Old Scratch’s funeral was two days ago. All the residents went and all the staff except one. Someone had to stay behind with me.
I worked on an article and tried planning my Canadian literature class. Made great progress on the former. Zilch on the latter. Already anticipating complaints from students of that class. Dr. Ripley? Yes? While I agree with you that Atwood is discussing gendered power structures here, I’m not sure that she’s engaging in misandry. Thank you, Mike Teevee. I admire your input. Now open your book and keep reading until you see it.
Scartoretti, one of Old Scratch’s posse members, probably appreciated my absence from the funeral. At dinner the day before the funeral, Gertrude and I were talking. I’d finished massage therapy and she walked with me to the dining room. Did you know Mr. Myrtle was an ardent Catholic? she said. I looked up from my pork chops. He didn’t talk like one. Gertrude chuckled. When he first got here, she said, he made us drive him to mass at six every morning. One day I was at the end of my shift—my shift ended at six—and he came over and told me to wake the hell up or he’d miss the service. I smiled. He’s probably rolling up to the pearly gates, I said, tripping everyone else ahead of him in line. Scartoretti had been listening from the table next to ours. He turned to me. He’s not in a wheelchair anymore, he said. He’s walking now, like a man should. Okay, I said. He turned back to his meal. I looked at Gertrude. Over my shoulder I said, Narrow interpretation of a man, but okay. Scartoretti—I’ll just call him Dante, I’m tired of writing his name—put down his fork and turned back to me. Fixed me in his eyes; looked me up and down with those dark rolling fig pits. You are a smart ass, he said. I’m a professor, I said. He pushed back from the table and pointed at me. No man wants to be in a chair, he said. No proper man, anyways. I chuckled. I guess I’m not a proper man, then, I said. His brows pinched down upon his eyes. Then he took his dinner into his lap and rolled away.
Noticed something at breakfast this morning. The Residence has changed. It feels fragile, creaky. As though Old Scratch has splashed his rickety soul all over the walls. I try to ruffle the dust and stir up some trouble, but everyone wants quiet. The residents are like mice with their tails curled around them. Even Jeeves won’t talk to me. Tried to ask him about his experiences with death. Thought I might record his words and sell them as a short story or something. With his imagination he would surely conjure up something outrageous. He shook his head and turned up the volume of the Harry Potter movie he was watching. Don’t want to share stories, he said. From his contorted face I could see he had conjured something brutal. I leaned closer to him; he cowered, held the remote control in front of him. I left him alone. Finding no one else to talk to, I retired to my room.
Maybe Old Scratch’s death has reminded everyone that they will die quicker than most other people. Reminding them of their vulnerability: what they endure and what’s left to endure. Their disabilities make them more sensitive.
Seems my tremors have plateaued. At a high level, though. A constancy that makes me jab myself with a fork when eating. Stabbed the roof of my mouth this morning. Drew blood; grunted out onto a napkin. The blood unsettled some of my fellow residents. I refused Stefan’s help and took another pill.