The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (19 page)

take no chances

W
e'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.”
Th
is 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.
Th
e 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?”

“
Th
ought 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.”

Th
e 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.
Th
e 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.
Th
e 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.
Th
e 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.
Th
at 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.

“
Th
at 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.
Th
e 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.”

“
Th
en 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. “
Th
is 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.”

“
Th
anks, 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.
Th
e 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.
Th
e 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.”

“
Th
at'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.”