I Thought You Were Dead (26 page)

H
is mother called the following morning to say — though there was no need to call, since it was the same time every year — that the turkey would be ready at four. By two, all were present, early enough for the traditional preturkey walk around Lake Harriet. Carl had run a 10k race that morning and begged off. Paul pushed his father's wheelchair, accompanied by Bits, Eugene, Katie, Elliot, and B. J., who had a new riddle for his uncle Paul: “Dave's mom had three kids — the first one was named Penny, and the second one was named Nickel, so what was the third one named? No, not Dime — Dave!”

Paul didn't mind being fooled by a six-year-old.

The sky was Appaloosa gray, the temperature about forty-five degrees, so they'd all bundled up, Harrold wrapped in a Polar-fleece blanket. The leaves were off the trees, but it had yet to snow. It was easy to push the wheelchair on the smoothly paved footpath. After he'd retired, Harrold had walked around the lake as part of his daily routine. As they walked, other seniors from the lake-walking community passing in the opposite direction greeted him by name. One said, “Welcome back, Harrold.” Near the Southeast Beach area, a large flock of ducks had gathered, pausing on their migration southward. An old woman was feeding the ducks corn and gave each of the children a fistful of kernels from her sack to do likewise.

It was impossible, given that this was his traditional lake for Zen contemplation, not to think of Tamsen and wonder where she was spending her Thanksgiving. He remembered small things about her. Eating a picnic lunch in the car in the pouring rain. Finding ten bucks at the mall and blowing it all on video games. Renting
The Music Man
and singing along with every song, including the countermelody to “Lida Rose.” Hanging up the phone at three in the morning, too tired to talk anymore. He wondered if she was thinking of him. He wondered if she wondered if he was thinking of her. He wondered if she wondered if he wondered. He wanted to call her but couldn't.

Ever.

When they got back, the house smelled of turkey and stuffing, sweet potatoes and creamed corn. Paul poured himself a tall glass of fresh-pressed apple cider. The tangy-sweet punch as it went down was nearly overwhelming. At four they were called to the table, where they stood to sing grace in three-part harmony, “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow; / Praise him, all creatures here below,” except for Harrold, who sat in his wheelchair with his eyes closed, Bits holding his right hand, Erica his left.

Then the feeding frenzy began. “Don't be afraid of the mashed potatoes,” his mother said, directing the flow of dishes around the table. There was turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn with bread crumbs on top, sweet potatoes with little marshmallows on top, green beans with canned onion rings on top, dinner rolls and lefse, two kinds of coleslaw, green Jell-O, cranberry relish and jellied cranberry. Paul watched his mother feed his father, touched by the tenderness he saw, but it made him sad too. Who'd be spooning cranberry relish into his mouth when he was down to his last two or three Thanksgivings — who was going to wipe his chin, or hold his hand? Some hairy-backed
ape of a minimum-wage nursing home caregiver with a prison record back in the old country, no doubt.

Yikes.

Yet here with his family, and with his nieces and nephews, the idea of simply growing old was not as frightening as it had once been.

After the pumpkin and pecan pies had been polished off, the men adjourned to the den to watch football, a game between the Vikings and the Cowboys. At halftime, the boys wanted to go outside and play football and invited Paul and Carl and Eugene to join them. Carl declined, saying he'd eaten too much to move. Paul played for half an hour, then begged off and went back inside. The women had returned to the dinner table for coffee. In the den, he asked his brother what the score was. Carl didn't answer.

“Do you know who's winning?” Paul said again.

Carl was sound asleep, sitting in their father's recliner, tipped back with the remote control still in his hand. Paul pried the remote from his brother's fingers and turned the sound down, then watched the game from the couch. Carl woke up half an hour later.

“What happened?” he said, still in a fog.

“You zonked out,” Paul said. “You've been asleep for at least an hour.”

“I have? I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what? It's the tryptophan,” Paul said.

They watched the television in silence for another minute.

“I think I need your help,” Carl said at last.

“Okay,” Paul said. He expected his brother needed to haul garbage bags full of leaves to the dump or something of that order. “Help with what?”

“With everything,” Carl said.

Paul looked up from the television.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What's wrong?”

“Well,” Carl said. He swallowed hard, and if Paul wasn't mistaken, he thought he detected moisture welling up in the corners of his brother's eyes before Carl squeegeed away the evidence with his thumb. “I'm not sure, but I think it's me. I don't think I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“Do you think maybe you could take over Dad's finances? Just for a little while?”

It took a second for Paul to believe what he'd just heard.

“You're not serious, right?” he said, but Carl didn't appear to be joking. “Didn't you once say an average sea urchin knew more about money than I did?”

“You couldn't do any worse than I'm doing,” Carl said.

“What do you mean?” Paul asked. “Are you losing money?”

Carl nodded.

“A lot?”

He nodded again.

“How much?”

Carl tried to shrug. “Six figures,” he said. “Approaching six figures, I should probably say.”

“How?” Paul knew the stock market had taken a nosedive the previous August, the Dow falling 357 points overnight, for reasons Paul hadn't bothered to pay attention to, something about worsening economic conditions in Russia connected to Boris Yeltsin's political future and recent sobriety. He hadn't worried about it, figuring Carl was on top of it.

“If I knew that … ,” Carl said. “I've been doing so much research. I thought … Everything just goes wrong. They make it too easy.”

“Who does?” Paul asked, but Carl didn't respond. It didn't matter. “Does Dad know?”

Carl shook his head.

“You never got him online?”

“I tried about a month ago, but he wasn't ready.”

“It's okay, Carlos,” Paul said. “Nobody cares. We know you're doing the best you can.” He'd read about people trying to micro-manage their investments through online trading, how addictive it was and the traps some people fell into. Carl was a micromanager long before the Internet ever came along.

“I can't stay asleep,” Carl said. “I go to bed utterly exhausted, and three hours later I'm wide awake. So I figure, as long as I'm up, maybe I'll get some work done. I can't do it. My memory is for shit. I've lost my ATM card three times in the past two months. I fell asleep at work last week. Erica and I … it's too much.”

Paul could hear his sister and Erica laughing in the kitchen.

“Maybe we should let Arnie Olmstead take over,” Paul suggested. “I'm sure he's old school, but he'd do a better job than I would. You're totally right about the sea urchin. I'm not sure I know as much as a below-average sea urchin, let alone an average one.”

Carl nodded. He'd probably had the same thought, Paul realized, though his brother would have lost too much face capitulating to his father's former investment counselor directly. He needed somebody to do it for him.

“Do you want me to call him?” Paul asked.

Carl nodded again.

“I'm thinking maybe I should see somebody about all this stress,” Carl said. “I know I'm not getting anywhere, trying to handle it alone.”

“That's probably a really good idea,” Paul said.

They heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the kids thundering down the stairs at a rapid pace, laughing and shrieking.

“I'd really appreciate it if you could keep this just between you and me,” Carl said. “I haven't even told Erica.”

“You got it,” Paul said as the kids arrived, asking if they could watch a movie, Katie hugging a video cassette of
Toy Story
expectantly to her bosom. Paul and Carl agreed to turn control of the television over to the children. Howard climbed into his father's lap, while Elliot and B. J. sat with Paul on the couch. Katie curled up in a beanbag chair on the floor, covering herself with one of Beverly's throws.

“At the very least,” Paul told his brother, “you should get something to help you sleep.”

“I should,” Carl said over the opening credits, staring at the TV. “Man. I should have bought stock in Pixar. These guys do amazing work.” He looked at Paul. “We'll discuss it with Arnie. But they do do amazing stuff.”

The conversation ended when Howard and Elliot simultaneously shushed them.

The next day, Paul called Arnie Olmstead and asked him if he'd mind resuming his former duties as Harrold's broker. Arnie was amenable. They made small talk for a few minutes, and then Arnie said he'd get the paperwork together.

H
e spent his last night home with his parents. His mother was in the sunroom, in the recliner, with her reading glasses on, knitting a sweater for Katie, which she hoped to have finished by Christmas. His father was watching a hockey game, the Montreal Canadiens versus the Detroit Red Wings. Paul pulled a chair in from the living room and sat next to his mother. He felt strangely focused and clear.

“The Red Wings sure have a lot of Russian guys on the team,” Paul said. His father clicked on the Yes icon.

“If you want to turn the channel, I'm sure your father wouldn't mind,” Paul's mother said. Paul looked at his father, who looked straight ahead at the television. It seemed pretty clear he wanted to watch the game.

“This is good,” Paul said. Beverly kept knitting.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Carl?” she asked.

“A little bit,” Paul said. He wondered why she'd asked.

“How does he seem to you?”

“Okay, I guess,” Paul said. “Too much sweating the small stuff. As ever.”

He watched her hands dance, the needles clicking together in a rhythm that reminded him of trains.

“Carl tries to do so much,” Beverly said. “Erica said he hasn't been sleeping.”

“I know,” Paul said, hoping to avoid giving away anything Carl might have wanted him to keep quiet. “We talked about that.”

“Oldest children have such a strong sense of responsibility,” Beverly said. She looked up from her knitting and smiled. “It's nice that you boys had a chance to talk. I think he really respects your opinions. Do you know what we forgot to do at Thanksgiving? We forgot to draw names for Secret Santa. Do you mind if we draw a name for you the next time we're together? I was thinking — ”

“NO,” Harrold's computer screen read.

Paul noticed his father was looking at them.

“No what?” Paul said. “I don't mind. Really.”

“NO.”

“No?”

Harrold was looking at Beverly, who was looking at him. She seemed uncomfortable, focused on her knitting. When Harrold realized Beverly wasn't going to answer the question, he turned to the computer screen and took up the mouse, moving the pointer across the keyboard and clicking until he'd spelled his message.

“TLL EVTHNG,” he typed.

Beverly looked at him.

“YES.”

“All right, then,” she said. “Your father and I were talking last night. It's sort of remarkable, the way he manages to let me know what's on his mind. Anyway, Harrold would like me to tell you a story. Would you like some cocoa? With or without marshmallows?”

“With,” Paul said. What did she mean, a story? He looked at his father, who'd closed his eyes. It all seemed very ominous and foreboding. Did Harrold have a second wife and family in Omaha? Had they secretly voted for Clinton?

His mother set down her knitting and went to the kitchen, where she put water on to boil. When she returned with the cocoa, she handed a cup to Paul, set hers on the coffee table, and went to her husband, where she fluffed his pillow and gave him a sip of juice. When Harrold had trouble getting the straw between his lips, she used her hand to insert it in his mouth and then she smoothed his hair back and kissed him on the forehead.

“Now then. As I said, I have a story your father wants me to tell you,” she told her son. “It might explain a few things. I don't know. We were hoping it might. As you'll see, it's something we've thought about discussing for some time. Apparently after the things you've been sharing with him in your little chats online, he thought you were ready to hear this.”

She picked up her knitting again, needles clicking together. Her hands had spots on them, and the grains of her fingernails had become accentuated with time, but they were still quick, nimble fingers.

“We never thought it was useful to dwell on things,” she began. “We just didn't want anyone to worry about something that was no longer an issue. There's a time and a place and then you miss the opportunity and eventually it's so much easier to let bygones be bygones. But if your father wants me to tell you, then I'll tell you. I'm sure he'd rather tell you himself. Is this okay, Harrold?”

Harrold blinked.

“Tell me what?” Paul asked. Her reluctance made him worry. What could be so hard to talk about? Had somebody had an affair? Was there something wrapped in plastic under the floor-boards in the attic that he might rather not know about? Was Paul adopted, left on their doorstep as an infant by visitors from a distant doomed planet, with a note that said, “Teach him to use his powers for the good of mankind …”? In an odd way, he felt
as if he'd always known there was something big that nobody was talking about.