Bedside matters, p.10
Bedside Matters, page 10
It fascinates Walter that this boy is only fourteen, yet he’s been serious about art forever. I, too, was serious at fourteen, he reflects. There was purpose, but any pleasure?
“Your father Adam was always in the trucking field?” Walter remarks without knowing why as Alexander is winding down. There is the vaguest family resemblance between the boy, his father, and old Will, Walter’s nemesis of so long ago. Same kettle, each stew a different dish. Walter has dismissed his peevishness at the boy’s asking for a donation being a mirror of his father’s brash request.
“Oh, yeah. It’s a rough trade, suits Dad. He’s always bitching but I think he’s doing pretty well these days. I know he’s bummed about a pay dispute, they owe him extra, but refuse to pay overtime he says he’s due. Hard to know with Dad,” Alexander continues as he tidies up the table and Walter’s tray. “There’s probably another side to the story. I do know he’s talked to Mom about wanting to run his own business with his own trucks. He has lots of customers who’ve only dealt with him, not his boss.”
“Good your parents are talking again,” says Walter. “I guess, good for you?”
“I’m not at home very much, can’t wait to get my license. Neither of them has a chance to chew my head off as much as they used to.” He grins, a sign of elation about what is to come.
Walter manages to slap his hands together. “Golly, that was fun! Mostly watching you, Alexander.”
“Fun for me. First time I’m the teacher!”
“You know I’d be tickled for a next time. No rush, now.”
He smiles broadly, clutching the armload of supplies. “It’s so nice and quiet here, Walter. Nice for me for a change.”
How pure and unblemished is this youngster! Walter’s heart misses a beat. A hunk of gold, Rumi would say, before hammered into coins.
“Listen, son, I know those blocks of French watercolor paper that you said were the best—they can’t be cheap. Please let me return the favor of your kindness to pay for a few.” Without waiting for an answer, Walter grabs a checkbook and makes one out for—fifty, no, a hundred.
“Thank you, Walter! I’ll bring a bigger block for you next time. More room to play.”
Alexander leaves. Walter lies flat again on the bed. Yes, it was play. A spirited youth, intoxicated with potential, a completely new breed of person than the people in his orbit who are so much like himself. And so totally opposite his grandfather Will. No, don’t go there.
Aloneness descends as the darkest of clouds. Walter blinks around the room. Nothing comes into focus.
•
Days later, more sinking into than floating above the murk, Walter has the sense that, true to the Buddhist teachings, he may have exhausted his reservoir of “monkey mind” interferences, if for the wrong reason. There are so few ideas left for him to toss in the air and grapple with. Instead, they flutter, ungraspable as dancing milkweed seeds, and disappear or fly beyond reach.
•
“Where is Elena?” he asks, he hopes politely, of the new and strange young woman to tend his nails, although she too is brown. To a man of Walter’s background, deviations from white skin are captivating and exotic, of course at a distance.
“Elena’s retired. They didn’t tell you? But not to worry!” she chirps in a lovely musical voice. “I’m just a sub for today. You can tell your housekeeper if you’d prefer another gal next time.”
She is prancing around as if this was her own bed, unfolding the napkin of utensils practically on his crotch, humming to herself, and to him, of course. A Latin melody. Salsa? How would he know? Although her face is a very light tan, he judges her hair to be African, with beautiful Mulatto skin a pale milk chocolate. She is petite and girlish at first in her coral dress uniform circled with a ropey belt braided with scorching-bright colors, which seems a teen-girl exaggeration. Enormous thin gold hoops pierce her ears. But there are worry lines about the otherwise fluttering and welcoming dark brown eyes. She’s been around the block.
“Let’s start with the hands, Mr. Walt,” she sings. “Shall we?” But that is hardly a question.
“You’re in charge. Your name, please?”
“I’m Tressie. It’s short for Theresa. One of the few things, my nickname, they allowed in the convent.”
“Convent?”
“Well, Catholic school, but some of us lived there. We girls kidded amongst ourselves, all of us given names of saints. That was a joke! Boy, it was strict but, frankly, Mr. Walt, I loved it after being stuck in the projects with an aunt, well, a wonderful woman, but six boys and me sharing the same stinking john. Not even my brothers.” This, too, she made lyrical with a lilting voice that varnished the content of her words.
“You can call me Walt, Tressie. If I’m paying you, that is my wish.” He fights a foolish flash of repulsion at her skin color: dark is dangerous.
“Okay, Walt,” she croons, precisely clipping one nail after another. She is in no rush, nor is he. She squints at her work, emphasizing her frown and laugh lines. Her own fingers, to him, suggest the agility of a pianist. Maybe she plays a piano like Ana the cleaning lady’s granddaughter. What do I know of the way the world now works? Perhaps the guitar, to accompany herself. Walter is sliding into an unfamiliar limbic zone, a boat adrift without direction. How often is anyone touching his body these days other than with medical prods?
“Such soft white hands. No calluses,” she whispers.
“Been ages since they did anything more than place a phone call.”
“But you’re a white man compared to coarse dark skin. And I don’t mean because you are privileged—”
“Although my race and I certainly are.”
Tressie shrugs, moving on to filing. “The pigment, a reason for black folks who come from the Equator. Something like that doesn’t change overnight.”
He hesitates to speak his next thought but wonders why he’s reluctant. “You obviously have white blood. Your own skin looks smooth as a baby’s.”
She puts down the file and takes his free hand. “Feel it,” she says, placing his fingers atop her hand. She scrunches up her nose, now cute as a schoolkid. “Plenty rough enough. But yes, I have my mother’s silky face. So I was once told. Never met her. Or him.” Nary a trace of complication for her, at least anything that shows above the gently rocking rhythm of her comments, the continuing ballet of her fingers pirouetting from sanding one fingernail on to the next.
“There! Nice ’n smooth. On to your other hand,” and Tressie does a little jig around the base of the bed and angles her curvy bum onto the opposite bedside. She may be somewhat Caucasian on the surface but with enough of a coffee cast to make a contrast with her snow-white teeth on constant display. This woman likely wears a smile even when she sleeps. Walter knows enough about basic human wiring after a year-plus of mental gymnastics—his own private boxing match it’s been, that Tressie has constructed her presentation to the world from the inside-out.
His other hand also becomes her partner to a song-and-dance routine, much to Walter’s delight. She cannot help but make music. They prattle on, about his kids and hers—a boy she’s raising solo. This is no surprise to Walter, who has lived his life imprisoned by stereotypes for convenience sake. But still his admiration of her swells. He fights not to show it. He understands he is needy and vulnerable to the slightest physical touch, let alone this effusive and genuine capacity for affection that appears to be welded to her spine. And given just the initial information about her, Tressie certainly has a solid one of those at her core.
“Oh, dear, Walt. I’m finished with your nails but no time for the toes! I can come back next week. That is, if you are up for a repeat. There are plenty of us girls in the salon. Mostly Chinese, and they don’t talk a blue streak! Sorry.” She pats his hands, no, strokes them. “I didn’t even finish off with the hand lotion! Cripes.” And quickly she thrusts into her bag for the bottle.
“Oh, my,” Walter sighs as Tressie commences with the final business of his hand job. Listen to me! But he shuts himself off, shuts his eyes, aware of his own slight groan reaching his ears but well below Tressie’s humming of a lullaby…spiritual? Whatever, her voice with its angelic timbre matches the velvety presses and slides of her massage.
She becomes demure, smiling now without flashing the sparkling teeth, readying her things.
“Thank you, Tressie. This has been—divine. Of course, I’ll tell Irma to make sure you come back.”
She has left his hands folded across his chest. Not quite ready for the coffin, Walter tells himself, returning her parting wink with a wide smile of his own.
•
“Chuck, Walt here. I’m toying with a gift of two-hundred-thou. I know there’s plenty in the cash account, but thought I should give you a heads-up.”
•
It’s roaring again right at him, the wheels so huge he can barely behold the truck or tank itself. But he does lift his gaze and meets the impassive glare of the drivers, oblivious of the boy in the middle of the road. The tricycle. The boy oblivious. Am I the little boy? Am I watching from the curb, could I have saved him? Am I the driver? Is this a dream or did it happen and crashes like the massive rushing truck through my deadened brain to rattle and remind me?
Walter, sweating, wakes with eyes in the dark wide open. The same old horror movie is meant to be forever shoved aside, but plays again and again.
Trixie. Dry mouth, desperate for the name. Tessa. Teresa. Tressie.
He slips back into damp sheets. Eyes now closed, lids still quivering.
Chapter 10
There is no need to go outside.
Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.
There!” exclaims Irma with satisfaction. “Back in the wheelchair where you belong on a beautiful sunny day like this.” She has lifted him in place with the ease of arranging a baby. She tucks in blankets over his lap and feet.
“Ha,” chuckles Walter. “Imagine consigned to a wheelchair an advance in quality of life. I must say, Irma, I distrust that overused phrase. Quality of life. They hang it over people like an ultimatum. You’d better live up to some standard or other, or cash it in.”
Irma carefully maneuvers him onto the terrace flooded with light, but the baseball cap is sufficient shield against the glare.
“Golly, rolling outdoors here, Irma. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, dazzled by all the goodies. Look, the trumpet vine over the gate is still going strong. Last year there was some kind of bug.”
“Is this too much breeze, Walter?”
“Gosh, it feels great.”
“I’ll check on you in a bit. The temperature okay in your heated gloves? You can turn them up or down or off.”
“I should wear these in bed. The circulation in my fingers—now perfectly normal!”
She bustles off to her apartment above the three-car garage, probably to sort through his mail. Also, prereading the latest books Paula has brought. He knows she appreciates being so much more than a cook. Just the other day she dealt with Bruce the head yards-man on his algae problem with the pond. “Don’t bother doing an overhaul,” she reported to Walter her directive to Bruce. “No one’s swimming there anymore, I told him. Not the boss, that’s for sure.” Perhaps Irma is common sense personified, considers Walter, since she seems devoid of conflicts and distractions of her own. However does she do it…
Why does he harbor a lingering bug that questions her near-divinity? Months ago, he’d had the willpower to poke into it. No more.
Walter draws in a deep breath. The cool air stings his lungs in a good way. Does he wish the doctors would make up their minds as to his prognosis? Not really. He’s become accustomed to this state of indefinite limbo. And now, a green light to get him somewhat mobile again, what need to spell it all out? Back to that motorized walker that swiveled his hips? Or one of the many wheelies Paula had inundated them with at the first of his faltering? Dream on. For now, after months of the dining room window, this view of just a slice of his estate—a few of the ornamental cherries, the wisteria smothering the trellis—has exploded his take on the globe like men looking back from the moon. He adjusts the peak of his baseball cap to better squint at the kitchen-side herb garden, kept picture-perfect as ever by the yard squad as if the bedridden master is still of concern. Irma has the crew help themselves to the harvest. The sprawling lawns, the majestic trees, the ever-blooming shrubs, they all have lives of their own. Or, another way to view this, he personally was never part of it in the first place.
So, what happens to it once I’m gone? Unfinished business? Can’t for the life of me remember how it’s set up, apart from the portfolios.
•
“Dad, this is Trudy. My partner.” Gavin has stirred him from sleep or a drug doze, what’s the difference? She has short, platinum, obviously altered hair capping a sharp, sculpted face with the lines of a hawk. Twice Gavin’s age, whatever that is, Walter is thinking during the introductory babble. Of course, Gavin is in his forties and looks twenty-five, astounding given the onslaught of abuse he inflicted on himself. Or maybe while the drugs were frying his brain the body was in stasis awaiting the real ravages of age. He did keep up the sports, like a kid. And now, obviously in service to this formidable woman, herself with the body of Barbie, he boasts muscles and stature as never before. These are hopeful signs.
“We’ve tooled over from Boston,” drawls Gavin, flexing chiseled cheekbones from whatever source, Walter has no idea. “Just delivered a boat to Marblehead, and we’re between gigs.” Trudy has tucked legs under herself, squirreled into the cushy chair, with Gavin perched on an armrest. She sits there expressionless like a queen, Gavin her grinning consort. Good for him, and her, Walter thinks as his son outlines the intricacies of one yacht or windstorm after another. Trudy, the old pro, has a deeply tanned and weathered face. Gavin brags about her nautical accomplishments—“She grew up in Newport with the fanciest-possible rigs”—as his father assesses her history much like his own: one track from the start.
“Gavin has the strength to wrestle the masthead.”
Steely, she is all business. A she-fox has claws in her manservant for that other essential physical prowess, as well. How wonderful for Gavin to be gainfully employed, sex cementing the deal. While it lasts, Walter thinks, but then whatever does? What is any single life but a path of stepping-stones, each somewhat separated from the ones prior and ahead but connected all the same?
“You’re looking better, Dad. Imagine that!”
“I get back outside. Irma props me up in the wheelchair like a toddler in a stroller.”
“I’m sorry we can’t get you on a boat,” says Trudy sincerely. “Maybe a ride in your Bentley coupe. Gavin let me peek in the garage.”
“Afraid that’s a tad too snug,” responds Walter. “Haven’t seen it for ages but hate to let it go.”
“That was your sweetheart,” says Gavin. “You fancied your elegant autos.”
“I try not to think about that these days. Can make me gloomy.”
“We’re gonna visit more often, Dad. Irma is fixing the most incredible lunch! Joking.”
“No, you’re not, Gavin. The two of you, come and crank the place up. I’m serious. The pool, the jogging trails, the tennis courts. We’ll drain the pond and get it back into shape! The upstairs must look like a long-lost museum even though I know Ana wouldn’t leave a cobweb in sight.”
“Thank you, Walter, but that’s not likely,” says Trudy. “My son Jake is my top priority at this time. He’s worked his way through high school, got top grades, but hit a wall in terms of financial aid going forward. No résumé, no sports and extra stuff. He’s applied to junior colleges and would hope to move on. I help him out all I can but…I’m doing what I love instead of working nine-to-five. Your son is my life-support system.” All this is spoken matter-of-factly, a way of applauding Gavin, certainly not making a plea for Walter’s sympathy in terms of her being pinched.
Walter is not about to reach for a checkbook like he did at the end of Gavin’s last visit. Topmost for Walter is his son’s new lease on life. A job, any job—building blocks of the work ethic! How great this gal is mentoring my son. Walter is sharp enough to smell any whiff of somebody out to fleece him. Been in that mode for most of his life. In fact, Gavin’s dependence on this woman’s savvy and fearsome physicality if anything has displaced Gavin looking to his father to bail him out, is the way Walter sees it. Sure, Gavin knows of inheriting a bundle when Walter passes on, but he truly appears in no hurry for that. After what’s been his cockamamie crash course from boyhood, right now, day by day, he appears to be holding it together just fine. They chat on.
For so many years, Polly studied addiction and the counsel of its experts, convinced it was a disease, at least as manifested in their son, and far beyond his ability to control, let alone be subject to blame. Yet some seed of insistence stayed lodged in Walter that his boy was part him, made of enough sturdy stuff that should suffice to build recovery upon. Look at Polly. Look at Paula. Look at himself. People achieving in the world with enviable, privileged sets of skills. Practically no excuse not to succeed and none to fail. If anyone was to blame, it was Walter himself for not seizing the situation as yet another catastrophe to resolve, instead of abdicating to Polly and endless shrinks, happy for the recompense.
They share a magnificent lunch outside under the pergola. More specifically, Trudy and Gavin devour Irma’s seafood salad while Walter sips the fresh pea minted soup from a very large tablespoon, graduated from months with a straw.
There’s a pleasant pause, mouths tapped with linen, as they admire the manicured spread. Even to Walter it seems more a theme park than a home. And don’t accuse Polly. It was primarily his own doing, as if simply affording it was reason enough, not a passion for splendid Colonial architecture situated on grounds suitable for a fox hunt.
