So Long, Chester Wheeler(85)

But it was a little weird.

Still, I obliged her. I briefly kissed the crepey, papery skin of her forehead and then stepped out into nearly unbelievable cold.

Estelle’s grandnephew was leaning against the outside of his RV, which was a much newer model built on a truck chassis. He was smoking a cigarette in the gathering darkness, and doing a poor job of hiding his curiosity over who had arrived.

I approached him, trying to walk as though I hadn’t dislocated my toe, hugging my own arms against the chill.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “You’re not family.”

He was probably forty, with close-cropped hair, but it was hard to see more in the dark.

“I’m here with Estelle Garnier,” I said. “I’m her home health aide.”

“Estelle did not come,” he said.

Which seemed like a weird thing to say.

“Estelle did come.”

“How was she even invited?”

“I guess the whole family was invited.”

“But not Estelle.”

“Well, she knew where it was. So I’m thinking you’re wrong.”

I realized we were off to a very bad start. Of course I hoped there was only this one horse’s ass in the family, and that overall reactions to her attendance would be more positive. But it did set off some negative anticipation.

“Why does she need a home health aide?”

“Because she’s dying.”

“Of what?”

“A surprising number of things, actually. But let’s not violate HIPAA too badly.”

“I’ll bet she’s not. That old bat is too ornery to die.”

“I’m going to take a look around,” I said. “I’ll see you.”

But it was freezing, and nearly dark, and my toe hurt when I walked, and there wasn’t much to see. And besides, the horse’s ass seemed to be watching my every move.

I stepped back into the RV, closed myself into the back bedroom, and called Brian.

“Hey,” he said.

I skipped the usual “Hey” and asked, “What’s the treatment for a dislocated toe?”

“Well, you have to bite the bullet and pop it back into place.”

“Did that already.”

“Just take some medical adhesive tape and tape it to the toe next door. That will immobilize it some so it can heal. Other than that, there’s not much you can do except . . . you know . . . ice. Elevation. Stay off it as much as possible. How did she dislocate her toe?”

“No, not Estelle. Me. I kicked her oxygen tank on the way to the bathroom in the dark.”

“Ouch. You should have wedged it behind the seat like you do when you’re driving.”

“Great. Where were you last night?”

“Are you at the reunion?”

“Yeah, we’re here. But I’m not quite sure where ‘here’ is. Being here feels a little bit like being nowhere at all.”

Already I could hear the furnace cycling noisily on, trying to keep the inside of the cabin warm. Fortunately it could run without the generator. You just needed a full enough tank of propane and some battery, both of which we had.

I told him quite a bit about the drive, and the place, and the horse’s ass of a grandnephew. Really quite a bit more than he needed to know, in fact. I wondered if he knew I was talking so much because I felt isolated and lost and totally alone.

Brian has never been a stupid man, so I guessed the answer to that question was a definite yes.



When we woke in the morning, the place was hopping. We could hear it over the roar of the furnace.

It was 6:45, and we already knew the festivities began with a pancake breakfast at 7:30.

I began to pull up the curtain on the barn side to see what was what.

“Put that down again!” Estelle shouted.

She was still in bed in her nightgown, sitting up. Before I did as she’d asked, I was able to see that an actual caterer had come in, with a logo truck, and generators, and outdoor tables with freestanding gas heaters.

“Why don’t you want me to raise the curtain?”

“I want to see them before they see me.”

She came over and sat on the bed on my side, and I scooted out of her way. She raised the curtain an inch or so. Just enough to get a view with one peering eye.

Channeling Chester again.

“Caterer. Caterer. Hell, there are more caterers here than there are family. There’s my horse’s ass grandnephew again. Caterer. Oh! There’s my daughter.”

“That’s good. Right?”

“No. Not really. She’s a horse’s ass, too. Oh, and her husband. My son-in-law.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. A horse’s ass.”

“He’s not a horse’s ass.” I breathed a sigh of relief before she added, “He’s pure evil.”

Just for a split second I wondered why she had wanted to do this. But I supposed it made sense seen through the frame of end-of-life wishes. And maybe not in any other frame.

She seemed to read my mind.

“Why did I want to come here again?”

“Because you know it’s probably your last chance. And because these people are your flesh and blood. You want to see if there’s any way to repair those relationships, and if there isn’t, you at least want to know you tried.”