGHT
(BUT BEFORE SHE CAUGHT ME
IN THE ELEVATOR SHAFT)
The morning after that night (but before she caught me in the elevator shaft) we were up with the sun. It was orange again, not yellow, and unwelcome. It still came through our windows, regardless. I usually got up early, but she didn’t. Mom scrambled eggs and hummed a song that I didn’t know. Its melody had a lilt, but some abrupt, sharp changes. I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of frozen-concentrate OJ and an empty plate. When she finished her song the eggs were done. Then we had breakfast together. None of this was normal.
We sat as far away from each other as possible at the little kitchen table. She issued smiles that were afraid of me. She gave me eggs too, but I wouldn’t eat them. I told her my stomach was a little too grumbly for eggs. So she made me a bowl of Frosted Farm Flakes instead. I only ate a few spoonfuls. My spoon was an old Spiderman spoon: half-metal and half-rubbery plastic. I wore only my Spiderman underwear. I was getting too old for Spiderman underwear, but it was the only clean pair I had left in my drawer. She wore her pink terrycloth robe. The robe she always wore around the apartment. She tried another smile. I told her she had eggs in her teeth. I thought she might cry, but she laughed instead. A big laugh.
Why was she laughing? Her behaviour was as perplexing to me then as it always had been. I had always craved the attention of my parents, those omniscient gods who acted with motivations and reasons I didn’t understand, but I didn’t question. As I grew up my gods became fallible before my faithless eyes. What was more confusing or depressing than watching your gods become human?
She still laughed while she picked egg out of her teeth. She made a joke about being a classy babe. I laughed a little with her, wanting to join in, to still be a part of her team. Then I dropped my spoon into the still-full cereal bowl and wrapped my skinny arms around my folded legs, hugging my knees to my chest.
She asked me if I was done. I told her I was.
She wasn’t laughing anymore. Her hands dis-appeared behind her head, making sure her hair stayed tied up, then she tightened her robe belt, and she was still so very young. She said I could leave the table and that I could eat a Farm Pop Tart if I was hungry later.
I climbed out of the kitchen chair. I was still so very young but getting older. I left my god (the only one I had left) sitting at the table, and ran to the living room and the TV. Ten minutes into the cartoon and its neon violence, I listened to my god put the dishes into the sink. She wasn’t humming her song anymore. Her slippers shuffled past the living room and then down the hall. She went to her bedroom and closed the door. Then I listened to my god crying herself back to sleep. Eventually, I stopped listening.
49
THE LONG SLOW GOODBYE
Bright and early, only not so bright, and it’s the day before the election. For days, the CM have called me every two hours with numbers and updates. They tell me I’m closing in on Mayor Solomon, but I need a spectacular finale to The Candidate for a real shot at winning.
Quaz has been missing for two days and I assumed something happened to him on his search, but today he makes it back with an interpreter in tow. And, apparently, the interpreter’s name is Peter.
While my father gives Peter the once over, I pull Quaz aside and I say, “A homeless white guy named Peter speaks Hindi?”
Quaz shrugs his shoulders. At least, I think he shrugs his shoulders. He can’t really achieve that kind of body language with his giant hump. He says, “I looked everywhere. There were others who spoke Hindi, but he was the only one who would come back with me.”
I say, “Why?”
Peter says, “I couldn’t help but overhear. I can answer that.” He smiles then cracks his knuckles. Peter is middle-aged, wears a stained golf-shirt and khaki pants. He somehow managed to keep his beer gut in good standing and has a nice comb over. “For twenty-five years I managed Barter Brother’s toy-making plant. The plant employed a significant population of Hindi speaking folks, so I had to learn the language. Five years ago CareCo bought us out and closed the plant. Two-weeks severance and then kicked to the curb like everyone else. Can’t say I blame them, though. Business is business.
“Anyway, let me answer your question. No one else came back to Home because the Hindi-speaking Hindus believe this guy is being punished for sins in his previous life. Of course there are plenty of Hindi-speaking Muslims and Hindi-speaking Christians and even some Hindi-speaking Jews, but they believe he did something to fall out of God’s good graces. Basically, everyone thinks he must’ve done something to deserve his horrible death.”
I’ve had enough of this Peter guy already. Peter certainly sounds like a plant manager, like my old buddy BM. The sound: a pompous, self-absorbed asshole who isn’t even capable of feigning realistic empathy.
My father-the-father nods and says, “Sounds about right. Consistent with those God-fearing dopes who fill my church. They believe God only punishes the guilty. The saps.”
I say, “Quaz, couldn’t find any Hindi-speaking agnostics or atheists or druids?”
Quaz says, “I did, but they all thought this guy would be better off with an assisted suicide.”
Peter interrupts. “Can’t say I disagree with them. Would ease his pain and save you guys time and funds.”
My father says, “Ah, I see you found us a Hindi-speaking Capitalist!”
Peter says, “Amen.”
Padre and Peter share a laugh, then exchange a few more pithy aphorisms about religion and suffering and capitalism. Their smug labelling and know-it-all-ness while standing at the foot of Mr. Hepatitis’s bed makes me want to vomit.
“Okay.” Peter rubs his fat hands together and adds, “So where’s the grub? I’m starving.”
I say, “You eat after you help us talk to this guy.”
I tell Peter that Mr. Hepatits is fading fast. That he has vomited on me three times. That he’s too weak to eat solid food. We had to snake a feeding tube through his nose. He was too weak to protest. He likely only has a day, maybe two left in him.
Mr. Hepatitis is awake and Peter tries to chat him up. I pull Quaz aside and ask him how he knows this guy can actually speak Hindi. Quaz tells me it doesn’t matter, because he was the only one willing to come back.
Peter says, “I’m a little rusty with the particular dialect this guy uses, but I can understand him.”
I say, “What did he say to you?”
“Not much. He wouldn’t tell me his name. He doesn’t like the tube in his nose.”
“Tell him it’s a feeding tube. It’ll help him keep his food down.”
Peter talks, Mr. Hepatitis nods slowly. Then he says, “Okay, what next, boss?”
My father walks away without a long slow goodbye. Or even a quick one.
I pull up a chair near Mr. Hepatitis’s head. Peter maneuvers behind me, but not very gracefully. He bounces the back of my head off his gut. I tell Peter to start translating everything I say to this man.
I grab Mr. Hepatitis’s hand (sans gloves) and I say, “You are loved. We love you. I love you.”
Peter interrupts, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Just what kind of place you running here? I didn’t sign up for this.” He backs away holding his palms up, like I had a gun pointed at him.
I should go ape-shit on this guy. Throttle him. Beat him about the head and neck. But I don’t have it in me. If I’m going to communicate with Mr. Hepatitis, I need him. I say, simply, “You can leave now, without lunch, if you’re not comfortable with me treating this man with dignity.”
Peter says, “What’s for lunch.”
“Hotdogs and beans.”
“Real hotdogs?”
As if there were actually any such thing as a real hot dog, but I answer, “Yes, real hot dogs. As many as you’d like.” Peter scurries back into position.
I say, “Okay, from the top.” And I tell Mr. Hepatitis that he matters. His life is and was important. I tell him he is loved. Or more importantly, that he is deserving of our love, our care. But he doesn’t believe me. In a voice that is breathy and high pitched, he speaks to Peter.
Peter translates: “I am being punished.”
I say, “For what?”
There’s a long pause. Some laboured breaths. Then, quiet, and unsure, some words that Peter takes and chews up and spits out. “I don’t know.”
I say, “No, you are not being punished. You’ve done nothing to deserve this. Can I have your name please?”
I wait for Peter to translate and Mr. Hepatitis to respond. He speaks, this time gesticulating with his marionette arms. “I’ve done something to piss off the universe.”
I look at Peter. Brow furrowed so hard my eyebrows might rip off my face.
Peter says, “Well, that’s the gist of what he said. In not so many words.”
I say, “No more gist. I want a word-for-word translation or no hot dogs for you.”
“Slave driver, sheesh.”
We continue in this manner throughout the morning hours. Mr. Hepatitis still insists that he’s lower than dirt and isn’t deserving of anyone’s love or care, but slowly, we share details and information. I explain to him as best I can what the pinkish stuff is in the feeding tube. He tells me he doesn’t know what’s happening to his wife and two children who were left behind in City. I tell him Home’s mission statement. He tells me he made a complete mess of things in City. I tell him he could tell me why he was down here if he liked, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t judge and I will still care for him and I will still talk to him. He tells me he misses drinking soda and eating French fries. I tell him my name. He tells me he doesn’t miss TV. I tell him that I fear my mother is down here. He tells me his name is Feroz and he too fears for my mother. Before Peter and I break for lunch, I tell Feroz that I’m running for Mayor. Feroz wishes me luck and tells me I can’t be any worse than anyone else.
Peter and I eat a hurried lunch. Peter consumes a frightening amount of hotdogs. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep all of that down.
We go back to Feroz’s bedside. We’ve been gone twenty minutes and he looks worse, but upon our return Feroz gives me a smile. He’s yellowing and weakening and disappearing before our eyes, but a smile is a smile is a smile. This smile is a good sign. It isn’t fake or hiding cruel or deceitful thoughts and words behind it. This smile means everything. It’s all I can ask of him.
Peter doesn’t notice because he’s still working through the last of his hotdog-o-rama feast, his payment.
Feroz speaks. Peter gives me: “Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“Yes, I did, actually.” I smile. Feroz returns it. Maybe I can send Peter on his merry way. I likely don’t need him anymore. Feroz and I are smiling, and communication is that simple. What’s complex is that I want him to die, to have a merciful end to his suffering; and I don’t want him to die, and I don’t want to see Feroz stacked in the body room and I don’t want to see Quaz stick his body in the incinerator. I know which of my he-dies he-doesn’t-die wishes is selfish.
Peter still stuffs his face full of hotdog. He must have hidden a couple in his pockets. The sound of him chewing fills the room. I look at Peter and say, “A real hard-working interpreter you are.” I point at Peter and smirk the isn’t-this-guy-a-jerk smirk for Feroz’s benefit.
Peter says, “You’d be nowhere without me.”
Melissa’s smart phone goes off. I almost forgot about her. Almost.
She says, “It’s for you.”
I wave the back of my hand twice. Brushing her and them off. Feroz is teaching me that I don’t need words to communicate anymore. I’m saving my words. They’re too important to waste.
She says, “It’s your campaign managers, and they insist.”
I haven’t talked to Melissa since the doctored crying-tape incident. More brush-off hand waving from me.
She says, “They think you’re turning into a pussy again and they need something spectacular for tonight’s finale.”
I break my code of silence. “Tell them I’m firing their worthless asses.”
Melissa doesn’t tell them anything. But Feroz says something. Peter doesn’t translate for me, but says something back to Feroz. Then I watch Feroz’s smile die. At the risk of hyperbole, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen.
I grab Feroz’s hand. I feel him trying to pull away from me, but he’s too weak. He won’t look at me. “Peter, what did you say to him?”
“Um . . . nothing?”
“What do you mean, nothing? You said something to him, what the fuck was it?”
“He asked me what you said to her and I just repeated it.”
Through clenched, enamel-dripping teeth I say, “What. Did. You. Say. To. Feroz?”
“Wait a minute.” Peter closes his eyes and whispers Hindi to himself, a bad actor trying to remember the lines he just fucked up beyond recognition. “Okay. Oh, shit. Maybe I screwed up the dialects. I tried to tell him you said the person you were on the phone with was worthless.” Peter stops eating hotdog. “Shit. Maybe Feroz thinks you were saying that he was worthless.”
“Really? You think so, Peter? What makes you think that? Is that your years of managerial expertise shining through?” I look at Feroz and I know if he could turn his head completely around until his face was buried in the pillow, he would. “Get over here and tell him you fucked up!”
Peter moves his bulk closer to Feroz. Fucking mustard stains on his gut and all. He talks to Feroz. Who knows what he is saying. Feroz ignores him. Completely.
Melissa’s phone goes off again. I jump out of my seat, try to grab her camera, but miss because of her sidestep. I say, “Shut off that phone.”
Peter is still talking at Feroz. The phone still rings. Feroz is still dying. Everyone down here is still homeless. My mother is still missing. Everything will come crashing down soon. I’ve never felt so helpless.
“That’s enough,” I say to Peter. He stops and slides past my chair and then me, taking care not to brush up against me. I send Peter away. He apologizes and keeps on apologizing and that full-of-hotdogs-and-nothing-else buffoon dares to leave me with, “I was just trying to help.” As if good intentions somehow absolve his disastrous incompetence. I don’t answer him. I don’t look at him. I ignore him. Because if I pay any attention to him, I will kill him. He leaves.
I sit on the edge of Feroz’s bed. I can’t tell if he’s closed his eyes to keep from looking at me or if he’s unconscious. A yellow discharge leaks out his eyes. My weight forms a valley in the mattress, forcing Feroz’s body to turn toward me.
Feroz is dying and I know I’m his unwitting killer even though his body was already dead before I met him. His blood pressure drops. There’s blood working upstream in his feeding tube. Blood in his colostomy bag. I hold his hand. His skin hot enough to burn through to the back of mine. Hot enough to turn me into ash. I hold his hand and I talk to him. No interpreters. I tell him I’m sorry. I tell him that I lied to him but he probably knew that already. I tell him I don’t know if everyone is deserving of love or care or dignity. I tell him I don’t know that everyone’s life has intrinsic value like it says in Home’s mission statement. I tell him I think there are plenty of people who are walking piles of shit. I tell him I do not know what the value of his life is. I tell him I care about him anyway. I tell all this to him over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
And I give him his long slow goodbye.
50
ALL COMING DOWN
Quaz and I know this drill. We put
Feroz’s body on a gurney. I have not pulled the sheet over his face. There’s nothing to hide anymore. We load the shelf underneath the gurney with a box of Feroz’s soiled sheets and IV lines and feeding tube. We go through the body room and out the back into Dump and to the incinerator.
There’s a gaggle of teens and kids out back with us, picking through the trash, asking us for handouts. All we’re carrying is the dead. Once they figure that out, the teen boys shout at Quaz, call him a slave, and make fun of his hump. Quaz shouts back at them. I notice Melissa and the camera retreat to the safety of the body room’s doorway. She’s still filming. Quaz takes the box of Hep C infected medical supplies off the gurney and I unload Feroz into the incinerator. There are flames. His body goes in. I’ll miss him and I’ll think about him. I close the hatch. I think about Quaz’s prayer technique, and I give it a try, but nothing comes out. There’s really nothing more to say.
Quaz is behind me with the box o’ Hep C that we need to incinerate. Someone throws a bottle and hits Quaz in the head. The cool, calm, Zen-like Quaz I’ve lived with for almost two weeks goes absolutely bat shit. He growls and grunts and drops everything and runs out into Dump. Yelling and screaming and crying and trying to catch one of the scurrying teens.
I jog a few steps away from the incinerator and toward where Quaz ran to and I yell, “Quaz, relax. Come back! You’re going to get hurt.” Then there are rustling sounds behind me. Melissa cries out from the doorway and from behind her camera. I turn. Near the incinerator are two young children. One boy wearing a superman sweatshirt and jeans. One girl wearing a surprisingly clean summer dress; it’s blue. They have dumped the box o’ Hep C and they sit criss-cross-applesauce in the debris. Their little hands are wrapped around the feeding tube, one tube-end is in each of their mouths. They suck and search for food. I hear them sucking, their hunger, their tug-of-war over the pink remnants. Tube-food mixed with mucus and bile and blood. Their throats move when they swallow.
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