Bedside Matters Read online

  this is a genuine rare bird book

  Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdlit.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Richard Alther

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address:

  Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  Set in Minio

  epub isbn: 9781644281970

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Alther, Richard, author.

  Title: Bedside matters / Richard Alther.

  Description: First hardcover edition. | Los Angeles : Rare Bird Books, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020045295 (print) | LCCN 2020045296 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781644281635 (hardback) | ISBN 9781644281970 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Older men—Fiction. | Death—Fiction. | Spiritual

  life—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3601.L826 B44 2021 (print) | LCC PS3601.L826

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020045295

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020045296

  For Sara Alther Bostwick

  My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,

  and I intend to end up there.

  —Jalaluddin Rumi,

  thirteenth-century Persian poet

  Of all mortals, some dying men are the most tyrannical;

  and certainly, since they will shortly trouble us so little evermore

  the poor fellows ought to be indulged.

  —Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  As the saying goes, the pot drips what is in it.

  —Rumi

  You’re just dying, Walter,” Irma, his caretaker, has said. “We all do.”

  A poor boy who made good, now flat on his back and slack as a bean bag, Walter does not feel sorry for himself. Luck of the draw, his disease. But he does not apologize for his foul cast of mind. That has not changed nor will it likely. I was prickly way before this business, he acknowledges, and if ever I’ve earned my right to grouse…How else could I have ended up with my widget empire if not for pushing, shoving, plotting, nothing ever good enough, needled by my cantankerous, hell-bent ambition?

  Irma is looming over his bed, shrinking his newfound picayune place in the universe all the more.

  “How goes it today, Walter?” To him she’s Gulliver as seen by the tiny people. Hungarian by birth, broad-shouldered, her big bones overwhelming any trace of tenderness, which, of course, is there: she’s a caretaker. She runs the household of which he has become, as far as he’s concerned, a bit player, the spare tire, an afterthought, considering the beehive of activity that propels his estate. She moves about the bed fussing here and there with ballerina grace despite her girth. Walter both worships and demonizes Irma upon whom he is now totally dependent.

  “I used to be in charge, Irma. This is the hardest part.”

  “I know, Walter. The mighty hath fallen. But look: now you get to drink in all the beauty of your splendid home and surroundings. Forced to sit still and count your blessings. Here, take this pink pill.”

  He swallows. “I’m not complaining. I’m just stating the reality, because it’s still difficult for me to believe. There’s just so much amusement staring out that window. I am goddamn sick and tired of Gomer Pyle reruns.”

  “Try Andy Griffith.” She flattens her apron. On a svelte woman it could pass for a dirndl, but not on Irma. “All right, Jackie Gleason, more sophisticated.” She pinches his exposed big toe and cracks a smile. “Seriously, there are all these books Paula has brought.”

  “Another thing,” he hurls to the side. “Would you please have the pats of butter room temperature? How can I spread them when they’re like bricks?”

  Pathetic. It’s reduced to this, a command about butter hard or soft? Well, dammit, I’m still the boss, albeit of a handful instead of hundreds.

  Irma waltzes about, stretching wide the curtains astride the large picture window, refilling his water glass, straightening the sheets. She’s ignored the snippet about butter.

  He fixes her with his gaze. He was a slight man to begin with, mostly bald, about as undistinguished as is possible for an early-ish elder. Irma rests her wide bottom at the base of the bed, to Walter more like a souped-up La-Z-Boy rocker with all the bells and whistles, emphatically not a hospital device. Not yet. She can tell he has more to say, apart from their initial joust of the day, smooth large hands now folded in her lap.

  “I’m fine with dying, Irma. I’d just like to know when.”

  She gently shakes her head, not to the point of whipping about the thick, blond braid that forever strikes Walter like a military guard with a rifle strapped to his back. Softly, she says: “It could be months. Years.”

  “My whole life has been a schedule. Up at dawn, desk at seven-forty-five before the troops traipse in. Home at seven. Listen to the wife. Listen to the kids.”

  “You mean, you sat there, stone-faced like now? In one ear and out the other.”

  “It was family time.”

  “Be curious what Polly would have to say.”

  Christ, his caretaker is sounding as smug as his ex-wife at her battle-readiness. He slumps and stares off.

  “Oh, I admit. Guilty of my age, my generation. I’m the breadwinner. Bushwhacked by the time I got home. All hell breaking loose there. I’m about to add to the mayhem, the shouting match, or worse, the silence, the kids and Polly seething? Best to shut up, I always thought.” He takes a slug of water. Sick of water, too, the incessant intake of which Irma enforces, bad as an enema.

  “I realize this is misery for you, Walter. An itch like you with me in charge.”

  “Thank God for that.” Instantly, he regrets the praise.

  “You’ve got ahold of God, finally?” She stands, apparently deciding enough of such an exchange, her upper hand reconfirmed, thus needling him all the more.

  “God? Hell, no. I haven’t gotten that far in this affair.”

  •

  Walter misses Polly, handful that she was. She crashes the party whenever it suits her, no matter his present fog. She’s a shortcut to his past, which he cannot black out and so must tolerate her insistent, electric breath into his still-surging bellows. He let her dominate center stage. And yet, much as he tries to replay the merriment, their early years, Walter can be swamped by the pain of losing her. It’s as if his mind keeps touching a live wire when he’s supposed to be in repose. In some benign sense, he reflects, he’s already lost his mind given the recent regimen of drugs.

  Oh, Walt, do shut up, she would say. I’ll be in charge of this business too between us, she pronounced even
before they were married, as she placed two of his fingers onto her upper labia ever so gently and instructed him on the rotations and confounded intimacies of women’s plumbing about which he hadn’t a clue, true to this day. You just keep that pointed Puritan nose to the grindstone and raking it in. She didn’t really say that, but that’s how it seems to him their marriage meshed when it did.

  Without intending, his mind blessedly taking a break, Walter is gazing dreamily out the window, hoping that hummingbird would come buzzing out of nowhere and insert its beak into the tiniest nodule of the blooming lilac. How the devil do they do it? But this conjecture fritters away as do all others, leaving him a blank slate for whatever mental assault or visual distraction might next dash across his muddled playing field.

  Sometimes things come and go in a desultory fashion, like seagulls weaving slow circles in search of a cast-off fish. Other times it’s like the fifty-yard dash, if the drug stupor is momentarily lifted from its smothering layers.

  Good man, you’re getting a lighter touch with the nipple, and kissing with parted lips. Oh, her again. His own damn fault, always letting her take the lead.

  I’ll admit, the clitoris can have a mind of its own, she said, forever teasing him. Still, it’s more persistent and less fickle than your beloved penis. And here she nibbled an earlobe, nuzzled his neck. Of course, he adored her to pieces. Did I ever adore, let alone enjoy, anything else, ever? thinks Walter.

  Jolted back to the moment, he can picture as they predict in a month or a year not being able to move his toes, lift his head, command his bladder. Despite some shaking, the hands are fully functional, for now. Adjustable bed at his disposal. The checkbooks, credit cards, laptop, cell phone right by his side, as if nothing has changed. I can drive! And not to the office but for the heck of it. I can walk wherever. I’m just in bed all day because I’ve become lazy, not immobile.

  And frustrated as hell.

  There’s a commotion in the kitchen. Walter is installed in the former dining room, adjacent, footsteps from Irma, just as she likes it. A young girl holding something squirming comes abruptly through the door, Irma at her side with a devilish grin.

  “Walter, you have a visitor. Well, two. It’s June, a high schooler, with something special.”

  Beaming, the girl comes to Walter’s bedside and places the wriggling, fuzzy, golden puppy on his lap. He sits upright, horrified, abhorring pets. “What the he—” but cuts himself off.

  “I’m from the Shut-In Squad!” young June announces proudly, still holding the puppy but gradually releasing it onto Walter’s chest.

  Walter strains to thrust his back into the elevated bed, forcing himself to touch the eager creature, the petting drawing upon his very last straw for a tad of civility.

  The agony lasts a god-awful ten minutes, Walter attempting not to shudder—did it pee?—the puppy’s slick drool coating the back of his hand. Irma makes small talk with June, compensating for the sourpuss. June gets distracted by Irma’s earth-motherly warmth, the puppy suddenly charges up Walter’s chest with him practically prone in retreat at this point, and slobbers his neck, cheek, reaches his lower lip.

  “All right,” croons Irma. “This’s been delightful for us. June, you’re a doll to do this, isn’t she, Walter?” And Irma escorts the guests out. She promptly returns to the master of the house.

  Walter can tell his face is aflame, probably crimson.

  She gets right to the point. “Well. What about a cat?”

  “No, damn it. No cat.”

  “It wouldn’t cuddle. They’re aloof. Just quiet company.”

  “I don’t need company!”

  “What do you call me, dallying with you all day? You’re more effort than the kitchen, Walter. I could just cook and deal with the staff. You could rot, I mean rest, peacefully by yourself.”

  Walter laughs. “You got me there. Just like Polly. What would I have done without her running the show? Like you, now?”

  Stop abdicating to the foxy bitches! Being prone you can still be a foil.

  Irma goes to fix his lunch, leaving him to his own bedeviled thoughts. He closes his eyes, the better to bring closure at least to the Shut-In Squad.

  •

  He is shoveling the sidewalk. The snow is impossibly heavy and wet from an early spring storm. He struggles with all his ten-year-old might, taking a full scoop, defying his aching limbs, eager to finish Mrs. Russling’s, collect his dollar, and get on to Auntie Cable, the widow lady who presses two whole dollars into his hand each time. He thinks Auntie Cable might be crying with utter pleasure, squeezing his hand best she can, being severely crippled. His own aunt said the elderly soul has runny eyes, not tears, but still he’s thrilled by her generosity. Auntie, not his real aunt who’s raising him, is a fixture in the high-end neighborhood several blocks from his own home. She reeks to Walter of a violet perfume that almost stinks. She has shoulder pads of doilies pinned in place with diamond and sapphire broaches. He knows she is wealthy, the biggest house on the street, but that doesn’t mean she would pay him double. He knows he brings joy into her parlor, darkened and deadened by huge, heavy drapes. She is a true shut-in. After church every Sunday he delivers to her that week’s bulletin from the service—who were the ushers, the title of the sermon, who gave the flowers—but he understands deep-down he is courting her because she is rich. She will not let Walter leave, him practically pacing in place to get to Hubschmidt’s, his next customer, without Auntie foisting upon him a large bottle of Hire’s root beer, she knows his favorite. If he drinks it all she could chatter on, adjust her beautiful curls of silver hair piled atop her gently shaking, palsied head, smile, and come alive as if she was a young girl again. She vibrates with palpable cheer like a roly-poly Santa. But by the time he finishes his soda, answers her questions about his school—she avoiding discussing his father—stuffs his pockets from the candy dish she has thrust at him, he is reluctant to leave. He hates to disappoint her, to see her cheeks overly pink with rouge abruptly collapse into their usual folds, layer upon layer, an abandoned rag doll gone limp. But he forgets her the minute he gets to his next job.

  Walter is startled by the brush of a lilac branch against the picture window. Must have dozed off.

  Someday soon he will have to roll off and pee into an elevated chamber pot, so he’s been told. For now, he can shuffle to the bathroom night and day. He suppresses an incipient urge to relieve himself and lies still. This state has become almost bearable, Walter muses, after the Sturm und Drang of his life. He should appreciate this “final resting place.” What will he ever know of a grave, ashes, memorial service, or a wake? This is it. All the stuff of my life, Walter thinks, has been crammed into one of those Cuisinarts and pulsed into puree. I’m blended in, no more me. No more strained silence with those kids, no more attempting to make sense of surly Paula and sour Gavin—mumbling incoherently if I did speak up. Even after Polly was gone, she the family CEO, no quibbles there, she had a way of presiding in absentia. As visitors, Paula and Gavin, long since adults on their own, plus others, come and go. I wish that were so with all my lingering confounded judgments, disgust over Gavin, bossy invective from Paula—why can’t all that just go up in smoke?

  •

  Irma squats on the armrest of the big upholstered chair while Walter sucks at his beef broth with limp noodles. He pauses.

  “All these blasted memories, Irma. Like I’m facing a firing squad. The family…”

  “Not to worry, Walter. With so much time on your hands. Go on, give ’em hell, at least in your own mind. Get it out of your system. You’ll feel better.”

  “Regurgitating all the crap. Who needs it?”

  “You do. Trust me, you do.”

  He nods. Once again, the lady knows best.

  •

  Walter became an orphan, sort of, when he was six. His mother and older sister, his only sibling,
were killed in a car crash, breezing through a red light. A flask was on the seat between them, the backseat littered with bottles and beer cans, easier for her, Walter figures in retrospect, than dealing with their flat already crammed to the hilt with junk. His father supposedly worked on construction crews, but spent every night at some casino. Horses, Walter was told by his aunt who was really a foster parent; there was no regular family for him like the kids in school. But Aunt Peg had more than her share of work dealing with three foster babies—she was paid for doing this—and four druggie teenagers apparently long before authorities kept a close tab on this stuff. The teens ignored him, so Walter, by nine and ten, found plenty of action at odd jobs after school. Little time or interest in having fun. One thing, though, was the newfangled television, which shut everybody up, enthralled. The rag-tag household would gather in front of the four-inch-thick plastic bubble rigged over the miniscule screen to enlarge the image to a full foot wide. They all howled with tears over deadpan Groucho Marx, outrageous Milton Berle, side-splitting Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca. But it was dashing, icy-cool Steve Allen and his luscious wife, Jayne Meadows, that implanted seeds into the marrow of Walter’s grammar school bones. Thanks to the suave Steve Allens, belly laughs aside, there was laid out the serious and beckoning path from which Walter was never to waver.

  It’s been over a year since Walter was told he would have another year, maybe two or three, no way of knowing. Like Parkinson’s, but not in fact. Like MSA—Multiple Systems Atrophy—but he was not entirely following that course either, other than the very gradual and inevitable deterioration of his nerves, muscles, organs—everything will go but his brain. There is no cure, came the simple statement. He was satisfied with the initial neurologist but Paula demanded second and third opinions. He gave it his best shot for a while, despite his total lack of interest, doing leg lifts, calf raises, arm curls to stimulate his low blood pressure, to maintain a modicum of strength. Bullied by medical types let alone his daughter, he lacked the gumption to resist. But this is not me, Walter concluded. He never exercised. He did watch what he ate. Seven almonds, he counted them out, instead of a fistful. Small portions, he is not a big man. Sip his expensive wines, knowing what they cost. Never swill! His extensive wine cellar, well, it was primarily an investment. This he relates to. After Polly, there were never any friends in his scene. Mostly, the wines accumulated, like his money.