Read Online All the Lasting Things by David Hopson - Free Book Online
Authors: David Hopson
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funeral?” This was a favorite question, one that present circumstance rendered completely inappropriate but habit and passion spurred her to ask anyway.
Benji managed a look of shock that Stella Adler would have been proud of.
“Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say. But we’ve talked about this, Benji. Relationships are like trees.”
“Ot the twee!”
“Yes, the twee. If we’re lucky, we get a few that feed a lifetime. One. Maybe two. They’re strong, substantial. They put down roots. But most of them, most friendships, are leaves. They’re here. A nice little blossom for a time. A bit of color. Then they fade. We shed them. It’s natural that we shed them. You’re not supposed to know what the girl you took to the prom does with her day. Joanna Goverski is eating at IHOP! Who cares?”
“‘Who cares?’” The echo came from the opposite side of the biscuit-colored curtain, followed a moment later by their mother. “Who cares about what?” Evelyn lacked the bearing and attitude to be called regal, but she had the face for it. She was tall and trim, with a fine, upturned nose, lips drawn thin by perpetual sufferance, and a helmet of immaculate silver curls. “Come on,” she called, glancing irritably over her shoulder at Henry as he shuffled into view.
“Tone,” Henry warned. “I’m not a dog.”
Ignoring this, she stepped to the far side of the bed and bent to kiss Benji. A tightness around the mouth let him know he hadn’t been forgiven. Not for nearly dying. That offense proved so mountainous, so impossible to scale, she could do nothing but overlook it. Benji knew: her anger burned for another reason, for the fact that he had lived so close for nearly two months—a half hour away!—without telling her. He hadn’t visited. Hadn’t told her where he was staying or invited her to see the show. As if she, of all people, wouldn’t have welcomed a night out. Not, as Claudia reminded her, that she would have taken it. “Who cares about what?” Evelyn asked her daughter in lieu of a hello.
Claudia got up and, hugging Henry, steered him into her chair. “They’re discharging Benji, but he needs somewhere to go.”
Perplexed, Evelyn stared across the gulf of the bed and asked, “What do you mean ‘somewhere to go’?”
“He needs supervision.”
“Why would he need supervision?” Evelyn asked, smoothing a wrinkle out of the bedspread.
“He tried to kill himself, Mother. That’s why.”
“I told you to stop saying that.”
“She’d rather admit I wet myself last week,” said Henry with a rattling struggle to clear a plug of phlegm from his throat. He swallowed. “And we all know how willing she’s been to do that.”
“Henry.” Evelyn reached for the plastic pitcher sitting on Benji’s nightstand and filled a cup with water. “Take a drink instead of sitting there hacking.”
“Henry come. Henry drink. Henry roll over and play dead.”
Like a conductor bringing his orchestra to attention, Benji tapped the baton of his marker on his pad and, with large, wounded eyes, held up the paper for Evelyn to see.
She wants me to go to a nursing home.
“It’s not a nursing home, drama queen!” Claudia jabbed the promotional pamphlet into her mother’s hand and watched as Evelyn pored over it. “He thinks he should stay with a friend.”
“What friend?”
“He doesn’t know. Someone on Facebook.”
“Facebook?” Evelyn grimaced. “That’s nonsense. He’ll stay with us.” Evelyn dropped Treadwell Acre’s best pitch into the trash as if it were a bill she had no intention of paying, then surveyed the flower arrangements next to Benji’s bed. She snapped off a daisy’s browning head. “Your room is ready for you.”
“His room is the Shrine of Guadalupe.” Henry laughed. “Let me see that. What you just threw away.”
Evelyn stopped pruning the flowers long enough to retrieve the brochure and deliver it to Henry.
“She’s starting her very own
Benji managed a look of shock that Stella Adler would have been proud of.
“Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say. But we’ve talked about this, Benji. Relationships are like trees.”
“Ot the twee!”
“Yes, the twee. If we’re lucky, we get a few that feed a lifetime. One. Maybe two. They’re strong, substantial. They put down roots. But most of them, most friendships, are leaves. They’re here. A nice little blossom for a time. A bit of color. Then they fade. We shed them. It’s natural that we shed them. You’re not supposed to know what the girl you took to the prom does with her day. Joanna Goverski is eating at IHOP! Who cares?”
“‘Who cares?’” The echo came from the opposite side of the biscuit-colored curtain, followed a moment later by their mother. “Who cares about what?” Evelyn lacked the bearing and attitude to be called regal, but she had the face for it. She was tall and trim, with a fine, upturned nose, lips drawn thin by perpetual sufferance, and a helmet of immaculate silver curls. “Come on,” she called, glancing irritably over her shoulder at Henry as he shuffled into view.
“Tone,” Henry warned. “I’m not a dog.”
Ignoring this, she stepped to the far side of the bed and bent to kiss Benji. A tightness around the mouth let him know he hadn’t been forgiven. Not for nearly dying. That offense proved so mountainous, so impossible to scale, she could do nothing but overlook it. Benji knew: her anger burned for another reason, for the fact that he had lived so close for nearly two months—a half hour away!—without telling her. He hadn’t visited. Hadn’t told her where he was staying or invited her to see the show. As if she, of all people, wouldn’t have welcomed a night out. Not, as Claudia reminded her, that she would have taken it. “Who cares about what?” Evelyn asked her daughter in lieu of a hello.
Claudia got up and, hugging Henry, steered him into her chair. “They’re discharging Benji, but he needs somewhere to go.”
Perplexed, Evelyn stared across the gulf of the bed and asked, “What do you mean ‘somewhere to go’?”
“He needs supervision.”
“Why would he need supervision?” Evelyn asked, smoothing a wrinkle out of the bedspread.
“He tried to kill himself, Mother. That’s why.”
“I told you to stop saying that.”
“She’d rather admit I wet myself last week,” said Henry with a rattling struggle to clear a plug of phlegm from his throat. He swallowed. “And we all know how willing she’s been to do that.”
“Henry.” Evelyn reached for the plastic pitcher sitting on Benji’s nightstand and filled a cup with water. “Take a drink instead of sitting there hacking.”
“Henry come. Henry drink. Henry roll over and play dead.”
Like a conductor bringing his orchestra to attention, Benji tapped the baton of his marker on his pad and, with large, wounded eyes, held up the paper for Evelyn to see.
She wants me to go to a nursing home.
“It’s not a nursing home, drama queen!” Claudia jabbed the promotional pamphlet into her mother’s hand and watched as Evelyn pored over it. “He thinks he should stay with a friend.”
“What friend?”
“He doesn’t know. Someone on Facebook.”
“Facebook?” Evelyn grimaced. “That’s nonsense. He’ll stay with us.” Evelyn dropped Treadwell Acre’s best pitch into the trash as if it were a bill she had no intention of paying, then surveyed the flower arrangements next to Benji’s bed. She snapped off a daisy’s browning head. “Your room is ready for you.”
“His room is the Shrine of Guadalupe.” Henry laughed. “Let me see that. What you just threw away.”
Evelyn stopped pruning the flowers long enough to retrieve the brochure and deliver it to Henry.
“She’s starting her very own
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