Bruce Wagner - Memorial

His wheels began to spin again.

When the settlement came, he’d reassess his options. Chess wanted to be a free man and live in modest luxury — free, white, and 41.

Was that so wrong?

USUALLY, he hung with his mom during the day.

At Cora’s prodding, her stuck-up grandson came over to visit. She thought everyone would enjoy that; she was fucking wrong. “The Son of Al FrankenStein” was about 11 and spouted off about all the real estate he’d been buying. He said he had a thousand acres. Chess thought he was a retarded dipshit and began calling him Mister Trump, which the kid didn’t like (“Son of Al FrankenStein” would have gotten back to the dad). After a while, mostly because of tortured looks from Marj, Chess played along, asking if he was ever going to build a house on his “property.” The kid said he already had built houses and was charging people rent to live there. He finally copped that the land wasn’t real, or rather it was real but not in the normal sense, it was land on the Internet. You couldn’t really live on it but it still cost money, you did it through PayPal and people all over the world were involved. Pah-Trump spoke with a measure of disdain but the old woman thought him “amusing.” (That’s the word she used through gritted, wired skeletonmouth. Mom had great tolerance and affection for Cora and her spawn.) Chess surmised that when you got to be Marjorie’s age, and been through what she had, any ol tyke who wasn’t gluing your ass to a chair fell into the category of amusing. His mother didn’t understand the concept of “virtual real estate,” even when Chess tried to explain. Chess didn’t fully get it himself.

THE woman on the afternoon shift was leaving but the night person hadn’t yet arrived. Chess said it was OK for her to go; he was supposed to call his sister in a situation like this but fuck Joan and her protocol.

For the 1st time in awhile, he and Marj were alone. No biggie. Maybe she wanted him to reheat some soup? She shook her head; Mom was cool. Not hungry. She couldn’t really talk much, and didn’t have the energy. It was like being with a pet. Chess could tell she liked having him there though. Circumstances beyond anyone’s control had forced him to spend time with her and it actually felt kind of far-out. He enjoyed it. As long as he didn’t have to use the wirecutters. She patted his arm, affectionately. He kissed her cheek. Fuck Joan. I slid out of that womb before she did. I can handle this, this is a fucking delight. What does Joan think, I have no feelings? I have too many feelings. Does she think I’m incompetent? Well, what has she done with her life that’s so fucking amazing? Except spread her legs. Where are all the buildings she’s built? I’m the 1st born. 1st built. Fuck Joan.

Larry King was on. People were talking about near-death experiences. (He thought of Maurie, naturally.) He asked Marj if she wanted to watch something else but she liked Larry. There was a pretty black reporter who got hit-and-run right in the middle of an on-air news segment. She couldn’t move her arms as a result of the accident. Jane Seymour was a guest too and looked really old (Marj loved Somewhere in Time ). The actress talked about going into shock when antibiotics were mistakenly injected into a vein instead of muscle, and how she’d been “out of body,” watching from the ceiling as the medical team scrambled to save her. Gary Busey chimed in — everybody and his uncle was on this fucking show — and riffed on his motorcycle accident. Jesus, like, wasn’t that a long time ago? He wasn’t there in person, they had him hooked up by satellite. Mustah been a slow news night for Larry. Busey said he saw angels, but they didn’t look like everyone thought they did. He said they were bright lights, filled with warmth and love. For some reason, that didn’t sound dopey.

Marj asked him to help her to the can.

He held out his arm and she pulled herself up. He walked her in then retreated, standing by the door, which he left partially open. He wished Joan could see how gentle and vigilant he was. He heard a high-pitched laugh, but realized it was just Mom farting. He waited for it to stop before raising his voice.

“Ma? Joanie said those crooks got your savings, but you still have the house, right? Because this house is worth a lot. It’s totally paid off, huh? Cause something you might think about is selling it. You could move to a place where you wouldn’t have to worry, a place that has people —not riffraff” —a phrase he’d heard her use through the years—“people with money, who don’t want to live alone anymore. I’m not talking about convalescent homes, Ma, I’m talking about one of those luxury condos like they just built in Beverly Hills. In back of Rite Aid, over by the old Taj Mahal. Remember that place?” he said, with a smile. He heard the whinnying again — like air escaping the lip of a balloon — and waited for it to subside. “They tore it down. I couldn’t believe it. I drove by the other day and there’s just a hole. There’s just a big patch of sky — it’s weird. But those new places all have assisted care, it’s like, built-in. They’re pricey but that’s just Beverly Hills. I think it’s 8 grand a month, that’s, like, the highest. But there’s tons of places, Mom. We can look. It doesn’t have to be Beverly Hills. Assisted care residencies are the new thing, the new wave. I’ve read about 10 articles! I just think it’s safer — I’d feel better if you didn’t live here by yourself. Too much upkeep. You’re too alone. I know there’s Cora…but you shouldn’t have to worry about anything — like that — happening again. People coming to the door. Remember when I was talking to you? About that? Weird, huh. Like a premonition. Or we could get you an apartment, we could rent an apartment, you could have all that money in the bank again, as the principal. Just live off the principal. We could invest it. Joanie’s got a good head for that. She’s made investments, believe me, she doesn’t talk about it, but I know. Would you think about it, Mom?”

Marj groaned. He heard the “laughing,” then her bowels erupting into the water.

“How you doin? How you doin in there?”

He thought she said her stomach was bad from a new pill. It was hard to understand her.

“You gotta cut back on the caviar!” he said. He could smell the stink — it was a doozy. “Anyway, all I’m saying is it’s something to mull over. Because this is a lotta house for one person, Ma. I just think it’d give you peace of mind to have some money in the bank again. If you could get that monthly statement in the mail, and see you were in the black, not the red —I think you’d feel a whole lot better. Wouldn’t you, Mom?”

The doorbell rang. It was the night person.

“Hold on!” shouted Chester. “Ma, you OK?”

He went in. She modestly tried to cover herself, grimacing on the bowl. He could see her hardscrabble snatch.

“All right,” he said, averting his eyes. “Ambara’s here. You take care of business and I’ll let her in. I’ll tell her you’re making your ‘toilette.’ She’ll help you out in here, and get you something to eat.”

“I can’t,” said Marj, hissing through the wires.

“Through a straw. Jesus, Mom, I know you can’t ‘eat.’ Ambara’ll make some soup, to soothe your gut. She makes that soup you like. And I know you hate it, but you gotta try Pepto-Bismol. Works like a charm. Coats the lining. You need to put something in your stomach, Ma, you can’t just waste away. You gonna be OK while I let her in? You’re not going to fall, right?”