The Good Life (19 page)

A half hour later, they were called to the desk, where a balding, trim doctor told them he wanted to keep Sam for the night. They’d stitched his head and stabilized his vital signs and everything looked okay. Dr. Moyer said Sam needed rest more than anything else, and a ride home would prove more detrimental than beneficial to that goal. Dr. Moyer was very encouraging in general about Sam’s recovery. “You and I know he’s not well,” he said to Eileen. “But he’s surprisingly strong for a man in his condition. A lesser man would be in a very different position right now, Mrs. Sanford.”

“It’s all the years on our farm,” said Eileen, explaining.

On the way home, they all talked about making the guesthouse more secure. Two locks already bolted the top and the bottom of the front door. And just last weekend, a handyman had installed a stopper-lock on the slider in the master bedroom after Eileen had seen Sam fiddling with the handle’s locking mechanism. “The answer is not more locks,” said Eileen. “He does have clear moments when he’s perfectly capable of unlocking a door.”

“Maybe we need an alarm,” offered Nate. “You know, one that goes off every time the door opens.”

“That can be an awful lot of times in one day,” said Selma.

“It doesn’t have to be an eardrum breaker,” said Nate. “Just a long beep, or something, so you know the door has been opened.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Eileen. “I’ll talk to your father about it when your parents get home. I think we’ll be safe for a couple of nights. Sam will most likely be too sore and exhausted to attempt another escape right away.”

Nate pulled the car into the garage and they all sat for a moment before slowly getting out and walking into the kitchen. The lights were on, as if they had never left, but the charged atmosphere Nate felt several hours earlier, created by the prospect of a Friday night in a parentless house, was gone. Instead, Nate felt depleted. He walked around the island to the microwave and shut the door, putting out the interior light that had been shining on nothing since Sam had taken the bag of popcorn. Still, no one said anything until a few moments later, when Selma spoke what they all were thinking. “I’m tired,” she said.

“Yes,” said Eileen. “Nate, would you walk Selma back to the guesthouse?”

 

The guesthouse lights were still blazing from Selma’s search earlier, and yet it felt cold inside instead of warm and inviting. “Let’s have a look around,” said Nate. Together, they checked the sliding glass door in Sam and Eileen’s bedroom that led to a small deck behind the guesthouse. It was locked and the stopper was in place. Sam had, apparently, focused his efforts that evening on the front door only. Selma drew the thick drapes across the door and turned out the bedside lamp. One by one, they checked all the windows and found them locked. After each was inspected, Selma pulled the blind, lowered the shade, or closed the curtains, as if the vinyl, cotton, or polyester could fend off the demons of the night. Nate, who was increasingly spooked by the evening’s activities, did not question her motives. If he could not quell the uneasiness in his own body, certainly he could not convincingly allay Selma’s. “Well,” he said, after checking the final window, “it looks like everything is okay.”

Selma put her fingers to her forehead and gently massaged her light brown skin. “It’s been a long night,” she said, eyes closed.

“Are you okay here?” asked Nate. “You are welcome to stay at the other house.”

“Thank you, Nate,” said Selma, looking at him. “I’m as good as I’m going to be until the morning.”

“Okay,” said Nate, zipping his coat and walking to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned to again face Selma. “My grandfather is a pretty smart guy. He could have fooled any of us.” Selma nodded her head. “Lock behind me,” said Nate, opening the door.

“I will,” she said.

Nate heard the bolts lock into place just after he shut the door. He gave Selma a quick wave, then shoved his hands in his pockets. Halfway up the path, Nate turned. At the side of the guesthouse, lit by the moon, were the footprints of his demented grandfather, joined by those of Lauren, Officer Handley, and himself. Nate shook his head and turned to face the big house, his house, and the realization that he, too, was now responsible for his grandfather. His walk through the woods and trip to the hospital earned him admission to Sam’s circle of caregivers. His parents, Nate guessed, walking the rest of the way to the back door, would never truly enter the circle. They understood a lot about money and business, but they didn’t understand outsiders, especially those in a weakened condition. Nate turned the knob and pushed himself into the warm kitchen, where his grandmother and his sister were sitting and talking at the kitchen table. A pot of tea was sitting between them; a third, unused cup had been paired with a vacant chair. “How’s Selma?” asked Eileen as Nate took off his coat and hung it on a hook.

“She’s okay,” said Nate. “A little scared, I think.”

“I would imagine so,” said Eileen. “This evening has been unsettling for all of us.” Nate stood next to the table, hands in his jeans pockets. “Sit with us,” she said. “It’s decaffeinated tea; it won’t keep you up.”

Nate smiled. “I’m not really worried about staying up, Gran. I’m usually up until midnight anyway.”

Eileen looked at her watch. “Well then, you’ve got a couple of hours yet.”

His mind made up, Nate took a step back from the table. “I’m going to head upstairs.” Gran stood and approached him, and before he knew what was happening, she had reached up and put both her soft palms on his cold, weather-reddened cheeks. She pulled him to her and kissed his forehead. Nate blushed.

“Thank you,” she said, releasing him. “Thank you for everything you did tonight. I don’t know if I could have done this myself.”

“Of course you could have, Gran,” said Lauren.

“I’m not so sure,” said Eileen, the last word catching in her throat.

Nate took a step back. “It’s okay,” he said, turning to leave. “Good night now.”

“Good night, Nate,” said Lauren, able in her grandmother’s presence to speak her brother’s name.

“Okay,” said Nate, leaving the kitchen. He walked through the dark hallway and up the stairs to his room. He closed the door behind him and then emptied the pockets of his pants: wallet, keys, and cell phone his grandmother had given back to him at the hospital. It had vibrated several times when they were there, but Nate had forgotten about the calls. One message was from Jenny, who had texted him from a movie she described as totally disgusting, and the other messages were from Josh, who was wondering just where the hell he was, since they were supposed to meet Bill and Andy at the community center in thirty minutes (message one) and five minutes (message two). Nate sat down on his bed and called Josh’s phone number. “Dude,” said Nate.

“Where the fuck are you?” asked Josh.

“Home,” said Nate.

“Well, that’s nice,” said Josh sarcastically. “And you decided not to respond to your text messages and blow off your friends for what good reason?”

“Because I was out looking for my grandfather, who walked out of the guesthouse in his pajamas.”

“What?”

“My grandfather,” said Nate, flopping down on his bed, “walked out of his house, wearing his pajamas and slippers and a woman’s raincoat. He walked in the snow through the woods to the Nelsons’ house behind us. We found him on their front porch, unconscious from a fall he had taken that put a nasty gash in the back of his head. And an ambulance came and took him to the hospital. So, actually, I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Shit,” said Josh. “I’m sorry. Is he okay?”

“The doctor says he’s going to be fine,” said Nate, removing his shoes and peeling off his socks. He smelled them and then threw them in the direction of his laundry basket.

“Why would he do something like that?”

“Because his brain’s all fucked up,” said Nate.

“That sucks,” said Josh.

“It does suck,” said Nate, “and what sucks even more is my parents don’t have a fucking clue about my grandfather, or my grandmother, for that matter. They’re off at some resort in California—because my mother can’t stand to be around us for more than a few weeks at a time—and her father is half-dead in a hospital.” Nate lay back on his bed, grabbing his remote control on his way. He clicked on the radio, then lowered the volume so he could hear Josh.

“. . . this will change things,” said Josh.

“I don’t think so,” said Nate.

“How’s Lauren?” Josh asked. “Was she with you?”

“Why do you care?” asked Nate.

“I don’t know,” said Josh. “Girls can get funny about this kind of stuff.”

“We’re all a little weirded out,” said Nate.

“Yeah,” he said. “So, are we still on for tomorrow night?”

Nate ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Who’s in?”

“Billy, Andy, Todd, Steve, Tom, and Nick,” said Josh. “Jenny’s working on the girls, but I know she was hoping to get eight or ten.”

“That sounds good,” said Nate. “I’ll call you tomorrow, when I know a little more about what’s going on here.”

“Okay,” said Josh, already thinking they could move the party to Steve’s house. His parents were in town, but they were the coolest adults he knew. Whenever the boys sneaked beer from the old man’s fridge, he just looked the other way. The old man sometimes wanted to join in on the fun—relive his high school days, he called it—which was awkward but tolerable, as long as he didn’t hang around too long.

Nate hung up the phone, took off his belted pants, and got under his covers. He turned out his bedside light and closed his eyes. There, as clearly as if he were still outside, bending over his grandfather on the Nelsons’ front porch, was the clay-like face. There was the congealed blood. Nate opened his eyes, turned on his light, and hit the remote for his television. He clicked to his favorite music video channel and propped himself up on his pillows to watch.

 

Downstairs, Lauren and Eileen had finished the pot of Orange Sleep Well tea. Eileen rinsed the pot out in the sink, while Lauren put the two remaining homemade oatmeal raisin cookies of the original six back in the red tin her grandmother had brought over from the guesthouse. “Maybe I should just give up on him,” said Lauren, continuing their discussion about Judd Acker, the out-of-reach captain of the high school football team.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Eileen, wiping her hands on the dish towel hanging next to the sink. “It’s always good to have dreams. But it’s also good to play the field. Don’t let Judd think he’s the only one.”

“Gran,” said Lauren, putting her hands on her hips, “we’ve gone over this. He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Maybe he doesn’t,” said Eileen, approaching Lauren and putting her arm momentarily around her granddaughter’s shoulder, “and maybe he does.” Together they walked up the main stairs and down the hall to Nate’s closed door. Eileen gently knocked on it and called “good night.” At Lauren’s door, Eileen kissed her granddaughter’s cheek and then carried on down the hallway to the spare room she was occupying that weekend. At the doorway, she looked back.

“Good night,” said Lauren, removing the coated elastic from the back of her head, setting her hair free.

“Sleep tight,” said Gran, before she disappeared into the room.

Lauren walked into her room and flicked on the light. She drew her curtains, undressed, put on her favorite flannel pajama pants and a clean T-shirt, and got into bed. She was worried about her grandfather, but tired of thinking about him. She took the latest
People
magazine from the bedside table and opened to the cover story, again about Brad and Angelina.

C
HAPTER
10

N
ate drove his grandmother, Selma, and Lauren to the hospital the next morning to get Sam. The doctor gave Eileen care instructions for his stitches and said Sam might be even more disoriented as a result of his head injury. Eileen thanked him, and then folded the photocopied instructions and tucked them into her handbag. Sam held Nate’s arm like a prom date as they made their way through the hospital lobby and across the windy, snow-drifted parking lot to the car. The plow had been through the lot once, but the snow, relentless in its descent, continuously recovered the pavement. The roads were slippery and the visibility was terrible; Nate had to concentrate just to see the road in front of him. He took his time, knowing an accident right now might further injure his grandfather. Everyone was quiet, concentrating with Nate as he drove along one wintry street to the next, winding his way across town. Halfway home, Lauren, up front with her brother, fiddled with the radio tuner until she found an easy listening station with music she thought appropriate for grown-ups. Nate reached for the scan button when he heard the opening bars of a Neil Diamond song he’d endured several times while eating at the mall, but reconsidered. Music was better than the silence, interrupted only by the depressing sound of his grandfather clearing the phlegm from his throat. “Who lives here?” asked Sam, when Nate pulled the car into the driveway.

“I do,” said Nate, driving around to the back.

“You’ve done quite well, young man,” said Sam.

“Thank you,” said Nate, pulling his car in next to Selma’s.

As soon as they were parked, Selma got out and hurriedly made her way along the path. She took her keys from her purse and unlocked the front door to the guesthouse. Inside, she turned up the heat and turned on the burner underneath the teakettle. She hung her coat in the front hall closet and then swept the snow off the front mat with a broom. Eileen was the first to reach her and then Nate, guiding Sam, and then Lauren, carrying the mystery woman’s raincoat Sam had declared stylish but snug. Eileen thanked everyone and then announced that she and Selma would get Sam into bed. She asked Nate and Lauren to head back to the big house to tidy their rooms, taking any clothes needing washing to the second floor laundry room and any cups, plates, and silverware to the kitchen sink. The crisis was over; it was back to business. Nate looked at Lauren, who gently shrugged. “Are you okay here?” Nate asked his grandmother.

“We’re fine,” said Eileen, hanging her coat in the closet. “Selma and I will take care of Sam and have a cup of tea. You two have been so good to both your grandfather and me this morning—it’s time for you to run along. Get your chores done, so you can enjoy your day. I think your grandfather just needs to rest now.”

Lauren and Nate walked back outside, Nate closing the door behind them. “That was weird,” he said.

“What?”

“We get our grandfather, who could have died, out of the hospital, and the next thing out of Gran’s mouth is about cleaning our rooms?”

“I don’t think it’s so weird,” said Lauren, zipping her coat. “She wants to put it behind her. She’s embarrassed by what happened, I think.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s weird,” said Nate, putting his hands in his pockets. They walked the rest of the way without talking. When they reached the back door, Nate turned to his sister. “Are you going to do it?”

“Do what?” asked Lauren, coating her lips with the stick of balm she took out of her jacket pocket.

“Clean your room.” Lauren looked at her brother blankly. “Hey,” he said, punching in the alarm code and then opening the door, “don’t look at me like I’m some kind of gigantic moron. It’s not like you clean your room all the time.”

“Gran asked us to do it,” she said, walking into the kitchen and taking off her coat. “Are you going to say no to her?”

“I don’t know,” he said, checking his cell phone for messages.

“Well, I’m not,” said Lauren, walking across the kitchen floor to the hallway. “I think she’s been through enough.”

Nate took off his coat and hung it on a peg next to his sister’s. He took her coat off its peg and dropped it to the floor. “Kiss ass,” he said. He grabbed a Coke from the fridge and headed upstairs. He opened his bedroom door, which he always kept closed, and noticed an odor that had not been there yesterday. He pulled open his blackout drapes, allowing sunlight to shine on the rumpled clothes that covered his carpet. He grabbed his empty laundry basket from the corner of his room and began stuffing shirts, pants, boxers, and socks into it. When it was overflowing, he hauled it to the hallway and set it down. When he returned to his room, he again noticed the odor. After opening a window an inch, Nate searched for the source. In doing so, he threw all the paper from his desk into the trash can. He put three Coke cans, four used glasses, and a plastic bowl coated with what looked like dried, melted chocolate ice cream, out in the hall next to his pile of clothes. Still, the smell remained. Determined to find it, Nate looked under his bed. He pulled out a dust-covered sock and three
Sports Illustrated
magazines that instantly reminded him of the other magazines he had hidden under his mattress. Nate stood, crossed the room, and locked his door. He went back to the bed, lifted the sheet-covered mattress, and smiled at the two vintage issues of
Playboy
he had found years ago during one of his forages in the woods behind their old house. He grabbed both worn copies before repositioning the mattress, and then he sat on the floor with the rest of his Coke and flipped to the centerfold to have a look at Miss April. She looked like Jenny, kind of, even though Nate hadn’t yet seen Jenny completely naked. And like Jenny, Miss April was turned on by funny, sincere men, and turned off by rich phonies. Just as Nate reached into his pants, someone knocked on his door. “What!” said Nate, shoving the magazines under his bed.

“It’s Gran,” called Eileen. “How’s everything going?”

“Okay,” said Nate, scrambling to his feet.

“Can I come in?”

“Just a minute,” said Nate. He bent down, grabbed the
Playboys,
and slid them back under his mattress with one hand, while he adjusted his pants with the other. His large flannel shirt covered his crotch. He had a quick look around his room, took a deep breath, and then unlocked his door.

“Well,” she said, walking in and glancing from his desk to his bureau to his closet, “it’s coming along.”

“Yes,” said Nate, putting his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Do you notice an interesting odor?”

“I was just trying to find out what that was,” said Nate.

“It smells like old cheese to me,” said Eileen. “Check under your bed.”

“I’ll do that,” said Nate.

“You’re doing a great job.”

Nate closed the door behind her and made a face. “This is bullshit,” he said, reaching for his iPod. “Complete bullshit.” He flopped down on his bed, resolved to stand up to his grandmother. He was done cleaning his room. It was their housekeeper’s job, not his. He plugged his headphones in and closed his eyes.

 

When Eileen walked into Lauren’s room, she found her granddaughter sitting on the floor painting her toenails. Crumpled clothes lay in a heap in the corner, but nothing else looked like it had been touched. Lauren’s small desk, partially covered by a laptop computer, was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, lined paper, balled-up tissues, and brightly colored pens and pencils. Dusty knickknacks stood atop an antique doily on her bureau, the drawers of which were in various stages of closure, depending on the number of shirt sleeves and pant legs sticking out of them. Glancing into the bathroom, Eileen saw a tipped-over can of hair spray, a tube of hair gel without a top, myriad plastic containers of blush and eye shadow, at least four vials of mascara, and too many lipsticks and eyeliners to count without actually doing so. She looked back at Lauren, who smiled at her. “Isn’t this the greatest color?” she asked. “I found it under some clothes in the corner, and I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been looking for this forever.”

“Yes,” said Eileen, wondering why even a fifteen-year-old would want to paint her nails lavender. “How’s your room coming along?”

“Pretty good,” said Lauren, sticking cotton balls between her toes. “I’m just going to let these toes dry, then I’ll do some more.”

“Okay,” said Eileen, turning to leave. “As soon as you’re done, I thought we’d make a couple of cherry pies.”

“That sounds great,” said Lauren, painting the thumbnail of her left hand.

Eileen left Lauren’s room, leaving the door open behind her, and then walked back down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where she had laid out all the ingredients for the pies. She ran the garbage bags back up the stairs and left them outside Nate’s door. When she returned to Ann’s kitchen, she wrote Nate and Lauren a note, telling them she’d gone back to the guesthouse and to come and get her when they were done. She put on her coat and walked out the back door thinking about her childhood bedroom that she never had to tidy because it didn’t occur to her to make a mess.

She opened the front door to the guesthouse and walked down the short front hallway to the kitchen, where Selma was chopping vegetables.

“How’s he doing?” Eileen asked, sliding her coat off one shoulder.

“He’s still asleep,” said Selma, looking up from her task.

“Good,” said Eileen. “He needs the rest.”

“The medication the doctor gave us is helping him do that,” Selma said. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him all morning.”

Eileen walked across the living room to the bedroom door, which was ajar. She gently pushed it open enough to fit her head through. There, lying in a fetal position on the bed, was her husband of almost forty-nine years. His face, bruised by his fall, was limp, but nonetheless peaceful, a state Sam increasingly seemed to achieve only in sleep. Eileen walked into the room and sat down on the bed. She put her hand on his shoulder; Sam blinked several times, then opened his eyes. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’ve been better,” said Sam, still focusing. “That was some party last night.”

“Yes.”

“Is there some work to be done?” Sam asked sleepily.

“No,” said Eileen, patting him. “You can get some more rest.”

“What a treat,” said Sam, closing his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I slept in on a Saturday.”

Eileen got up off the bed and walked back through the living room and into the kitchen. The vegetables had moved from the cutting board on the counter into a large pot on the stove. “What can I do here?” Eileen asked.

“I’m okay,” said Selma, measuring chicken stock in a large glass cup.

“Are you really?” Selma looked at Eileen. “I have a feeling this is more than what you bargained for.”

Selma took a deep breath. “What happened last night was very scary, I must admit,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I don’t blame you for what happened, and I hope you don’t blame yourself,” said Eileen. “It could have happened with both of us here.”

“I don’t know,” said Selma, turning back to the sizzling vegetables.

“I do know,” said Eileen. “He can be so docile sometimes that he fools you into thinking he’s just getting old. And then you turn your back and he’s up to something that reminds you just how sick he is.”

“He is a sick man,” said Selma softly.

“And I won’t leave you for a weekend like this again,” said Eileen. “I wanted to spend some time with my grandchildren alone, to see what they’re really like. But I can see it’s too much of a strain on you. I’m sorry for that.”

Selma turned her head. “I understand your need to be with your grandchildren,” she said. “And for the most part, I really am okay. Underneath his illness, your husband’s a good man.”

Eileen looked briefly at the floor. “Thank you,” she said, raising her eyes to meet Selma’s. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person on earth who knows that.”

 

When Eileen walked into Lauren’s room thirty minutes later, she found her granddaughter in the bathroom in front of the mirror. “Hi, Gran,” she said. “I found this lavender shadow to go with my nails. Do you think it’s too much?” She turned and faced her grandmother.

“No,” said Eileen, being honest. Lauren, she could tell, was good at applying cosmetics. Most teenagers overdid it. “I think I’m going to start those pies.”

“Oh good,” said Lauren. “I’ll help you.”

Eileen looked around Lauren’s room, which was still in need of attention. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You dust and vacuum in here and then you can help me. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Lauren, putting on pink lipstick. “I just have one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I have no idea where the vacuum is.”

“It’s a central vacuum,” said Eileen, pointing to the outtake valve on the wall. “Look in the linen closet down the hall for the attachment. If you don’t find it, come get me in the kitchen and we’ll look together.” Eileen left Lauren’s room and walked back down the hall to Nate’s closed door and the sound of muffled music behind it. She hesitated a moment, her fist poised to knock on the door, and then retreated and walked on.

 

Nate turned down his music to answer the vibrating cell phone in his pocket.

“Okay,” said Josh, “everyone’s on board. Now we just need to know where we’re going to party.”

“Can we still go to Steve’s?” asked Nate, lying on his bed.

“Yeah,” said Josh. “You need to back out?”

“I think so, man,” said Nate. “My grandmother’s got me cleaning my room.”

“Ouch.”

“Who’s getting beer?”

“I’m still working on that,” said Josh. “Tom’s older brother said he’d buy it, but he wants a commission.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” said Josh. “A buck a six-pack.”