Then one day the phone rang at my house on Wilson Lane. It was last May the fifteenth. Forsythia was past its rampant array. The playoffs were in full tilt (Pacers had beat the Heat). Obama was getting his little black booty spanked by Romney about fiscal stewardship. Iran had executed someone, and “W” was paying a sentimental visit back to DC, site of all his great triumphs.
“Mom’s moving to Haddam. She wanted me to tell you,” Clarissa said from Arizona. Dogs were yapping in the background. She was in her clinic.
“Why?” I said. Possibly I shouted this, as if I was in the kennels with her. Though I was stunned.
“It’s convenient,” she said. “Medical care’s the same everywhere for what she’s got.” (Which isn’t true.) “She says she wants to be buried close to Ralph.” (Our son who died of Reye’s, when people still did that.) “She said she started adult life in Haddam, so she wants to finish it there. She knows you won’t like it. But she says you don’t own Haddam, and she can do whatever she wants without your permission. So fuck you. She said that. Not me.”
“When?”
“Next month, apparently. Teddy’s condo sold for a lot.”
“Where,” I said, struggling with monosyllables, like a perp in a jumpsuit on a video court appearance.
“Someplace called Carnage Hill. Nice name. It’s out of town in some woods. Supposedly it’s the state of somebody’s art. I guess the Amish run it.”
“Quakers,” I said. “Not Amish. They’re different.”
“Whatever,” Clarissa said. “Don’t do that…” She was speaking to someone where she was, no doubt about getting the Chihuahua shaved for surgery.
“It’s a high-end old folks’ home,” I said.
“She’s a high-end old folks. And she’s got Parkinson’s.
And it’s not an old folks’ home. It’s a staged extended-care community. She’ll have her own apartment. It’ll be nice. Get over it.”
“For how long?”
“For how long is she staying? Or how long do you have to get over it?”
“Both.”
“Forever. The answer’s the same.”
“Forever?”
“Whichever comes first,” Clarissa hit the phone against something hard. “I said don’t do that,” she said again to somebody else. Yap, yap, yap.
“What?” I said.
“Try not to be an asshole, Frank. She’s dying.”
“Not any faster than I am. I have prostate cancer — or I did have.”
“Maybe you two’ll have something to talk about finally. Though maybe not.”
“We’re divorced.”
“Right. I seem to remember that. I think that was called my whole fucking life. And Paul’s, too. Thank you very much.” She was only being hostile because she didn’t like giving me unpopular news, and this was the way she could do it. As if she hated me.
I said nothing then. Nothing seemed like enough.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” she said.
“Then who can I shoot?”
“I can shoot you the bird,” she said to regain our moment. I love her. She apparently loves me but can be difficult. Both my children can be. “I’m giving you the thumbs-down all the way from Scottsdale. Do yourself a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“I already said. Get over it.”
“Okay. Bye,” I said.
“Okay bye, yourself.”
And that was basically that.
EVEN BEFORE I’D TURNED THE CORNER AT THE END of my block on Wilson, my neck had started zapping me, and I’d begun feeling the first burning-needles-prickle-stabs in the soles of my feet, sensations that now, outside the Carnage Hill gated entry — rich, golden lights shining richly through the naked hardwoods like a swanky casino — had traveled all the way up into my groinal nexus and begun shooting Apache arrows into my poor helpless rectum. It’s classic pelvic pain (I’ve been diagnosed), which, though its true origins are as mysterious as Delphi, is almost certainly ignited by stress. (What isn’t ignited by stress? I didn’t know stress even existed in my twenties. What happened that brought it into our world? Where was it before? My guess is it was latent in what previous generations thought of as pleasure but has now transformed the whole psychic neighborhood.)
I make the turn through the gates, up winding Legacy Drive. Temperatures had risen by day’s end but now are falling. Freezing rain’s sticking and coating the trees my headlights sweep past. Ditto the road. When I leave I’ll be able to slide down to the Great Road and sluice across into Mullica Pond. “Bascombe went to deliver an orthopedic pillow to his ex-wife and somehow drowned getting home. Details are pending police investigation.” Old James thought death was a distinguished thing. I’m certain it’s not.
Up close, Carnage Hill looks like an over-sized Hampton Inn, with low-lit “grounds” and paved “contemplation paths” leading into the woods, instead of to a customers-only parking with special slots for 18-wheelers. Tonight, the inside’s all lit up, meaning to convey a special “There’s more here than meets the eye” abundance both to visitors and well-heeled residents alike. Nothing’s bleaker than the stingy, unforgiving one-dimensionality of most of these places; their soul-less vestibules and unbreathable antiseptic fragrances, the dead-eyed attendants and willowy end-of-the-line pre-clusiveness to whatever’s made life be life but that now can be forgotten. Sally’s mother, Freddy, walked ten feet past the door of a suburban “Presbyterian Village” out in Elgin, then turned around and walked back out to the car and died of a (willed) infarct right in the front seat. There are statistics about such things. “I guess she was telling us something,” Sally said.
Ann, though, is getting her money’s worth out here and is happy as a goldfish about it. Carnage Hill advertises anything but pre-clusive. On display in the foyer is their “Platinum Certification” from the Federation of Co-axial Senior Life-Is-A-Luxury-Few-Want-To-Leave Society, based in Dallas — the national death-savvy research center. The goal at Carnage Hill is to re-brand aging as a to-be-looked-forward-to phenomenon. Thus, no one working inside wears a uniform. Smart, solid-color, soft-to-the-touch casual-wear is supplied from Land’s End. No one’s called “staff” or treated like it. Instead, alert, friendly, well-dressed, well-groomed “strangers” just seem to happen by, acting interested and offering to help whoever needs it. Half of the caregivers are Asian — who’re better at this type of thing than Anglo-Saxons, Negroes, and regular Italian Jersey-ites. Everything inside’s sustainable, solar, green, run by sensors, paperless, or hands-off and is pricey beyond imagining. Loaner Priuses are available in an underground geo-heated garage. Wireless pill boxes inform residents when to take their meds. Computer games in the TVs chart residents’ cognitive baseline (if they can remember to play). There are even Internet cemeteries that invite residents to make videos of themselves, so loved ones can see Aunt Ola when she still had a brain. “Aging is a multidisciplinary experience,” the corporate brochure, Muses, wants applicants to know. Carnage Hill, following the theme, is thus a “living laboratory for Gray Americans.”