David Hopson - All the Lasting Things

Benji, shushing Henry’s demand into nothing more than a steady susurration of sound, carefully freed his father’s arms and began sponging them down. The soap belonged to Evelyn, the sweet vegetal scent of lavender that trailed after her showers, which left Benji with the impression that both of his parents were there, his mother’s hands perhaps guiding his. He lifted his father’s arms to wash underneath them, then moved gently down the torso, the skin giving as though it were a suit one size too big, before coming to a stop at the elastic-banded pants where the maroon fabric darkened as the water touched it. These he tugged from Henry without pause, slipping into a rhythm, a pace no longer set by his mind. He rinsed the legs next and then the feet, the pale, smooth skin from which the hair had somehow disappeared, before his fingers moved to the adhesive strips that closed Henry’s diaper. He unstuck the flaps of tape and used them to seal the leaden, urine-soaked pad into an innocuous white ball.

Over the course of a year, Henry’s condition had raced from moderately severe to severely severe like a NASCAR driver shifting into his final laps. Benji paused to take in the whole of his father’s body, the daunting decline made unavoidably real, but he carried on, washing the shrunken gray privates with stoic competence before rolling Henry onto his side and running the sponge up and down his back. He found a fresh diaper in the closet, fresh pajamas in the drawer. His hands smelled like lavender. He pulled the blanket to his father’s chest, leaving barely a trace that he’d been there. Henry stared at the same spot on the ceiling, mouth moving softly, speaking a language nobody but Henry could hear. Once again Benji smoothed his father’s hair. He looked down, wanting his father’s eyes to turn toward his, which they would not do.

And now what?

Claudia stood at the gates of campus, hearing the taxis zip by, and waited for something to move her. A force, a charge to send her coursing through the branching circuits of the city. She walked its length from Barnard to her apartment on Fourteenth Street, passing the dirty-looking dry cleaning shops, the proliferating Duane Reades and flower-fronted bodegas, the uninspired restaurants and bland brand clothing stores, letting the crowd carry her along at its own graceless pace until it delivered her (sore, exhausted, ready to pass out) into Nick’s arms. The route could neither be long enough nor short enough. She found satisfaction in the stab of being alone, in wandering into the used bookshop on Eightieth Street and sitting with a copy of the Mary Jo Bang poem she left on Max’s grave like a Jewish mourner might leave a stone, in looking for a look-alike among the skateboarders gathered in Riverside Park. She wanted to avoid the comforts of Nick and his shared grief and suffer, as much as she wanted him to curl on his side and let her hold onto the trunk of him as she plummeted into a sleep that had yet to give her a glimpse of her son. She dreamt of dogs chasing her through a Home Depot that sold nothing but chandeliers but no Max. No matter how many times she said his name before two Klonopin carried her off to a place she could no longer get to by herself: No Max.

Today, having wrapped up office hours during which she dismissed a doe-eyed sophomore’s project with a few sentences of streamlined imperiousness, Claudia returned to watching the video that played on her screen for the better part of the day. Max wasn’t in the video, but Max was there, in the room, the music his, the concert his, the first concert of a work he thought too shaky and unrealized to share but after which he stood for the briefest of bows. So unnerved he’d been, inviting her to it. So worried, sitting across the desk in that green plastic chair, fiddling with the shiny silver bar that pierced his ear. Of course there were other videos online, a trove of his lionized feats, but Claudia found this the most personal. As if it had been recorded especially for her. She felt the beat of Max’s heart in it, and finally, as he appeared with a mixture of embarrassment and pride at that small gale of applause, she felt hers too. She hit “Play” and, before it could come to an end, stepped out of the office and locked the door.

It was hard, nearly impossible, for her now to make the trek to the Village’s building site without passing by the burned-out shell of the house. With its roof open to the sky, it looked like a great ship, hull rent by a rock, turned belly up on the land. Work felt beyond her; waking to the sun or rain or clouds that insulted her every morning with the start of a new day should have been beyond her. But it wasn’t. She woke. She got out of bed. She worked. She felt broken but not beyond being put back together, even by this, a fact that only broke her more. And yet she moved. Like it or not, she was moving. Were there no emotions — no happiness, no disappointment, no shattering loss — that time would not wash away? Was there no life? It felt like a betrayal — not merely to Max, but to some larger, more fundamental idea of being human.

Once, she stood at the gates until the sky turned purple and a security guard emerged from his little roofed box to ask if she needed help. No, she said. And stepping into the stream of pedestrians, she started on her way.

On the drive back to Cat’s house — already he thought of it as Cat’s house, as someplace foreign to him, as someplace he didn’t belong — Benji snapped their we into a you and an I . It came apart with heartbreaking ease. There was Benji. There was Cat. He let himself into the kitchen, still pungent with garlic from last night’s meal, knowing that she wasn’t home. She was at the gym or dropping boxes by the post office or wherever she had to be before reporting, in another two hours, to the high school auditorium for a student orientation of her own. That morning, he’d sat at the table shaking two packets of sweetener onto his cereal and said, “I’ll see you there.”

Now, he beelined for the hall closet, dragged his suitcase into the bedroom, and flung it open on the bed. If there was a benefit to having accomplished so little in life, certainly it was having so little to pack. His shirts and pants and shoes tumbled in. Sweaters and winter jackets he left behind. He doubted he’d need them, although the desert, he knew, could be cold at night. He walked through the entire house, from the dock she’d soon hire somebody else to draw up for the season, through the bedrooms and dining room and kitchen and baths. Ghosts everywhere. He closed his ears to them and, before leaving, stopped in the downstairs office where Cat paid their bills. It was a task she hated, and usually Benji stood in the kitchen making up pet names to distract her. Can I call you Boobaker Soufflé? Can I call you McGee McGrutter?

He stole a clean sheet of paper from the printer and wrote, Cat— His mind, working like a bellows for the last few weeks, tried to stoke the fire wherein an acceptable good-bye could be forged. A list of reasons, tight as a suit of armor, that Cat would have no choice but to find ironclad, unassailable, no matter how she battled against it. He was a murderer. He was a waste. He tried six times, his pen trembling so much the words looked more like Arabic than English, and wadded his failures into the wire basket beneath the desk. C— (he finally wrote) I don’t belong here. I never did. I love you. —B. He left it on the counter with his key.