The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving

by Jonathan Evison

  “But I don’t have anything,” she explains.

  “Then just leave it for now,” I tell her, turning my attention back to the road. “We’ll get a Kleenex when we get home.” Fuck. I knew I forgot something.

  “Eww,” Piper says.

  Glancing back, I see she’s defied me, she’s gone ahead and wiped Jodi’s nose. Corkscrewing her face, she now holds a glistening index finger at arms length.

  I knit my brow into the mirror. “Don’t you dare wipe that on the seat, young lady.”

  She knits her brow right back at me, makes sure I’m paying attention, then wipes her finger on the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Damnit, Piper! What did I just say?”

  She’s smiles devilishly at the D word and ribs Jodi, who is smiling, too. He garbles something unintelligible, unable to control his mirth.

  “It’s not funny!”

  They laugh at my ire. Daddy is a joke, a reliable source of amusement. Daddy is to be teased and taunted like a terrier. Above all, Daddy is to be tested.

  “Damnit, it’s not funny!”

  Piper eggs Jodi’s laughter on still further, poking his distended belly and pointing at the back of the seat, until the boy begins kicking his feet deliriously.

  Just as I let up on the accelerator, swing my head around, and begin easing onto the muddy shoulder for a time-out, Piper thrusts her still glistening finger over my right shoulder, so that I might inspect the punch line inches from my face.

  “I wiped the other one, silly.”

  Jodi dispenses a snotty laugh and kicks his legs some more.

  Daddy is a sucker. Daddy takes the bait every time. What choice does Daddy have, even in his edgy state of nerve-worn fatigue, but to laugh at himself?

  When Piper sees that I’m in on the joke, she gives me the smile, the new one, the one where she jams her tongue through the gap in her front teeth.

  take no chances

  We’ve just passed through Spokane, and we’re funneling out the east end of the valley around Otis Orchards, when Trev awakens.

  “What’d I miss this time?” he says groggily.

  “Just a Klan rally.”

  I sneak a glance in the rearview mirror.

  “Nice music,” he says.

  It’s the Toby guy, I think—the fat one, the Democrat. Something about “pickin’ ’em up, and layin’ ’em down.” This newfangled country is starting to grow on me, the adult despair of it all. Stuff I can relate to: lost loves, lost houses, lost dogs. Besides, it soothes my nerves. The Skylark is still tailing us, though its driver is exercising an additional degree of finesse now, keeping one or two cars between us at all times, even as I try to elude him, weaving in and out of traffic.

  Trev catches me monitoring the rearview compulsively.

  “Cop on our ass?”

  “Thought so for a minute. Just a roof rack.”

  I don’t want to worry him. He doesn’t need to know about the Skylark. He doesn’t need to know about the check-engine light that came on around Medical Lake, either—it’s just a dummy light, anyway. But a mile west of the first Coeur d’Alene exit, Trev catches me monitoring the light obsessively between checks of the mirror. He leans his chair back with an electric whir, and cranes his neck toward the driver’s side dash.

  “What’s that red light?”

  “It’s just a dummy light.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Check oil,” I say. “Er, engine. Check engine.”

  Trev’s face darkens in annoyance. “Well?”

  “It’s just a dummy light.”

  He looks straight ahead, darkly.

  “It’ll probably go off in a minute, trust me. It’s just a scam so you’ll have to go into the dealership or whatever.”

  He’s getting moodier by the second. “You should’ve said something. You should’ve woken me up.”

  “It’s just a dummy light.”

  “You should’ve stopped in Spokane.”

  “For a dummy light?”

  His eyes are just slits, his greasy forehead is wrinkled. I’ve crossed the line with my negligence. “Get off at the next exit,” he says, shaking his head grimly. “You should’ve stopped when it came on.”

  He’s right, of course. I ought to know better than to take chances. I ought to know better than to ignore warning signals. How many dummy lights did I ignore before my life exploded? How many have I ignored since? Above all, I ought to know better than to try and hide anything from Trev.

  After a chilly two miles of silence, I pull off on exit 15 while Trev still fumes on the passenger side. I keep praying for the dummy light to go off and redeem me. But the damn things seems to be burning brighter than ever. My flagging spirits are buoyed, if only briefly, when I see the Skylark whiz past us on the interstate.

  By the time we’ve checked into our motor court motel on the scrubby outskirts of Coeur d’Alene, Trev has forgiven me.

  “You’re probably right,” he says, piloting a tight semicircle between the twin beds. “It’s probably just a dummy light.”

  The room is decorated in early fleabag. Swampy green carpet, jaundiced yellow drapes. Everywhere the residue of twenty-year-old smoke. Dust particles the size of gnats swarm in the lamplight. The alarm clock is bolted to the nightstand. On the wall behind the twin headboards is a most curious work of art—I guess you’d call it a painting: a violent mess of blue oils on canvas, with a big bloody swirl in the center, partially obscured by the hodgepodge of blue, all of it executed in brush strokes suggestive of some psychomotor disturbance. The workings of a dark imagination—something Richard Ramírez might have conceived with a bad case of hiccups. I can’t tell whether it’s thunderheads blotting out the sun or an alpine sunset reflected in the surface of Lake Coeur d’Alene. Whatever it is, I find it unsettling.

  “Shall I call room service and have some Grey Poupon sent up?” Trev says.

  “Shit, I forgot to tip the porter,” I say.

  But at least the place has free wi-fi. Some Googling soon yields a Pontiac dealership across town, but the service department is closed on weekends. We’ve little choice but to wait until Monday. Further Googling yields a Red Lobster four miles away, but Trev doesn’t want to risk driving until the dummy light has been resolved, marooning us in the outskirts for the foreseeable future. The adjoining motel restaurant, pretty scary-looking by any measure, is closed, forcing us to dine on mini-mart fare. We cross the court and the main drag to the 24/7 Chevron, where we procure corn dogs and some jojos that look like they’ve been sitting under the heat lamp since the dawn of the Pleistocene era. I can’t help but think of the four trips to the bathroom I’ll be making with Trev in the middle of the night.

  Back at the room, I set up Trev’s tray table and recline on the bed, snapping off a bite of corn dog. Now that we’re settled, there’s the question of Elsa. Do we risk worrying her with this detour, or do we save her the trouble? Wouldn’t it be best to wait and see—after all, it is a dummy light, right?

  “I don’t think we should tell my mom about the van,” he says, reading my mind. “She’ll overreact, probably.” He’s got mustard on his chin. He waves at it with a swipe of his napkined hand but misses.

  “Good call,” I say. “Why worry her?”

  “We should still call her, though. Tell her everything is going as planned.”

  “Totally.”

  “It’s probably just a dummy light,” he says.

  I make the call to Elsa around 7:00 p.m. Trev watches nervously as I pace the tiny room.

  “Oh yeah, smooth sailing,” I tell her. “Yep, Wallace . . . at the Stardust . . . How is it? It’s . . . Trev, how would say the Stardust is?”

  “Like a motel,” he says.

  “It’s average,” I say. “Basic motel setup. Parking. That kind of thing . . . ”

  Trev and I exchange nervous glances.

  “Oh, great, yeah,” I say jauntily into the phone. “Mm-hmm, like a top . . . Yeah . .
. Totally . . .”

  Trev winces and smiles at once.

  “Oh yeah, I will,” I assure Elsa with regard to checking the fluids. “He sure is, hold on a sec . . .”

  I flip the phone open to speaker and perch it on Trev’s armrest.

  “Hi, honey,” she says.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  “Are you having fun? It’s not too much, is it? How’s your breathing?”

  “Fine,” he says.

  “Honey, I can’t hear you.”

  “Fine,” he says, louder. “What about you?” he says, diverting her. “You ready for the show?”

  “I’ve still got some braiding to do. I’ll be ready by morning, though. You remembered your Enalapril after dinner, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was that a yes?”

  “Yeah,” says Trev louder still, hunching down toward the phone. “I gotta go, Mom. I’m getting tired.”

  And just like that, he’s off the hot seat.

  “Okay, I love you,” says Elsa. “Let me talk to Ben again.”

  I snatch up the phone.

  “You bet . . . uh-huh . . . I won’t . . . Sure will . . . Talk to you soon.”

  I set the phone on the now cluttered nightstand.

  “That was easy,” says Trev.

  Late that night, after we’ve cemented our status as conspirators, after we’ve given up our channel surfing, set the remote aside, and I’ve put Trev to rest with a pillow between his knobby knees, I lie awake on my back in the weak light spilling in from the motor court, listening to the plumbing through the walls and the occasional rasp of Trev’s breathing as though it’s a million miles away and savoring that sense of remoteness that only cheap motels in unfamiliar towns seem to inspire.

  here and abroad

  I’ve covered the Ramírez painting with a pillow case. The curtains are drawn to ward off the sunlight. On the nightstand, beside my castaway corn dog stick, a couple of jojos repose in a grease-stained paperboard boat. In spite of our unfamiliar surroundings, our morning, which begins shortly before noon, adheres mostly to Trev’s routine. Enalapril, Digitek, a morning piss. Khaki cargoes and a black T-shirt. Everything but the waffles. It’s sixty-nine degrees in Charleston, seventy-three in Baton Rouge. On the Travel Channel, we spelunk the caverns of Callao, explore the garish catacombs of the Great Barrier Reef, learn about the medicinal benefits of turmeric.

  Sometime in the early afternoon, my cell rings. It’s Forest.

  “It’s me,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “Ben, I need a place to crash.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing, it’s just—can I stay at your place? While you’re gone, I mean?”

  “What happened?”

  Silence.

  “Well? What is it? What happened?”

  “I told Mel,” he says. “About Gina.”

  I groan. “You didn’t.”

  “I had to, Ben.”

  He really believes it, the big dummy. He still doesn’t know any better. A long silence ensues, as I consider a prudent course of action. “Okay, look,” I say. “Damage control. How did all this play out? Did she kick you out, was she furious, was she crying?”

  “I offered.”

  “You what?”

  “I thought she might need a little space to . . .”

  “To what, Forest?”

  “Well, you know, get used to the idea, I guess.”

  I groan again. “Why? Why on earth should she get used to the idea? Is it going to happen again? Are you trying to destroy a perfectly good marriage? Are you in love with Big Gina, or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why?”

  “I guess because, well—” Here, his voice falters and nearly gives out. “Christ, Ben, I don’t know. I said I was sorry, but that just didn’t seem to be enough, you know?”

  I wish I could give the big lug a pat on the back, or even a hug. “This is gonna blow over, buddy. You just stay at my place for a few days. Chuck’s got an extra key—tell him I said it’s all right. He can call me if he needs to. Just hang tight, pal. Mel will come around.”

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  “Forget it, man. Just lay low for a couple of days. Call me if you want. Whatever you need.”

  “You’re the best,” he says.

  “Not by a long shot,” I say.

  I know the impulse is misguided. I know it’s meddling. But I dial Mel, certain I can help in some way. She picks up on the second ring.

  “Forest isn’t here.”

  “I know. He told me.”

  A cool silence. I wonder if it’s because he confided in me, because I’ve known all along, or if it’s because of Gina. Maybe Mel holds me responsible, and who could blame her? All those nights I kept him away from his family.

  “You were right,” she said. “He shouldn’t have told me. But he did.”

  “And?”

  “And what do you think, Ben? I’m hurt. I’m confused. I don’t know what any of it means.”

  “It means he fucked up—just for a second.”

  “Just for a second what? He forgot? He was weak? He wasn’t even drinking. What was he thinking?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t.”

  Mel sighs. “I dunno, Ben. Something like this makes me feel like I don’t even know him.”

  “You do. C’mon, Mel, this is Forest we’re talking about. The Grape Smuggler. Mr. Clutch. Best Dad in the West. Most Devoted Husband. Look—his bachelor party. Okay, bachelor party—strip clubs, right? Drunken debauchery. Closing the book on bachelordom with a bang. What did Forest wanna do? Did he wanna go to Vegas? Did he wanna go to Toy’s Topless? No, he wanted to go fishing. Just he and Max and me. And for two days, up and down the Dungeness, wading in the riffle, drinking by the fire, all he wanted to talk about was his future with you. To the point where it got annoying, okay?”

  “How do I know he won’t lapse again?” she says.

  “Have you ever seen Big Gina?”

  “Oh, stop it, Ben. How do I know?”

  I wish I had another answer rather than the obvious one. “You don’t, Mel, not really. He’s a good bet, though.”

  More silence but not as chilly. I get the feeling she’s already forgiven him. Hard not to forgive a guy like Forest.

  “Did he put you up to this?” says Mel.

  “No, not at all. The poor guy’s a wreck. Look, Mel, honestly, the thought of my best friend staying in that crummy compartment of mine, eating fish sticks and drinking flat root beer, watching Law and Order repeats, not shaving, not answering the phone—basically living my life, even for a few days, is too pathetic to ponder. Call him, Mel, please. Make him come home.”

  “Did you ever cheat on me?” she says, catching me off guard.

  “What, like in college?”

  “When we went out.”

  “That’s going back a ways, Mel. I honestly couldn’t tell you. But I’m not Forest—I’m a lot needier than he ever was. So I’m guessing I probably tried.”

  “Forest says you’ve been writing poetry again.”

  I feel myself blanching. “Nah. Nothing like that. I’m about as poetic as a forklift these days. I tried writing a girl a note a while back, and, well . . . Anyway, stupid idea.”

  “How are you doing, Ben? Are you holding up?”

  “Look, I gotta go, Mel. I’m on the road. Just promise me you’ll call him.”

  “I will. And thanks, Ben. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  dot

  Sunday morning, Trev and I brave the nameless motel restaurant, which we soon decide should be called Crazy Willard’s. The dining room, awash in a suffocating array of miscellany, from muskets to animal pelts, is as dark and filmy as any antiques mall. The decor adheres to no theme whatsoever. Pirate hats. Mustache combs. Victorian lace. Here a framed photo of Lana Turner. There, a three-masted schooner in an ancient bottle. The p
lace smells of corned beef and cat litter. Mr. Willard himself, a scarecrow of a man in a moth-eaten flannel shirt, who also happens to be the motel clerk, leads us to a booth by the window and presents us with a pair of greasy menus. I immediately feel ill at ease in the booth, as though I’m being watched. Turning, I discover the source of my discomfiture, perched like a raven on the bench back above my right shoulder: a stuffed marmot who looks as though he’s been caught in the act of rear-entry coitus—either the shoddy work of an amateur or a taxidermist with an adolescent sense of humor.

  “That’s Jessie,” explains Old Willard. “Pert’ near the fattest damn whistle pig I ever did see in these parts. Stuffed him myself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wow,” says Trev.

  “Shot me a twelve-pound yellow belly over in Post Falls back in 1967. Biggest rockchuck I ever bagged in Kootenai County. Squealed like a teakettle from hell. ’Course they got even bigger over in Shoshone.”

  It is now apparent that Old Willard has no intention of leaving us to our menus.

  “You boys fish?”

  “Once,” I say.

  “No limit on bass up at Bonner Lake—they got largemouth and small. Used to have a cabin up that way, ’fore them Nazi kids burned it down. You kids aren’t Nazis are you? I don’t serve Nazis. Did two tours in WW2. Hell if I’m gonna feed ’em.”

  “We’re not Nazis,” I say.

  “Good. I’ve had it up to here with Nazis. Used to be we was known for our spuds and our fishin’. Now it’s neo-Nazis. Ask me, it ought to be open season on Nazis. I’ll tell you what: the next snot-encrusted little Nazi punk who crosses my path has got another thing comin’. I’ll slit his belly, pry him open, scrape out his guts, and stuff him like a twelve-point buck. Biscuits and gravy’s good.”

  “I’ll have the waffles,” says Trev.

  Old Willard furrows his brow at this selection.

  I’m not prepared to take any chances with the old spark plug, so I order the biscuits and gravy, a choice which seems to please Old Willard, who dons a yellow porcelain smile as he scratches out my order.

  “Them’s good.”

  “Should I be scared?” I say, as he disappears into the kitchen.