Eating Heaven (12 page)

I dial the number at the hospital, looking at the clock. It’s six fifteen. They’ll have brought him his dinner tray, a collection of soft foods that wouldn’t appeal to a schnauzer: Jell-O, broth, tea, vanilla ice milk. He’ll eat the Jell-O, maybe the ice milk.

“So what color is your Jell-O today?” I ask when he answers.

“Well, they brought me a new color, Ellie, one I’ve never seen before. You ever hear of blue Jell-O?”

“You still feel like ham, and pineapple upside-down cake?”

“Maybe some mashed potatoes?”

I doubt Benny even knows how to eat meat without potatoes.

“You got it,” I say. “When are they springing you? I’ll get there half an hour early. And I’ll bring you a fresh change of clothes.”

“Ah, Ellie, you don’t have to go to the trouble. I don’t want to be a pain in the ass.”

He sounds so happy I have to swallow, suck hard on my lip for a moment before replying.

“Well, it’s too late on the pain-in-the-ass thing, Ben, but it’s no trouble. It’s not like you’ve never helped me out.”
Light; try to keep it light.
“Anyway, I’ll be there. Okay?”

It’s quiet on his end.

“Ben?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay, honey,” and from the quake in his voice, I know I have done the right thing.

At seven the next morning, I am faced with the to-do list from hell:

I chew the pen top, then write:

I cross out “Mom” and circle “Henry,” then jump into the shower.

Every good housewife used to know that pineapple upside-down cake could only be prepared in a deep cast-iron skillet, carbon black and well seasoned from years of frying. Modern recipes seem to forget this, calling for glass baking dishes; in a popular celebrity cookbook, the errant and ill-informed cook even suggests a tart pan.

My cast-iron skillet was my mother’s, retrieved from her garage-sale pile after she’d purchased her matching set of All-Clad cookware. All-Clad! For a woman who never cooks. She probably liked the way the stainless steel matched her appliances. I will be attending her next garage sale, that’s for sure, when she decides that Le Creuset red goes well with her curtains, or that Calphalon graphite is perfect with her floors.

Right now I should be making fish ten different ways or experimenting with rutabagas and turnips, but they’ll just have to wait. I’ve melted butter—real honest-to-God butter—in the skillet, stirred in brown
sugar to caramelize. Fresh, juicy pineapple rings—not from a can—encircle not maraschino cherries but lovely candied cherries from Nob Hill Grocers. When the fruit has browned slightly, I pour the sweet, dense batter over it, slide the pan into the oven, set the timer, and peel, dice, and brine the potatoes for tonight. I’ve glazed the precooked ham so it can just heat in Benny’s oven. Everything will be easy for his homecoming. Everything will be just the way he wants it.

At Benny’s house, I throw open the windows, glad for the partly sunny sky and light April breeze. I stand at the kitchen window after I’ve put the food away, gazing at the lovely garden he and Yolanda nurtured over the years. Somehow, with all that’s going on, I’ve almost missed the fact that it’s Portland’s most beautiful season; the show has started without me. Plumes of white, pink, and purple blossoms offset the one hundred shades of green our little city is known for this time of year: lime, celery, and avocado, butter lettuce and kale, Granny Smith apple and broccoli and sage. The swirl of color is more chaotic than I’ve ever noticed before, and when I look closer, I realize the garden is unkempt and overgrown, not neat and ordered as it has always been. If I didn’t know how much Benny loves to garden, I’d chalk it up to Yolanda’s departure. Benny, in his right mind, would never let it get like this.

I make myself turn away, go to strip the sheets from Benny’s bed. As I’m gathering them to take to the washer, a book falls to the floor.
The Old Man and the Sea.
I stoop down to pick it up, run my fingers over the dog-eared pages, as soft and worn as flannel. Benny must have suspected something was going wrong. I sit on the naked bed, close my eyes, take a few deep breaths before I jump back up. There’s too much to do.

The blue jeans and plaid shirt I brought for Benny to wear home look clownish on his thinner frame. The jaundice has not quite faded. He sits hunched from the pain in his gut on the edge of the bed. A new nurse I’ve never seen before—Jean, according to her name tag—helps him on with socks and shoes.

“You know, I’d do that myself, but I just can’t bend down that far,” he says, gripping the mattress. “Damnedest thing.”

“I don’t mind,” Jean says. “I’d rather be tying shoes than giving enemas any day.” She looks like someone’s mom, rounded tummy and gargantuan bosom, smooth black skin and strong hands, which pat Benny’s knees when she’s finished. “There you go, Mr. Sloan. Now, think you can stand up?”

He’s been in bed so long his muscles have atrophied, his inner ear has forgotten what it’s like to balance. The medications don’t help. Like a geriatric skateboarder, he holds his hands out, palms to the floor, surfing gravity. “I think I got it,” he says, taking a shaky step, then another.

“Well, you’ll be getting a free wheelchair ride downstairs, but you’re on your own at home,” she says, watching him carefully. “You want me to order you a walker?”

“Hell, no,” he says, grabbing a chair back. “I’ll be fine. It’s just walking.”

She looks at me. “If he needs one, the home hospice folks will take care of it.”

“What else does he need? I mean, I don’t know anything about . . .” My top teeth dent my bottom lip, worrying a tender spot that’s developed there.

“The hospice caseworker will meet you at the house at two. She’ll get you all set up, tell you everything you need to know, okay?” Jean drops her chin and looks at me. “Okay? You don’t have to figure everything out—that’s their job, and they’re very good at it.”

I nod and watch Benny move from chair to sink to bed, his tentative steps growing slightly more sure. The nurse says she’ll go check on that wheelchair, and I leaf through Benny’s box of cards and stuffed animals and unopened candy boxes. “Sure you don’t want the flowers?” I ask. His room looks like a floral shop.

“Nah. They’re going to share them around the place.”

“You got a lot of cards, huh?” None have Mom’s handwriting.

“Yup.” He grabs the footboard of the bed, out of breath.

“Ben, sit down. You’ve proven yourself, okay?” I go help him to the chair, try to ease him into it, but it’s awkward and I lose my grip. He drops to the seat like a bareback rider at full trot.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, but he shakes me off.

“I’m not gonna break, okay?” He sounds angry, but I know it’s just his pride.

“Okay,” I say, and we wait together in silence.

“Home.” Benny stands in the front doorway of his house, holding the doorjamb. His eyes move from object to object: the photos on the wall, the bookcase, the kitchen table, the coatrack in the corner, where his battered work coat hangs next to his old yellow slicker. He says it again, stronger, “Home at last, thank God.” Then he moves slowly, unsteadily forward, toward the kitchen and his chair at the table. “They say a little walking every day and I should get back to normal,” he says.

Normal.

“Feel like some lunch yet?” I ask, opening the fridge. He wouldn’t eat at the hospital, and now it’s nearly one thirty.

“Wouldn’t mind some coffee.”

I turn, say, “Should you—” and stop myself. Should he drink coffee? What’s it going to do, cause cancer? “I mean, would you like a little something to eat with it?” I sound like a mother of a two-year-old, cajoling him into a more nutritious choice.

“Just coffee,” he says. “Black.” Like I don’t know how he takes it.

I pull out the industrial-size red can, put three scoops in the filter, the way he likes it, trying not to cringe. Benny is a true-blue all-American guy. Weak coffee, and don’t give him any of that fancy designer stuff.

As it brews, I take a seat at the table. “Feeling okay?” I ask, and he gives me a look.

“You gonna keep asking me that?”

“How about once an hour? Every two hours?” I try to tease.

“How about never?” He looks away, then back at me, eyes moist. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t know what good is does to sit around moaning about it.”

“It helps to know if you’re feeling okay or not,” I say. “The nurse said you shouldn’t have to be in too much pain.” Exactly what he doesn’t want to talk about.

“I will tell you if I’m in too much pain. How’s that?” he says, looking tired.

The coffee gurgles and sighs as it finishes brewing, and I stand, pull cups from the cupboard, fill them, set them on the table. He sits, listless, miserable, but he is determined to sit here, damn it, and have a cup of coffee rather than go to bed, where he should be. I run through my mind for safe topics and can’t find any. I’d like to tell him about Christine’s baby, but she wants to tell everyone herself, in her own time. Anne’s situation is too bleak.

“I met an interesting guy yesterday,” I say. “I think you’d like him.”

“Yeah?” His hands are shaky on the cup as he brings it to his mouth.

“Yeah. This guy’s a chef. Went to culinary school in New York and everything, and one day a couple of years ago, he just up and moves to Tibet. Didn’t know a soul there, didn’t know what to expect. Just . . . decided to be adventurous.” I sip my coffee and try not to make a face. Cream. I need cream. I stand and grab milk from the fridge.

“Divorce?” Benny asks.

“Oh. Well, I don’t know,” I say, dribbling a thin line of white into the murky brown. Why didn’t I ask him that?

“Did he turn Buddhist?”

“I don’t know that, either. Hell, Ben, you’d make a much better interviewer than me. I just asked him about Tibetan food.”

“What’s that, yak and snowberries?” He snickers, pleased at his little joke.

There’s a knock at the door, and I jump before Benny can even try to stand. “I’ll get it.”

I don’t know what I expected a home hospice worker to look like, but not the petite, freckled redhead in jeans at Benny’s door. “Ruthann Clark, Riverview Hospice and Care Facility,” she says, extending her hand. It is strong and square and mannish on such a small woman. “Sorry, I’m a little early. You’re the niece? Ellie?”

“That’s me,” I say, leading her back to the kitchen.

“I’ll be visiting your uncle every day, make sure he’s doing okay. Once he’s stabilized, that might drop to three or four times a week.” Then to Benny, in a volume slightly louder, “Mr. Sloan, good to see you. Remember me? Ruthann? From the hospital yesterday?”

“Benny. Mr. Sloan was my father,” he says, rising unsteadily off his
chair to shake her hand. “And it was only yesterday. Of course I remember.”

“Good. Sounds like the dexamethasone is working on those brain mets. Excellent.” She takes a seat, looks at our cups. “Is there any coffee left?”

“I was just going to offer you a cup.” I head to the cupboard. She’s a pushy little thing.

“How about lunch?” she says, and I’m thinking she’s going to make me feed her. But she says, “What did you have for lunch today, Benny?”

“Funny, Ellie and I were just discussing what to have,” he says, folding his hands on the table like a straight-A student. “Did we decide on the yak or the snowberries?” he asks me, twisting in his seat to give me a wink.

I shake my head, smile. “I picked up sandwich stuff—roast beef, pastrami.”

She grimaces. “Way too heavy to start with. Anything sweet?”

“How about that pineapple upside-down cake you’ve been promising me?” Benny says.

“Perfect,” Ruthann says. “I’ll have some, too.”

“Perfect,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. At least I did something right. I pull out plates, forks, napkins, and cut two hefty wedges of cake and one thin slice. Benny needs the calories, and I need something to do with my mouth so I don’t blow my cool. The two of them chat amiably, and it’s clear that she is exactly the kind of person who is perfect for this job: straight, honest, and a little bossy. Already Benny trusts her; I see it in the way he’s leaning in to listen to her, the way his hands lay on the table, hard palms up, as he tells her how rotten his gut had been feeling, how low the headaches (
headaches? what headaches?
) had laid him.

“Ellie here saved my life,” he says then, looking at me with his swimming pool blue eyes, and Ruthann looks at me, too, smiles, and pats his hand.

“No,” I say, “I just—”

“During that big snowstorm, she drove all the way over here and got me an ambulance. I’d probably’ve died if not for her, stranded here like that, sick as I was. Doctor said so.”