Eating Heaven (13 page)

I don’t know what to say, so I do what I’m best at. I carry the plates to the table.

As the two of them lift forkfuls of moist, sweet cake and slippery fruit to their mouths, I push it around on my plate, mashing crumbs between the tines of the fork, cutting pineapple into tiny slivers.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ruthann says, “this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” I look to see if she’s buttering me up, but the way she’s inhaling the cake makes me think she’s sincere.

We talk about things that should frighten me—medication schedules, doctors’ appointments, home remedies for the chemotherapy’s side effects. Where to put the hospital bed and portable potty-chair, later, when he needs them. I should be crying, at least, but the only thing I feel is numb. There’s definitely a shift, but it’s less
Oh, my God
and more
Oh, so this is how it’s going to be.
This is how we “transition,” to use Ruthann’s vernacular, from here to there, from today to that day.

From now to never again.

I
n my twenties, I thought that the day I owned a dishwasher would be the day I could finally say I was an adult. The apartments I rented were usually studios with one strip of wall dedicated to a bare-essentials kitchen: four feet of counter, a stained sink, a doddering range, and a college-dorm fridge. I yearned for a real kitchen, a real house, that Portland foursquare with a chef’s kitchen and vegetable garden out back.

When I decided to buy the Nob Hill apartment, just after taking the ill-fated PR job, it was based on not only the location but also the retro-fitted built-in dishwasher, taking up precious cabinet space in a kitchen so small, but fulfilling my wish. I’d arrived.

Now I’m back to hand washing dishes at Benny’s. Yolanda said they had no need for a dishwasher, with just the two of them. As the sink fills with hot, sudsy water, slippery and satisfying on my hands, I realize how much I miss the ritual of scrubbing, rinsing, stacking, until everything is neat and tidy and as it should be. I wash the cake plates, the forks, set them in the dish rack, gaze out the window. I let my eyes blur and the myriad greens become one hue, dimensional like a bank of hills in wine country, or a green patchwork quilt thrown over a sleeping body.

Down the hall, Benny’s giving Ruthann the lay of the land: where he sleeps, how many steps it is to the bathroom, the width of his doorways. Really, he is telling her his stories. I know he’s pointing to the
black-and-white wedding photo of his mother and father in the hallway when he says, “They fought like cats and dogs, but they held hands everywhere they went, even if it was just out to the milking barn.” Sloan Dairy was a family operation back in Joplin, Missour-uh, as Benny pronounces it. His older brother was supposed to take it over when he returned from the war, but he never made it. “I was next in line,” Benny’s saying, and I know what he’ll say next: “but the thought of milking cows the rest of my life didn’t really moo-ve me.”

Ruthann chuckles, and I don’t think it’s just politely. She likes him, corny jokes and all, and she asks if the photo next to his parents is his brother. I know he’s nodding, getting misty-eyed, when he says, “Hal.”

I pull the drain plug, chase the soap bubbles down with the sprayer, then grab a clean dish towel from the drawer to wipe my hands. I’m folding it and tucking it around the fridge door handle when they return to the kitchen, Benny’s arm supported in the crook of Ruthann’s.

I pull out Benny’s chair so that she can settle him into it. I watch how she does it, gently but assuredly. She is strong and deft, and she doesn’t let go until he is completely seated. “So you got the full tour?” I ask.

“Everything but your room, Ellie,” she says, straightening up, putting her hands on her hips. “Are you close enough that you could hear if he needed help in the night?”

A tingling washes over me from scalp to calves, and my brain locks down.

“I know it may seem weird,” she’s saying, “but some people use those baby monitors. You know, just in case. That way, Benny would know you could hear him.”

“Oh, I don’t live here. I didn’t . . . I mean, I . . .”

“But you have to live here to be his primary caretaker,” Ruthann says, face tightening. “In order to be at home, Benny needs live-in help. Nobody told you that? Who’d you talk to at the office, Bob or Marie?”

“I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t know,” I say, looking at Benny now, but he’s hung his head and his crooked fingers twist together tightly, like they are trying to make a knot.

“They’re usually so good,” Ruthann says, shaking her head. “I can’t understand how this happened.”

“They talked to my aunt,” I say. “She told me to call them, and I forgot.” Maybe she said that and I wasn’t listening.

“No, it’s my fault,” Benny says. “I think I was supposed to tell you but I must’ve forgot. Yolie even said, ‘Don’t forget, you old buzzard,’ because she knew I would.” He rubs his hand angrily over his head.

Ruthann still has her hands on her hips, stymied. “I’ve never run into this before. What are we going to do?” She looks from me to Benny, shakes her head again. “We have to have a primary caretaker living here.”

Benny’s hands have curled into fists. “Or?”

I don’t want to hear the “or.”

“It’s not a problem,” I say. My head is like a helium balloon, rising, bobbing on a string. None of this seems real. “I’ve slept in the sewing room before, right Ben? Lots of times.” I look at Ruthann, try to smile like everything’s all right. “My sisters and I used to spend the night here. I’ll just bring my stuff over.” As I’m saying it, I realize “stuff” includes cat. Computer. Kitchen appliances. I’ll need an extra phone line for the modem. And this isn’t just a night or two.

“Breathe,” I remember Suzanne Long, Food Counselor, saying to me in her chintz office. I try, but I can’t get enough oxygen. My throat is too tight.

“No, honey.” Benny looks up at me, face weary and beaten. He unfurls his hands. “You can’t do that. I can’t ask you to. You’ve got your own life.”

I walk over to sit by him, take his hand in mine, because I’m pretty sure that’s one component of being a primary caretaker—holding a dying man’s hand.

“That would be where you’re sadly mistaken,” I say, winking to convince him it’s okay. “The one thing I don’t have is a life.”

He bows his head, squeezes my hand. Ruthann looks relieved.

“So, Ben,” I say. “How do you feel about cats?”

• • •

My list of questions for Henry Boosh is growing. What exactly prompted his decision to go halfway around the world? Was it a bad breakup, a divorce? Did he seek enlightenment? This is a newspaper I’m writing for; they want information, not fluff. Why didn’t I ask any of these questions when I had the chance in his kitchen, instead of letting my hormones take over?

I have two and a half hours to get some work done and pack up a few things to take to Benny’s for the night. I’ll leave Buddy here for now and come back for everything in shifts over the next few days. Ruthann agreed to stay with Benny until I returned later this afternoon, pulling me aside as I headed in my dumbstruck daze for the door.

“Look, Ellie, I know this is a shock. I can’t believe it fell through the cracks like this. But it’s not forever, and it’s not always. Benny won’t have to have someone around twenty-four/seven after he’s recuperated a bit. Not until later. And there are people who can help, respite care services, home health-care providers, aides who can supplement what we do. And if it becomes too much”—she paused, looking at me carefully—“we have a wonderful facility. Really.”

“Facility?”

“Riverview Care Facility. It’s a nursing home with hospice care. You might want to bring Benny over sometime, when you’re both up to it, and take a look around. I think Benny would be very comfortable there.”

“No, I can handle it,” I said. “He wants to be home.”

“Well, just so you know. For later.”

I nodded, but I’ve never wanted to get away from someone faster. Why would she think talking about putting Benny in one of those places would be a comfort to me?

I close my Henry Bouche file and open a new one for the fish article. I can wing the recipes; I’ve cooked enough fish to know the drill. Ten preparations—no problem. Teriyaki tuna, lemon-basil salmon, snapper Provençal . . . let’s see. Teriyaki tuna . . . I bang the table in frustration. This should be so easy.

My computer dings that I have new e-mail. Relieved, I click, and it’s from David, Stefan’s assistant.

Travel arrangements?

Biggest assignment of my career, Stefan said, and he was right. Something like this could launch me into the big culinary magazines. I hit
REPLY
and type:

My fingertips are trembling on the keys, my breath is coming in gulps, and then I am crying as I hit
DELETE
. I type:

I hit
SEND
, then cradle my face in my palms. Ragged moans escape my throat as I sob into my hands. Buddy, who has been sleeping on my bed, trots into the room at the sound of my voice, looks at me with concern, then jumps into my lap, rubbing her head up and down the length of my arm.

“Good kitty,” I say, scratching her ears, and she settles in my lap like a bird in a nest. “How do you feel about moving down to the suburbs for a while?” Maybe I can get a wink out of her, a sign that everything will be okay, but she just closes her eyes to continue her nap, purr engine chugging to the rhythm of her breathing.

“So tell me more about your mom and dad,” I say to Benny after Ruthann has left. We’re playing gin rummy at the kitchen table, and the smell of ham wafts around the kitchen as the sky turns to twilight outside. Apparently, Ruthann got Benny to take a nap while I was gone, and now he’s as chipper as a spring robin.

“They were just simple folks,” he says, playing the eight on my seven of clubs. “Salt of the earth, country people.” He’s silent for a moment and I assume that’s the end of the story. Then he says, “Mother had Hal when she was eighteen, one year after she and Dad got married, then it took a while for her to have me.”

“He looked so much like you,” I say.

He winces, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay. That was all a long time ago. A lot of young men died. Hal didn’t make it a week over there. I’m just grateful he didn’t have to suffer through years of it, then die, anyway.” He goes quiet again, either contemplating what he’s just said or trying to figure out his next play.

“So, do you have any other brothers or sisters?” I ask. Maybe there are happier stories, better memories.

He shakes his head, fingers his cards. “Nope. Mother tried to have more but never could. Dad didn’t like that much—kids were farmhands as far as he was concerned, and he wanted as many as he could get.” His voice takes on the edge I remember hearing him use with my father. He snaps down the three, four, five of spades, then plays an ace on my king of hearts. “He got a whole lot more human after Mother passed. I guess he didn’t believe she was really sick until it was too late.”

“What did she die of?”

“Being sick. I don’t know, honey. In those days things weren’t so cut-and-dried. There weren’t always names for what folks had, especially country folks. Doctors did the best they could, but . . .” He shakes his head again. “Your turn.”

Suddenly, I want to know everything about Benny’s life, not the scattered bits of his stories. I fold my cards and lay them on the table.