No U Turn. Michael Taylor
I showed Boogie to his ‘room’ in the finished basement, inflated and helped him make up the air bed with the sheets and pillow case that Hannah had already piled on the coffee table sometime in the middle of the night or before she went off to the hospital. As I stood with one foot on the first step, holding the rail—before returning to the first floor and my book—I asked him to please use the shower and sink in the basement bathroom until after Nick, Cathy and Grandpa Waverly leave early Saturday morning and he ‘transferred’ from the basement into David’s old bedroom on the second floor.
I left Boogie to his own devices and decided, instead of reading any more Ray Bradbury, to go to my bedroom to get my digital recorder checked out and set up. Fifteen minutes later I left my room with my recording equipment and barely noticed the sound of water or the light coming from under the door of the second floor hall bathroom—next to Darin and Leah’s room.
Between Leah’s crazy—demanding and ever-changing—schedule, and Darin working out, making deliveries, shopping for merchandise, or going out with his friends, their shower and bathroom can be occupied at any time of day.
When I came down the steps, on my way to the kitchen, I passed the room where my youngest son conducted his burgeoning eBay business—our former computer room and library—and immediately noticed the invisible steam coming out of his ears. Even without the benefit of his eye contact, I was met head-on and blasted with, “I can’t believe him. Haven’t even seen him yet and he’s already pissing me off. I was the one who asked mom to keep him out of our bathroom!”
Completing the final two steps of my journey to the kitchen, I patiently tried to sort out the source of Darin’s anger from the minimal number of pronouns, verbs and general lack of specific information supplied. I also attempted to postpone my response and minimize facial ‘tells.’ My control was rewarded when my athletic, 27-year-old (Magna cum laude) psychology graduate spat out, “What is wrong with Boogie! Doesn’t he understand that girls prefer some privacy and wouldn’t want to share their shower let alone the toilet seat with a 60-year old man if they can help it.” The last sentence was tossed over his shoulder as he left the kitchen, thus saving me the need for asking specifically what was wrong and limiting the need for further discussion. I saw no point in speaking to his retreating back to tell him that I had received the message earlier, that ‘mom’ and I had already discussed the shower issue, and that I had dutifully and politely passed on the request to Boogie.
≈ I think Hannah went to the ER on purpose! ≈
When my phone rang soon after that last thought, I immediately looked outside to see if the sky was clouded over. Hannah’s ESP always works better when the sky is overcast; especially when I am either talking or thinking negatively about her. She has a perfect record if I am speaking to another woman, even 3000 miles away.
She called to tell me that because there were no hospital rooms available, she had been wheeled around to and parked in the pediatric wing of the ER. She gave me her QVC order.
At 4 p.m. Boogie drove me over to the hospital in his rental to deliver the underwear, deodorant, toothbrush and the latest Michael Connelly murder mystery—Oh yes … I also went there to retrieve my mother, spend some time with Hannah in the ER and bring our SUV back home—rather than leave it in the ER Visitors Lot, where it had been since 6:45 a.m. She was not happy about being seen disheveled and gowned and vulnerable; confined there by wires and IVs.
In retrospect, I guess I should have asked Boogie to wait in the triage room, but I sensed that he was uncomfortable around sick people and crying children. Later H told me that the smell of cigar smoke on his clothes was overwhelming in the normally disinfected environment.
I know it seems that I had been more considerate of Boogie than Hannah, but—as I later explained to H: “I could have asked him to wait outside, but that clearly would have been rude and he had just arrived and I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to interview him. I could have asked him to go home and wait for me, but I didn’t want to hand him a key and I wasn’t positive that Darin would still be there to let him in—or more accurately, to keep an eye on him. I could have asked him to take my mother home, while I stayed with Hannah, but my mother is easily conned by most people and Boogie has been known to be a very capable and professional liar. Besides, I did not want to later accuse her of negligence by making Boogie her responsibility should anything turn up missing.”
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Old prejudices don’t die easily. But it was more like past experiences with Boogie and money and jewelry and drugs that made me take him with me instead of leaving him alone in the house. Once, while he and his parents were driving me to O’Hare—I can’t remember why I was there, except possibly to catch a return flight from a business-related educational conference and had taken the opportunity to see my aunt and uncle after many years—before their own car journey back to Miami—they had been visiting their oldest son, Lenny and his young family—Uncle Harry was fighting with Boogie over something and attempted to drag me into the conversation by asking what I thought of “their Ben.” I don’t know where it came from, but I blurted out, “Hide the money and jewelry before he visits.”
My aunt had muffled a laugh, but my Uncle Harry slowly shook a lowered head and said sadly, “Ben, that’s a hell of a thing—coming from your own cousin.”
Luckily this took place on the now backed-up and gridlocked departure ramp. I remember taking the opportunity to exit the highly charged atmosphere, removed my bag from the trunk and began to worm my way through the obstacle course of awkwardly parked cars and people rushing to make their planes on this crowded 4th of July Weekend. This was before wheels were on suitcases and it was a difficult 200-yard struggle, with frequent stops and switching of hands, to drag my bag to the Sky Cap check-in line—only to find that almost all flights were delayed by at least an hour. I never looked back to see where they were, but still remember being able to hear my Uncle Harry. He wasn’t saying anything pleasant.
This may have taken place in 1974 right before I moved to Norfolk and my new job in September ’75. Boogie had just come back from California to Florida and his parents had forced him to come to Chicago with them for the same reason I didn’t leave him alone at my house while visiting Hannah: complete lack of trust.
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After the admitting doctor showed up to examine and officially confirm the earlier ER doc’s decision to keep Hanna overnight, we were unceremoniously, and without any bedside manner, told—NOT asked—to leave by the ‘Lisa Cuddy’ look alike.
Hannah called later to tell me that a vacancy had finally showed up on someone’s computer and, having been in the ER since before 7 a.m., she would finally be moving to a room—at 9 p.m. that night.
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Allowing him ample time to ‘chill’ after his arrival, Boogie had managed to sit around and basically do nothing except create future problems. He apparently couldn’t wait to throw his 275 lbs. into Hannah’s favorite wicker chair in the mesh-screened gazebo located on the deck outside of the TV room. From there, with his feet comfortably propped up on the footstool, he proceeded to leisurely smoke his cigars and flick the ashes on top of both the live miniature palm and the artificial ivy and geraniums. I offered an ash tray, but was unceremoniously waived away with a cigar-filled hand and a, “This will be fine.”
Even before I walked out on the deck, I had passed our Backgammon table in the TV room and seen where Boogie had put jewelry on the expensive wood inlays. When I came inside from the cigar visit, I placed a 5” x 5” piece of cork—that we usually used under hot serving dishes—on the inner board of the game’s playing area; and rearranged his watch and ring—taking them off the wood and carefully placing them on top of the cork—hoping he would get the message.
A few hours later, the ring was still on the cork square, but the watch was back on the walnut board. I picked up Boogie’s expensive gold watch and returned it to the protective cork, next to his ruby pinky ring.
While