Chapter Eleven

December

“Don’t you ever return phone calls?” my brother Denny asked. “This is the third time I’ve called you.”

I told him I was sorry and mumbled something about never being home.

“Yeah, well listen,” he said. “My right shoulder’s been bothering me, and it’s getting worse. I know you’re only a resident but I thought maybe you could tell me what’s the matter.”

I didn’t like the “only a resident” crack. “Shoulder? What’s a shoulder? Hold on. Let me look it up in my medical dictionary.”

“Come on. I mean it. The damn thing’s been killing me after hockey and now it’s even keeping me up at night.”

“Have you tried warm milk and a pacifier?”

“Hey, dickhead, are you going to help me or not?”

“All right. Go ahead.”

He told me he had injured his shoulder playing football in college, and that “the damn thing has never been right since.” He had some free time next week and would come up to Mayo if I could get an appointment for him.

“But I don’t want to see some resident,” he said. “Make sure you line me up with someone good.”

Oh, so we’re back to insulting residents again, huh? Okay. “I know the perfect guy for you,” I said. “He just got his license reinstated. He finished rehab and is living in a halfway house with his old lady who is sixteen. He hardly ever uses acid when he operates now. And you’ll love his tattoos—but at least he’s not a resident.”

This wasn’t the best time for us to be having visitors. Patti had just given birth to our second daughter, Mary Kate. The delivery went smoothly, but Pat was tired and sore. I tried to get her to look at things philosophically.

“Look,” I said. “Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has decreed the manner by which babies are brought into this world. I did my part willingly and cheerfully. I think you should do the same.”

She mentioned something about “willingly and cheerfully” performing an operation with a rusty knife that would allow me to sing in the Vienna Boys Choir.

 

Four days later, Denny arrived in his beat-up Jeep. He tossed his suitcase on our bed. “This’ll be fine,” he said, “but where are you and Patti going to sleep?”

“Get that roach-infested thing off our bed,” I said, kicking his suitcase onto the floor. “You’re going to the basement.”

The two of us went down to the basement where we cursed and kicked open the couch-bed. Denny pushed on the musty lump of petrochemicals we had just unfolded into his mattress. “The hell with my shoulder,” he said. “I’m gonna need a spine fusion by the time I get out of this place.”

“No, please,” I said, holding up a hand. “Don’t thank me. Just seeing that look of brotherly affection in your eyes is all the thanks I’ll ever need.”

He gave me the finger and yelled up the stairs, “Patti! Why did you ever marry this loser?”

I didn’t see Denny again for four days. I was on call the day after he arrived. The following night I came home at six and went to bed at seven. On the third night I was on call again.

When I came home on the fourth day, Denny was sitting at the kitchen table holding Mary Kate on his lap and drinking a beer. He had seen Mayo’s shoulder guru, had an X-ray and an MRI scan, and was scheduled for surgery in the morning.

Patti had told me how great it was having him around—“since you never are,” she said. In between clinic appointments, Denny fed Eileen, helped with the shopping, shoveled the sidewalk, fixed the kitchen faucet, and generally did everything a real husband would do. And now he was sitting with my infant daughter on his lap. She sat there contentedly chewing on her knuckle and drooling all over the front of his shirt.

“Want a beer?” Denny asked. He was very generous with my beer.

I opened the refrigerator. I had purchased a case of Grain Belt the week before. There was one left. I popped the top of the last beer and sat back down. “What happened to the rest of the case?” I asked.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Patti,” he whispered, nodding slightly toward the sink. “I think you may have a little problem on your hands there.” He made a drinking gesture with the thumb of his right hand.

“Has she been pouring them on her Cheerios again?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s tragic, simply tragic. God knows I’ve tried to help.” He looked at Mary Kate playing on his lap, and shook his head. “My heart goes out to these poor children.”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Patti asked. She turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. She came over, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head.

“Your boozehound brother-in-law is trying to bullshit his way out of responsibility for the fact that we are out of beer.”

“Out of beer?” She opened the refrigerator and stared incredulously. “Out of beer?”

I turned to Denny and flashed a smug smile. Now he was in for it.

Pat swung the door shut and turned on me. Me! “How could you?” she said. “The only job I gave you was to make sure we had enough beer for your brother. I can’t believe you ran out.”

I ran out? I, the guy who had been working almost four days in a row? I, the guy who barely had one sip of one beer? I ran out?

I turned and looked at Denny who was gazing innocently out the window, the same faint, shit-eating grin on his face as when he used to get me in trouble with Mom. I looked back at Patti who was standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at me.

Okay.

I stood up, belched loudly, and began swaying back and forth, beer in my right hand. “All right, I ran outta beer. Whassa matter? Can’t a guy have a coupla beersh around here?”

Patti rolled her eyes. “Knock it off and go to Barlow’s and get some more beer for your brother.”

“C’mere, baby,” I said, staggering forward. “I’m just a lonely truckdrivin’ man.” I groped for her and started singing, “Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.”

She laughed, pushed me away, and looked over my shoulder at Denny. “Take this lunatic to the store and have him get you some more beer.”

We got the beer and returned home to a chicken and mashed potatoes dinner (Denny’s favorite). I asked why we never had my favorite dinner, pot roast, and was promptly told to shut up, that I wasn’t the one having surgery the next day, and besides, I didn’t exactly look like I was starving to death. That was a low blow. I was going to start working out again as soon as things slowed down a little.

Since it was the night before his surgery, Denny had been told not to drink alcohol, so he said he would have only four more beers—which was just as well. It was 8:30 and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

His surgery went well. They kept him in the hospital overnight and sent him home the following morning. Patti talked him into staying in town for a week until they took his stitches out. Even with his right arm in a sling he was still able to rock the baby and play with Eileen.

I didn’t see much of Denny after surgery. I was on call a lot, and even when I was home I didn’t have much gas left in the tank. I would drag myself in the back door, halfheartedly pick at dinner, and then drop into bed.

Four days after Denny’s surgery I got home about 6:00 P.M. Denny was in the living room rocking the baby. She was sleeping peacefully on his shoulder.

“Let me hold that sweet little thing,” I said to him. I reached over and lifted Mary Kate from his shoulder. She immediately started fussing and squirming.

“Not like that,” Denny said. “She doesn’t like to be held that way.”

I shifted her around but she continued to cry.

“Never mind,” he said. “Just give her back to me. She doesn’t like strangers.”

I was her father. I wasn’t a stranger. Nevertheless, stunned and crushed, I handed her back to Denny. He laid her on his shoulder, and patted her on the back. She snuggled a time or two, gave a contented sigh, and was still.

“Did Mister Stranger-Danger try to hurt you?” he cooed. “Don’t worry. Uncle Denny won’t let that bad man hold you again.”

His teasing hit too close to home. What the hell kind of life am I leading? I wondered. I hardly ever see my wife. My kids don’t even know me. My brother is more of a father to them, and more of a husband to Patti than I am. Is this what I want?

I felt frustrated and guilty—for about two minutes. An hour later Patti woke me up and said I should just go to bed. I wasn’t any use to anyone passed out on the couch drooling all over the front of my shirt. I staggered to my feet. My guilt was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. I hung my pants on the top of the bathroom door, dropped my shirt on the floor, and fell into bed.

Denny left three days later. I never got to say good-bye. For weeks afterward Eileen would look at me when I walked in the back door, frown, and ask when Uncle Denny was coming home.