Read Online All the Lasting Things by David Hopson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Hopson
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assisted living community.” He considered the hazily happy invalid on the cover and said, “You move home. I’ll move here. At least they wouldn’t talk to me like they’re training a Saint—a Saint . . . Jesus fucking—what’s the name of it?”
“Saint who? How would I know?” Evelyn answered. “We’re not Catholic.”
“The dog, the name of the dog!”
It was onto this battlefield that Benji was about to pitch himself. He saw a week into the future, waking in his childhood bed under the watchful eyes of his Star Wars figurines. The sound of his parents’ latest skirmish would rise with the smell of coffee from the kitchen, and Benji, hobbling downstairs as if he’d had a bull’s-eye painted on his chest, would become his father’s newest target.
“Bernard, Daddy,” said Claudia, rubbing Henry’s back. “Saint Bernard.” She turned to Evelyn and, packing away her lullaby voice, asked, “You plan to take care of Benji and Daddy by yourself? At the same time?”
“I’m not by myself. I have Sandra.”
“For six hours a day. That leaves eighteen.”
“You make it seem like I’m about to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.”
“Either way you’ll be running around until you break your hip.”
“You and your broken hip.”
“You and your broken hip, Mom. And who will have to take care of you then?”
“Don’t worry. I know better than to ask you.”
“Stop it!” Henry called out. “Both of you.”
Benji’s marker moved across a fresh sheet of paper with the high-pitched sound of a hungry mouse. I have something to tell you. He flipped the page: I
Henry pointed and snapped, “Philomela’s trying to tell you something.”
New page: DIDN’T
Oblivious, Claudia still faced her mother. “Benji and I agreed that he’s not going to put that kind of strain on you. Didn’t we, Benji?”
Now that he had stepped up to the edge of the cliff, Benji stopped. Jump. He was one word away—a few sharp little mouse squeaks, a simple J-U-M-P—from the truth, one syllable with the power to allay his family’s fears, to free himself from an untenable tenancy. Or would he simply be convincing everyone that his primary problem wasn’t a suicidal tendency but a psychopathic one? If his family thought he was troubled before, what would they think when he pulled the curtain back on his latest charade? They’d call him psychotic. Alcoholic. Nutcase. He’d be spared the unthinkable stay at 34 Palmer Street, but roundly delivered into a sequestered twelve-step program in the remotest Adirondack woods.
He took a deep breath before placing pen to paper, but before he could finish his sentence, he heard a voice— that voice—that made it impossible to go on. “Knock, knock.” He turned to see Cat McCarthy standing there shyly, half obscured by the curtain, smiling a smile of uncertain provenance. She’d traded her stylish dress for ragged jeans and a boxy yellow (but still unaccountably sexy) T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Save Compton’s Mound.” She took a hesitant step toward the bed, but managed by the time she reached him to shed all signs of apprehension. The smile surprised him with its tenderness. Even if this was a performance, even if Cat was slipping comfortably, convincingly, into another skin as he’d seen her do five nights a week for the last two months, Benji didn’t mind.
As she leaned over to kiss King Hamlet on his unbandaged cheek, Henry made a sharp warning sound, as if she were about to step off a curb into a puddle.
“Careful,” he said, the tone of his voice traveling two orbits closer to congenial. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Cat stopped, uncertain. She looked to Benji, who shook his head to erase the interruption and ready himself for that long-deferred kiss—delivered at last—while Claudia, hands on knees, bent toward Henry with the loving indulgence of a nanny. “Daddy, you know where you are, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re in the
“Saint who? How would I know?” Evelyn answered. “We’re not Catholic.”
“The dog, the name of the dog!”
It was onto this battlefield that Benji was about to pitch himself. He saw a week into the future, waking in his childhood bed under the watchful eyes of his Star Wars figurines. The sound of his parents’ latest skirmish would rise with the smell of coffee from the kitchen, and Benji, hobbling downstairs as if he’d had a bull’s-eye painted on his chest, would become his father’s newest target.
“Bernard, Daddy,” said Claudia, rubbing Henry’s back. “Saint Bernard.” She turned to Evelyn and, packing away her lullaby voice, asked, “You plan to take care of Benji and Daddy by yourself? At the same time?”
“I’m not by myself. I have Sandra.”
“For six hours a day. That leaves eighteen.”
“You make it seem like I’m about to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.”
“Either way you’ll be running around until you break your hip.”
“You and your broken hip.”
“You and your broken hip, Mom. And who will have to take care of you then?”
“Don’t worry. I know better than to ask you.”
“Stop it!” Henry called out. “Both of you.”
Benji’s marker moved across a fresh sheet of paper with the high-pitched sound of a hungry mouse. I have something to tell you. He flipped the page: I
Henry pointed and snapped, “Philomela’s trying to tell you something.”
New page: DIDN’T
Oblivious, Claudia still faced her mother. “Benji and I agreed that he’s not going to put that kind of strain on you. Didn’t we, Benji?”
Now that he had stepped up to the edge of the cliff, Benji stopped. Jump. He was one word away—a few sharp little mouse squeaks, a simple J-U-M-P—from the truth, one syllable with the power to allay his family’s fears, to free himself from an untenable tenancy. Or would he simply be convincing everyone that his primary problem wasn’t a suicidal tendency but a psychopathic one? If his family thought he was troubled before, what would they think when he pulled the curtain back on his latest charade? They’d call him psychotic. Alcoholic. Nutcase. He’d be spared the unthinkable stay at 34 Palmer Street, but roundly delivered into a sequestered twelve-step program in the remotest Adirondack woods.
He took a deep breath before placing pen to paper, but before he could finish his sentence, he heard a voice— that voice—that made it impossible to go on. “Knock, knock.” He turned to see Cat McCarthy standing there shyly, half obscured by the curtain, smiling a smile of uncertain provenance. She’d traded her stylish dress for ragged jeans and a boxy yellow (but still unaccountably sexy) T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Save Compton’s Mound.” She took a hesitant step toward the bed, but managed by the time she reached him to shed all signs of apprehension. The smile surprised him with its tenderness. Even if this was a performance, even if Cat was slipping comfortably, convincingly, into another skin as he’d seen her do five nights a week for the last two months, Benji didn’t mind.
As she leaned over to kiss King Hamlet on his unbandaged cheek, Henry made a sharp warning sound, as if she were about to step off a curb into a puddle.
“Careful,” he said, the tone of his voice traveling two orbits closer to congenial. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Cat stopped, uncertain. She looked to Benji, who shook his head to erase the interruption and ready himself for that long-deferred kiss—delivered at last—while Claudia, hands on knees, bent toward Henry with the loving indulgence of a nanny. “Daddy, you know where you are, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re in the
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