Death and the
Plumber
by
A.W. Hill
Mathilde and I made love on Easter Sunday,
in the musty little room above my mother’s
garage. My wife found it a little peculiar
that I wanted to have sex when my mother
was dying in the main house, just forty
feet away. Peculiar, but not perverse. Mathilde
is French, and implicitly acknowledges sex
to be no less essential to nourishment than
a warm baguette and a decent vin de table.
Moreover, I think she understood that I
wanted something on my skin besides the
smell of death.
Shortly after, she left for the airport
with the children, the last of the family
to depart. I stayed behind with Novia, the
Lithuanian RN, although I had also been
booked on the return flight to L.A. The
hospice people to whom my mother’s
end had been assigned had counseled us that
her condition was likely to “plateau”
for weeks, even months; that we might all
just as well return to our distant homes,
attend to necessary business, and keep a
bag packed. I chose to stay, though disease
had always terrified me to the point of
neurosis (as a boy, I feared contracting
polio from licking Easter seals). I stayed
because I didn’t believe the hospice
people. I knew there’d be no “plateau”.
I stayed because on so many other occasions,
when I should have lingered to bear witness
to my mother’s constant battle with
the nonsense of life, I’d run off
to attend to “necessary business”.
I was determined to bear witness to her
death.
And there was this, too: I was sure that
my mother had something to say to me, something
that would unlock a hundred secret drawers.
I was fixing a drink in the kitchen when
Novia came in, chalk-faced. This sturdy,
Slavic woman, who had seen much death and
had shepherded my mother through pain, shame,
delirium and incontinence for two weeks,
looked at me with a combination of surpassing
sweetness and primitive dread, and said:
“Come
... I think she die.”
We had all gotten used to Novia’s
uncertain English. In her syntax, all tenses
collapsed into the present. I think she
die could mean either I think she will die
soon or I think she is dead. I set down
my drink, and with its crraack against the
countertop my equilibrium left me. Panic
would describe the feeling, except that
panic doesn’t exert the gravitational
force of Saturn, or transform a linoleum
floor into quicksand.
I followed Novia to the livingroom, where
we had placed Mom’s hospital bed when
shortness of breath made it impossible for
her to negotiate the stairs to her second
floor bedroom. The livingroom, she had told
us, was where she wanted to be. The livingroom
was where she lived. Her old sofa was there,
her books -- the classics of J.D. Salinger’s
generation and dozens by the new breed,
all well overdue to the public library (she’d
been reading Jonathan Franzen’s How
To Be Alone before her mind turned to the
matter of how to die) -- and her television,
permanently tuned to CNN so that she could
monitor and protest the Republicans’
latest outrage. This was the room where
she had ministered to my countless childhood
phobias, bearing up with equanimity even
when I believed her to be a robotic imposter,
deployed by the Russians to poison my macaroni.
It seemed fitting that I should now minister
to her most delirious fears.
An arched portal led from a small foyer
and an adjoining front porch into the livingroom,
and as I passed through it, I called out,
“Mommy?”
I hadn’t called her that in thirty
years. The voice wasn’t present, nor
the thought process which had produced it.
It was the voice of a child who wakes from
a bad dream in the most uncharted hour of
night and stumbles to his mother’s
door, wanting only not to find himself alone
in a sea of dread. My mother hadn’t
said an intelligible thing for more than
twenty-four hours. I didn’t rationally
expect that she would respond to me now,
but a me whose psychic grammar -- like Novia’s
English -- had no regard for tense hoped
fiercely that she would.
I entered the room. Novia now followed at
a respectful distance, but close enough
that she could catch me if my knees gave
out. Her precaution was warranted, because
what I beheld may be what inspired medieval
plague visions.
Mom’s bed faced us from the opposite
end of the room, where we had moved it so
that she could “receive” her
visitors like a grand dame. Placed around
her on every available surface were framed
photographs of children and grandchildren,
and among them, the paraphernalia of death:
morphine, Atavin, rubber gloves, oxygen,
nebulizers, enema bags, and the item she
prized most: an electronic, vapor-enhanced
nicotine inhaler that she had dubbed her
“peace pipe” while her wits
and her wicked irony remained present. None
of these things seemed of much use to her
now.
“Oh
... oh,” I heard myself say, and moved
in fragmented time to her bedside.
Her eyes were half-open but sightless, their
soft grey dimmed by a milky caul. The skin
sunken into the hollow of her cheeks was
nearly translucent, and as cool to the touch
as citrus bought from a winter market. And
her lips -- lips whose kisses had ennobled
me at three and embarrassed me at six --
were drawn back from her teeth in a grimace
so deeply unnatural that it seemed some
sardonic puppeteer’s practical joke.
“Is
she ...?” asked Novia, no longer nurse
but fellow witness.
“No,”
I said, my ear cocked. “She’s
breathing.”
“Oh,”
said Novia. “Ah. Dat is goot. I was
worry.”
“Mom,”
I whispered. “Mommy? It’s me.
It’s Alfred. Can you hear me?”
The words came after a great delay (my voice
had taken a very long time to reach whatever
distant place she now occupied), but that
they came at all brought a sizzle to every
nerve ending in my body. They came not from
her lips, which barely moved, but from somewhere
deep in the cancer garden of her chest.
“Not
... very ... well,” she said, and
gasped from the effort of speaking.
“Oh,
God,” I said, sobs coming -- one,
two, three -- like the paroxysms of a scuba
diver suddenly way too deep. I took her
hand and lowered myself to the stool I’d
placed at her bedside two nights before.
“Tell me where you are, Mom. Tell
me what it’s like. Are you scared?
Is it ... okay there?”
My mother was an agnostic, less by conviction
than cultural reflex. Those who’d
come of age in the 1940’s had either
redoubled their childhood faith or given
up hope of divine providence altogether.
For Mom, only the latter position was intellectually
defensible. If she’d spoken of tunnels
or white lights, I’d have built a
church in her name.
Whether the rattling in her throat was the
onset of death or the preface to some great
and edifying pronouncement, I will never
know, because our communion was interrupted
by a knock on the half-open front door.
A sweet-faced Latino man stood on the threshold
with a work order in his hand. The patch
sewn on his navy blue jumpsuit informed
me that his name was Ernesto.
“What
... who are you?” I blurted. My expression
can’t have been welcoming.
“Roto-Rooter,”
he replied, and I could see that he was
trying to make sense of things in his own
way. “For that sewer line blockage.”
He stepped over the threshold.
“Oh, shit,” I said, hustling
from the bedside to plant my body between
my mother and the Roto-Rooter man. I don’t
know whether my concern was more with her
dignity or his discomfort, but the impulse
to shield was immediate. In truth, my mom
was beyond vanity, but that’s hindsight.
In life, she’d been proud of her youthful
looks, wearing her hair long well past the
age when most Midwestern ladies adopted
lacquered perms or pageboys. Now, the radiation
treatments had napalmed her nut-brown hair
to a few ghostly strands of silk; her beauty
was hidden from all who hadn’t loved
her, her pride vanquished. Even the thousand
dollar wig she’d gamely put on her
Visa card in one last flex of fuck poverty
extravagance just two weeks before had been
cast off and now sat on the piano, atop
a mannequin head that was as bald as hers.
“You
don’t remember, sir,” said the
plumber. “Our man was out Saturday?”
It came dimly back to me. “Okay,”
I said. “I remember. You need to dig.”
“That’s
right, sir. The crew is here. We have the
permit.”
Forty-eight hours earlier, there had been
sixteen human beings in my mother’s
house, all making use of the single working
toilet. It had finally been too much for
the archaic plumbing, reaching critical
mass at noon on Saturday. Throughout the
afternoon, as the main line was snaked out,
we’d all been grimly aware of living
a metaphor, even exchanging wincing smiles
over it. My brother had seen to the follow-up:
the sewer line was to be excavated. Imagination
could not but turn gothic at the thought
of what lay beneath. “Okay,”
I said. “Keep the noise down. My mother
is ... ”
Ernesto nodded. With a dozen candles burned
down to wick’s end around the bed,
no Latin Catholic could have misread the
situation. “We’ll try to get
the bulldozer out of here in three or four
hours,” he said.
Once the Roto-Rooter crew had broken ground,
I asked Novia to keep watch over my mother
and sat down to call my brother and uncle,
who lived within driving distance and had
asked to be summoned when the hour was near.
I had no frame of reference for the imminence
of death, but I felt it in my solar plexus,
in the held breath of the house, and in
the way everything had stilled outside.
There was only the rumble of the bulldozer
as its huge tracks scarred my mother’s
lawn. Maybe death, I thought, like revelation
or LSD, it is unknowable except by direct
encounter. If so, I had what I took as proof,
because in the moments which elapsed between
my mother’s other- wordly utterance
and the coming of Ernesto, I had sensed
the quickening of her soul.
After making the calls, I lit a fresh candle
at the bedside and sat down to await the
arrival of kin. I had perhaps forty-five
minutes in which to receive my mother’s
last testament. My uncle would come first,
in the company of his well-meaning but overbearing
Polish-American wife, and we would all --
even Mom -- be upstaged.
The foundation shook as the Roto-Rooter
crew hit the sewer line. Fifty odd years
of “blockage” would soon be
freed from its subterranean containment
and gurgle onto the public sidewalk. Another
jolt, and three photographs fell over. A
third, and the low strings of Mom’s
upright piano resonated darkly. I could
almost see her scowl.
“This
is terrible,” I said. “I’m
sorry, Mom. Great timing, huh?”
Had she been present of mind, even if half-asleep,
I would have seen her eyebrows lift and
the corners of her mouth curl in mordant
appreciation, but she wasn’t. Her
eyes were closed now, her breathing a bit
more rapid, and her temperature had gone
from morguelike to feverish. This, we had
been told to expect. I sang her the song
with which she’d put me to rest on
so many nights when morning seemed less
than certain:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy, when skies are gray
You’ll never know, dear, how much
I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away
Her eyelids fluttered, and I thought I glimpsed
a trace of a smile, like the shadow of a
cumulus cloud dusting a green hillside.
“Mom?”
I leaned in, pressing her hand. “Mom?
Do you want me to sing some more? It’s
just us. Like old times. Do you remem-”
Her eyes were in frenzied motion behind
the lids. I leaned in, certain she was about
to speak. A knock at the door. I grimaced
and cursed under my breath, anticipating
Ernesto, there to report the necessity of
digging beneath the livingroom.
“Yes?
Who is it?”
The voice was cloyingly cheery, given what
it augured. “Hospice! Time to check
the old girl.”
It was Jan, the hospice nurse. I did not
like Jan. She was short and squat and wore
thick eyeglasses that made her resemble
the spirit-sweeper in Poltergeist. In my
admittedly jaundiced view, hospice was a
cozy born-again euphemism for “get
it over with”. With “dignity”
... if dignity can be doled out in milligrams
of morphine. I didn’t think she merited
the title “nurse”, since she
had expressly forbidden any measures to
prolong life. It was all in the contract,
which read more like a product disclaimer.
She brushed straight past me and bent over
the bed railing.
“How’re we doing today, old
girl,” she cooed. “Guuud. That’s
dandy.”
It riled me that she’d presumed or
pretended a reply, when I’d worked
so hard for one. Perhaps, I thought, Jan
thinks herself capable of a mind-meld with
the dying.
“She’s
not responsive, Jan. Her fever is up. I’d
really like to get the doctor’s -”
“Let
me see if I can rouse her,” said Jan.
She took my mother’s bony shoulders
in her dimpled babydoll hands and shook
her three times. “Maggie!” she
shouted. “Are ya with us? The Bulls
are up twenty-eight points, by golly!”
“Her
name is Martha,” I said. “And
please don’t jostle her like that.”
“I’m
gonna say,” Jan opined, swinging her
stethoscope and ignoring both my correction
and my reproach, “that she’s
semi-comatose.”
“She
can’t be ... she just -- What does
that mean? What should I do?”
“Increase
the morphine to forty milligrams.”
“Increase
the morphine!” I protested. “Why?
She’s not in pain. She’s not
a lame racehorse. She just spoke to me.
Morphine’ll just put her out.”
This wasn’t the first time Jan and
I had had words. I think my nostrils flared.
“Jesus. You people think every -”
“I
think --” Jan parked her hands on
her hips and gave me the evil eye. “I
think maybe you have an issue with anger,
sir. You know, denial takes many form-”
“I
have an issue with you, Jan. I have an issue
with your goddamned evangelical death squad.
Who appointed you to pimp for the undertaker?”
Honestly, I do not know to this day what
demon fed me those words.
Her bearing was so icily calm that it made
me shudder. “Well,” she said
with aggressive sweetness, “Your family
hired me ... but God chooses his shepherds
and God decides when to bring his little
lambs home.”
“Then
God is not welcome in my mother’s
house, and neither are you.”
I showed her to the door. In the kitchen,
I saw a little smile dimple Novia’s
face.
I’ll give Jan credit for deathbed
savvy, if not deathbed manner. In every
real sense, my mom had left the stage, yet
I was still pitching her lines, calling
doctors, tapering dosages. I believe the
reason I gave Jan the hook was that I heard
Death’s costume rustling in the wings,
and wanted to deliver my soliloquy as a
kind of terminal filibuster against his
entrance. But no sooner had I retaken my
stool than did my aunt and uncle arrive,
breathless and pained, but -- it seemed
to me as they took positions on the sofa
still bearing dents from their last visit
-- fully ready for the curtain to close.
“Oh,
Gaaad!” my aunt wailed after taking
her first gander. “Is she gone?”
“No,
” I said. “Soon, I think. Her
breathing is weird again, and her fever
is up. They ... the hospice people ... said
that would be a sign.”
She peeled off her coat and handed it to
my uncle. “Fix me a Stinger, would
ya, hun?” His acquiescence could,
by this point in their long marriage, be
presumed.
He nodded, my mother’s younger brother
did, then looked to me. “You w-want
a drink?” He swallowed a sob, and
as he did I saw how deep his grief was.
My uncle was as undemonstrative as all lifelong
Midwesterners, but death makes divas of
us all.
“No,
thanks,” I said. “I’m
all right, for now.”
He returned with my aunt’s cocktail
in short order, and as soon as she’d
had a few belts, she rose, cleared her throat,
and approached the bedside opposite me.
It was immediately evident that she had
a speech prepared. She folded her hands
in prayer.
“Marfie,”
she began tremulously. “I want you
to listen to me. I talked this after-noon
to a friend of mine. My patron saint, Theresa
of the Little Flowers. She was with me when
my Dad passed, God rest his soul, and she’s
been with me ever since. She wanted me to
tell you, Marfie ...” Her voice broke,
and tears rolled over dikes of eyeliner.
“Let go, Marfie! It’s O.K. to
let go now! Little Theresa will take you
home.”
I didn’t wince, despite the whiff
of greasepaint. It was testimony, and in
full keeping with her Chicago-ethnic Catholicism.
I wept, she wept, and we sang a chorus of
Someone To Watch Over Me together. But I
couldn’t shake the feeling that there
was something oddly coercive about her Extreme
Unction, that my aunt, no less than the
hospice people (and with no more real malice),
was intent on waltzing my mother to the
carriage before she could dance with the
prince. My suspicion was borne out within
the minute it arose. It was an instance
of vaudeville timing rarely offered by real
life.
My aunt fell back on the couch and fanned
herself like a faith healer exhausted from
his exhortations. She glanced at her watch,
then at my mother’s breast, still
rising and falling, perhaps even more determinedly
despite Saint Theresa’s entreaties.
“Come on, Marfie!” she said,
slapping her knee summarily. “It’s
Bingo night.”
I did not curse her. Instead, like a well-bred
Englishman who, upon finding his wife in
flagrante with a Great Dane, apologises
for the intrusion, I reverted to practiced
etiquette. My aunt had given my mother sanction
to die, and that was that. “Listen,”
I said, surprised by my even tone, “maybe
it’s a false alarm. They said we’d
have those. If you two have plans for tonight,
go ahead. I’ll be all right. I know
... what to do.”
There was a sudden cacaphony outside: shovels
clanged with finality, the bulldozer sounded
the signature bleep-bleep-bleep of reverse
gear, and the two-hundred foot, one-hundred
horsepower roto-rooter was withdrawn from
the sodden earth like the spent sex organ
of some huge, primeval squid.
“Hold
on a second,” I said. “I’d
better see what they’re doing.”
I charged out the door to find the likeness
of an archeological dig in the front yard.
Bushes uprooted, a six-foot section of the
public sidewalk heaved up like a tectonic
plate, grass gone: collateral damage in
the mighty effort to purge my mother’s
old pipes. A towering mound of earth occupied
half of what had been the lawn, and from
it there rose a mast of PVC pipe which no
one would mistake for lawn decor.
I yelled: “W-wait a second! Where
do you guys think you’re going?”
“Job’s
done, sir,” said Ernesto. “We
found a root down there big as a car. All
grown into the pipe. Got it out. The dirt’ll
settle in a few months and then we can come
back and trim the clean-out pipe.”
“Settle?”
I shouted, circling the neolithic mound.
“This ... is going to ‘settle’?
No way. You guys haul this dirt away or
I’ll call your dispatcher and cancel
the check.”
“Can’t,
sir,” said Ernesto, with a shrug.
“We’re not licensed to do that.”
“What
about the sidewalk? That’s public
property.”
“Not
our problem.” Was it my imagination,
or had Ernesto evinced a surliness I hadn’t
seen before? Something shitty gets hold
of people when they know you’re at
their mercy. “Talk to the village,”
he said summarily.
“The
hell I will!” Indignation filled my
chest. This was beyond shoddy work. This
was desecration, not to mention that the
neighbors, long wary of my family’s
unconventionality, would think we’d
buried Mother in the front yard. “You
haul away this dirt away or I will sue your
ass.” Notwithstanding my rage, Ernesto
and his crew cannot have been much intimidated
by the tears in my eyes.
“Sorry,”
he said, and turned away with what looked
suspiciously like a smirk.
While I stood quivering, the diggers finished
lashing the bulldozer to the bed of the
Roto-Rooter truck and jumped in back alongside
it. Ernesto hopped in the cab with the driver.
I saw him signal a getaway with a tip of
his flattened palm, but it was what he did
a moment later that stirred my fight or
flight response. He turned as the truck
lurched off, crooked his wrist upright,
and gave me what I took to be a patronizing
little wave -- the Queen’s wave. It
flattened me. I might indeed have dropped
to my knees in the dirt like a good subject,
but for the wiring of my neuro-muscular
system and the propensity of all soldiers
to behave with both uncommon valor and irrational
exuberance in the proximity of death. I
took off, full speed, after the truck.
“Sonofabitch!”
I howled. “Sonofabitch!” I managed
to grab hold of the truck’s left side
panel and vault inside, then clambered over
the bulldozer’s nubbby treads to the
rear of the pick-up. I seized one of the
shovels propped against the tailgate without
resistance from the diggers, whose limpid
brown eyes revealed only the hunkered-down
wariness of cornered dogs. It was when I
lept atop the bulldozer and began to hammer
dents in its yellow hood that one of them
raised an arm and shouted:
“Hey,
man! Are you fucking crazy?”
And the other, slouching down further, mouthed,
“Loco ...”
Brakes squealed, and I was thrown from the
truck and into the gutter, where I lay,
still clutching the shovel, while Ernesto
stepped out onto the running board, gave
a cursory look over the roof to see if I
was injured, and muttered, “Jesus,
man,” crossing himself before ducking
back inside. The truck roared off in blue
smoke.
I limped back down the street I’d
often sprinted as a schoolboy, using the
shovel as a crutch. Pain knifed through
my ribs with each step, but I felt weirdly
euphoric. I know now what things comprised
this euphoria, other than the rush of endorphins.
One was boyish and fleeting: with my mighty
shovel, I had vanquished the beast whose
talons had ripped apart my mother’s
yard. The other thing stopped me in my tracks,
three doors down from the house I’d
grown up in. It was the remembered swell
of anticipation in my chest, the tensing
of my neck as my pulse rose, the flush in
my face. The same feelings one has when
going to see a new lover, but I’d
felt them every day of my childhood on walking
home from school. Now I felt them again,
for it all came back, as present as the
cawing of a raven in the elm tree over my
head. How could I forget? Mommy’s
home. My beautiful Mommy is home and I can’t
wait to tell her --
As I stood leaning on the shovel, the front
porch door opened soundlessly, and my Uncle
took a heavy step down. A long step, and
for a perilous moment, his entire frame
-- six-foot two -- staggered, and I thought
sure he’d tip. I dropped the shovel
and began to run, hugging my ribs. He looked
up to see me coming. He looked up, yes,
and nodded almost imperceptibly, and told
me with the nod that the wait was over.
“Oh,
no ... no no no no no!” This came
out of me as I hobbled toward him.
When I reached the stoop, he put a hand
on my shoulder. I don’t think he’d
ever touched me before, at least not since
I’d been grown.
He told me that my mother had opened her
eyes for a few seconds before the end. That
she’d stared straight up at the ceiling
and moved her head slightly from side to
side as if seeking something in her blindness,
listening for an echo in the abyss.
I returned to her grave late on the day
of her burial. The little cemetery was deserted,
the sun was low in the sky, and on three
sides stood the primeval woods of oak and
ash which had once covered this land. I
waited, looking for sigils in the shifting
beams of sunlight, listening for words on
the breath of the wind. I told myself that
it was vanity to think she’d been
looking for me when she’d opened her
eyes before dying, that surely she’d
been beyond any effort of will. But my shame
at having once again been absent kept gnawing;
the thought that I’d missed what might
have been her last testament was unendurable.
To my left, a twig snapped. A fully grown
doe stepped gingerly onto a neighboring
gravesite and nibbled the freshly placed
mums. Then it struck me.
I had stayed behind to await my mother’s
consent to live on without her, to laugh,
to love, to drink at her table, even in
the presence of an empty chair, but it was
she who’d been waiting for a nod from
her firstborn son. I laid myself down on
the grave and whispered into the newly turned
earth. It was all right, I told her, to
leave me on my own.
Death
and the Plumber
© 2006 by A.W. Hill
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