Memorial

LXXI.Chester

HIS mom had been home a few weeks, her jaw sealed shut. What an intense bummer. It freaked him out to see her like that but he grew accustomed. Wirecutters were kept in the bedroom and kitchen in case she spit up and they needed to clear an airway. That was standard. Otherwise, people in her situation could choke on their own vomit.

Chess saw more of his sister than he had in years. When Joan 1st told him about the scammers he exploded with rage. He wanted to get his hands on them, for real. He didn’t think anyone was pissed enough, including the cops.

Laxmi volunteered to help take care of Marj but his sister politely declined, having arranged for RNs during the day. Someone came to stay at night if Joan couldn’t herself. The feeling he got was that she didn’t trust him to sleep over, not alone anyway. That was cool. He’d rather not but the vibe was galling. Whatever. Let her do her princess controlly thing. He just wanted Mom to be comfortable — the woman had been through hell. If Joanie needed a lot of warm, hired bodies around, so be it. As long as they didn’t steal anything, no problemo. If he caught anyone stealing, heads were definitely gonna roll. There would be blood on the tracks. Still, he didn’t dig the posturing. She’d actually told Chess not to smoke weed “in front of the caregivers” and that was weird. Like that was his big plan. He started thinking Joan didn’t want him to spend the night for fear he was going to nod out while Mom aspirated or whatever. The thing that did bother him was Joan’s attitude toward Laxmi, who was nothing but a fucking Good Samaritan. Joan was a bit condescending, not that Laxmi even noticed, but Chester did, and he was ready to mix it up with little sis before realizing the whole thing was probably about age difference. What a drag it is getting old.

Laxmi was hot and Joan was not (so much anymore, anyway) — so he let it slide.

MARJ made sure someone continued going to Riki’s for lottery tickets chosen from the fortune cookie numbers. It was the highlight of her day. The doctors said that Marjorie was depressed (she was now on Adderall, which Chess cadged when he was bored: he thought he could make a killing with Speed Thrills T-shirts) and that whatever gave her pleasure was a good thing. If Joan or Chester couldn’t make it to the liquor store, Cora or one of the helpers went.

Mr P had taken a turn for the worse and was hospitalized again — if you listened to the neighbor, he was the Lance Armstrong of Doggie World. She was down in the dumps herself; running little errands and reading the tabloids aloud to Marj were pleasing distractions. She was a nice lady and all, and Chess could see how it cheered her up just to hang with someone who was so much more fucked. But that was cool. Just human nature. Even though he didn’t feel that way when he hung with Maurie.

The situation with his mom was a distraction for Chester as well, and he visited Maurie less. He slowly understood that seeing his friend wasn’t such a healthy thing because it emanated not from compassion but rather to assuage his own conscience and even monitor the invalid’s progress — to see with his own eyes if by some fluke Maurie was getting closer to being able to articulate what Chess may or may not have tearfully confessed. (If he were getting better, the consequences could be both wonderful and terrible.) He still dallied with the idea of telling the police what happened but that fantasy was getting tired. Chess had even gone online a few times, nearly presenting his case (anonymously) à la “this is what went down with ‘2 friends I know,’ and I was wonderin what y’all out there think, blah,” though he always chickened out and just sat staring at the screen. It wasn’t safe, even if everybody lied about everything, on- and offline, and no one really cared; nowadays keystrokes could be traced with spyware, and that would be Chess’s karma — to get busted for testing the waters. There were people monitoring email just to see what your likes or dislikes were, and they didn’t even need a subpoena. For all he knew, his buddy Captain PT-109 Servano might already have had his suspicions and be a member of some medical watchdog association, logged on to his keyboard and connecting the dots whenever Chess went surfing. Like that guy Pellicano: the phones he tapped supposedly rang in his own house so he’d be able to eavesdrop from the comfort of his own bed or shitter. Chess remembered the story of the guy who copped to a murder during an AA meeting and everybody thought about the moral dilemma (anonymity, right?) for like 3 seconds before snitching. There was another AA guy who wrote a letter to some chick he sorta raped way back when as part of his amends. She snitched on him too and even though he changed his story, it was too late and his overly contrite ass was headed upriver. Still, the confessional scenario did bounce around in his head and he thought that as long as Maurie hadn’t died (it bothered him to even go there), the authorities wouldn’t come down too hard. And as long as he didn’t die, Chess probably wouldn’t cop, but he knew that if Maurie passed, he wouldn’t be able to hold his mud. What could they charge him with? “Death by Viagra”? Like fuckin bad Agatha Christie. That would be tough. He could already hear the jokes on Leno and Letterman. Maybe they’d give him probation or, say, a year in the tank, at worst. But what did he know — he’d planned the thing, right? Motive could definitely be proven, revenge and jealousy demonstrated: 2 classics. Lady Justice didn’t look too kindly on premeditated crimes, no sir. And if Maurie did die — because face it, healthcare workers fucked up aplenty, it was almost a rule of thumb, a given, people croaked from routine errors every day, patients were fucking offed, and Chess was pretty sure that most of the time no one ever found out (aside from the nurses who were serial killers, and most of them probably hadn’t even been caught), there was so much incompetence at so many levels, he’d just read an article in the paper about a drunk surgeon who went ballistic because he had to wait too long for sterilized instruments and was wrestled to the ground outside the operating room by 5 cops, and for someone like Maurie — look at Chris Reeve — well, quads always got pneumonia or complications or whatever, they wound up circling the drain no matter how much money they had or how famous they were, except maybe Terry Schiavo, she’d have lived to a hundred if they hadn’t executed her, so why was he beating himself up? — he couldn’t even remember his train of thought. If Maurie did crap out, say, as even an indirect result of the original incapacitation, Chess was thinking he would definitely be charged with homicide. Then he had an epiphany. How stupid am I? It wouldn’t be homicide, it’d be manslaughter. He’d watched enough TV to be pretty sure. Maybe he’d suck it up and visit a free online legal clinic to ask a hypothetical, couching it in whatever. He’d have to think of a way that wouldn’t sound too suspicious because even online lawyers could smell shit; might be worse than a chatroom. But they could never prove intent to kill. Since when was Viagra a weapon? Anyhow, maybe it hadn’t even been Viagra, plus he didn’t exactly overdose him; he’d only given him one. I mean until the Supreme Court rules stiff dicks to be weapons he was in the clear, there never was a weapon, Chess would consent to a thousand lie-detector tests, and happily take the stand. Swear on a stack of Schiavos. Half the jury would probably laugh before letting him off. If Robert Blake was innocent, Chester Herlihy was a fucking saint. A capital charge would be insane. That would be equivalent to saying the Friday Night Frighters had premeditated murdering Chess himself. No way would homicide stick. Maybe he could attract a celeb attorney, fuck Remar, Remar was a bush-league bush baby, he’d be able to get one of the big boys, because the case would be such a media magnet. Might even make a good little movie on Showtime — or something classier, with Ed Norton as Chess and the pudgy guy from Capote as Maurie and someone like Lindsay Lohan as Laxmi. He started to breathe easier; he’d gotten all worked up. For nothin. Maybe the charge would be something even less than manslaughter, like “reckless mischief” or “marauding” or “annoying” or whatever, there were all kinds of funny little obscure statutes (like the one about “bothering” children). They could probably get him on slipping someone a controlled substance without their knowledge. Yeah, that one was a bitch. That one he couldn’t dodge. But if the controlled substance led to the person’s death…

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?”

“No, Chester! I am not going to fall.”

“OK, Ma, easy. Easy, Tiger.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Coming!”

He let the Caribbean girl in and told her where his mother could be found. On the way out, Chess took 2 20s from the petty cash Joan left the nurses for emergencies and sundries. He’d return them tomorrow.