Seeing Him Through by Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Where is Herman? Where is Herman? 

Herman is not in his room, on his hospital bed, underneath his patchwork quilt.  Herman is not in the bathroom, sitting on the commode. Oh, where is Herman? 

“Herman! Herman?”

Has he forgotten his name? Perhaps I might as well be saying, “Sermon! Sermon?”

Of course, Herman could be dead somewhere. That’s a strong possibility. Since I’m quite a bit younger than my husband, ten years to be exact, I’ve expected (hoped for) him to be dead for some time. 

Ah! There’s Herman, outside, on the other side of the window of all places, bathed in light, tilting a bit, like a ruin, standing beside my rose bush, ironically beside the oak tree under whose canopy of branches I harvest my mushrooms.

“Oh, Herman,” I scold. He is not supposed to get out of bed by himself, let alone leave the house. He knows better, or he knew better, until today. 

My hand covers his, our wedding bands touching. He pulls away. Oh, Herman. 

“It’s too early to be out. You’re half naked. You haven’t had your breakfast.” My slippers are soaking in the morning dew. What a nuisance!

Herman begins to cry. A light rain sprinkles. 

“And you haven’t got your teeth! That won’t do.”

Herman cries harder, gums showing. 

***

Herman’s breakfast consists of prune juice with just a pinch of the dried death cap mixed in, toasted bread (multigrain) slathered with butter, and a cloud of cream plopped in hot coffee. Herman sits across from my empty chair, eyes locked, as though hypnotized, on my (handmade!) cherry-printed cushion. The phone rings. Herman commences a small choking sound (He’s been coughing more). Headed to the basement for some ironing, I stop in my tracks. 

“Now now. I’ll get it,” I lie, going for a glass of water for Herman. I let the phone continue to ring. It reminds me of a car alarm (stupid and annoying).

Only fools answer ringing phones. One must always be prepared for what’s coming. Something is alwayscoming. The answering machine picks up. A younger Herman’s voice fills the room. He tells the caller they have reached the Benedict family and to please leave a message after the beep, and thank you. 

“Mom? It’s me, Jack. I’m here in town. I thought I’d come at lunch. I can pick something up so you’re not bothered. I’ll be there by noon, thanks, bye,” he says. 

What is he thanking me for? Why would I be bothered by fixing lunch? Lunch is a no-brainer. And why do adult children of infirm parents always think they can just drop down like a bird on the roof or something? Confounding!

Behold: the son from California – blonde, divorced Jack Benedict. His name was Herman Jr. but he’d rather his middle name, John. No, actually he’d rather a nickname, Jack. Actually, he’d just like to name himself. And what’s wrong with that? my opinionated sister Violet would say, if she were alive, always the devil’s advocate. (Or maybe just the devil -Ha!) Naming yourself is disrespectful to your elders, I think. 

“It’s just disrespectful, Herman! Just like Jack, stopping by without any notice like that! Although you don’t think so, I’m sure. Whatever Jack does is just fine, huh Herman, ” I say, my stress level heightening, picking up the blue and white breakfast dish with a faint, spidery crack up its side. 

Oh, where’d Herman’s toast go? Herman rarely eats his breakfast these days. A peak under the table reveals limp buttery blobs dropped at his feet. I wipe Herman’s mouth and pull a comb from my pocket to smooth his thinning hairs. They are greasy little strands, dental floss I tease across the bald chasm that is his emptying head. 

“Today’s a special day, Herman. Jack, your son, is finally visiting you. Last minute, that’s right, that’s right,” I say. Poor, Herman, he never knows who’s coming or going. It’s really not fair to surprise him this way. I face Herman to check my work. His lost amber eyes show a small glimmer of despair and then go flat again. 

“Now, what do you think we should make Jack for lunch?” I say, moving from table to fridge, my mind buzzing like flies. 

***

I’ve got my work cut out for me. After the breakfast dishes are cleaned up, Herman sits doubled over, moaning softly, in his living room sunspot while I begin dusting, vacuuming, polishing. The cars swish back and forth in front of the large bow window. The rose bush watches us, front and center, loyal, rooted, planted thirty years ago, at least. No matter. Herman will need his diaper changed -maybe twice!- before Jack arrives. Not a problem at all. I’m the kind of wife who does it all, to the very end. This husband won’t have one bed sore, not on my watch, not like Jane Candle’s mother, oh no.  Everything I do is a sign of my love.

What’s love got to do with it? That’s what Tina Turner said. Love, not my favorite. What’s love but second hand emotion? That’s right, Tina. What I love is this house – the ticking clocks, the framed photos, the oriental rugs, the crystal vases, the peeling wallpaper, the framed photos of happy memories. But obviously, I also love being in charge-in control-of a house-of a husband. Control is better than love, or the sensible product of love.

I’ve known since day one, since marrying Herman all those years ago, that this whole thing would end in one thing: death. So let’s get on with it, that’s what I say. When he first started going gaga I held Jack’s trembling hands and told him, softly, in my kindest voice, that he was not to worry, that I’d see Herman, Dad, through, those are the exact words I used, which sounded nice but what I meant was I would be there when he died. I’d even assist, as necessary, but I didn’t come out and say that out loud. 

“I know it is hard for you, living so far away,” I told Jack. But I really didn’t know. I’ve lived in this godforsaken town my entire life. My own mother died suddenly in a car accident when I was 18, and dear old Dad was MIA from the start. And Violet, my judgey older sister died (natural causes) two years ago. No, I really have no idea what it was like, what it is like, for Jack.

Alright! Enough of my yammering. Here’s Herman fresh as a fiddle. I knew I could get everything done. Spit spot, as Mary Poppins would say. I imagine my magic umbrella lifting me to the sky. Ding dong. Jack better not let himself in. That would be the icing on the cake. 

***

“He’s lost a lot of weight. He looks kind of-” Jack says – almost immediately, with barely both feet in the door – sending my hackles straight up. The nerve. After all I’ve done. Jack tilts his head to one side, hands shoved in his in need of an iron khaki’s pockets. I catch a whiff of the grassy golf course. Hmmm. I’m spooning applesauce in Herman’s hanging mouth, hoping Jack will notice the hand pressed cloth napkin. 

“He has. (Best to admit and not disagree). Dr. Mensen’s been monitoring it. I’ve been stirring olive oil into this, to add calories. I even feed him Nutella by the spoon!”

“Yuck,” Jack says, having moved to the counter, putting a K-cup into the  coffee machine.

“Does Dad still like the Keurig?” 

“He’s not really focused on that kind of thing now.” 

I keep one eye on my son, who stands with his steaming cup looking out at the back yard. 

“No, guess not.”

Honestly, will this day ever end?

Spoon the sauce, wipe the mouth. Spoon the sauce, wipe the mouth. 

Jack returns to the table, crosses and uncrosses his legs, drums his fingers, stands, goes off to roam the house. Visitors can never stand it very long.  I can bank on this. 

There are really no surprises in life. Not really. 

He returns. 

“I gotta hand it to you, Mom, the place is clean as a whistle, just as always.”

“You know I take pride in a clean house,” I say, savoring the lingering lemony scent of furniture polish.  

I feel Jack’s eyes on me before his gaze returns to his father. 

Spoon the sauce, wipe the mouth. 

“Does he enjoy that?” he says. He frowns a bit in disgust. 

“He puts up with it.”

“Have you tasted that? I mean yourself?”

“Of course. You want to try?” I wagged the spoon his way. 

“Oh, no, of course. I didn’t meant to-“

“You can offer him some cookies next. They’re in the pantry.”

Jack accepts this, goes to fetch the cookies. Best to give him a task. 

Afterwards, just to drag things out a bit more I suppose, he retrieves the photo album (also expected) and sits for a half hour or so trying to get his father to remember (Duh. Impossible).  I watch for a minute, edgily, as Herman’s head turns to search for the window, the rose bush. Then the tears start again. Good Lord. 

“Oh, Dad,” Jack says sadly, tears falling. 

Jack will be leaving soon. He won’t want to be sad very long, I know that. 

“There there,” I assure, “He just gets overwhelmed sometimes. He’s okay. You mustn’t worry.”

Herman’s hands suddenly reach out for Jack’s, gripping tightly. His eyes regain that desperate, frightened look. Oh, the drama. That I was not expecting. A little burst of panic. Understandable, but jarring just the same. Jack’s face forms a similar desperation. He turns to me, for what? Blame? Comfort? Help?

“Maybe he wants me to stay?” Jack asks. I can read his mind. He’s wrestling with worry and the guilt from the desire to bolt. 

“No, he’s really very tired.  Dr. Mensen says not to overwhelm him,” I say.

Jack studies Herman. The silence hangs in the air like a bag of flour on my chest. 

He untangles his hand, prying each of his father’s fingers from his own. 

“I better go. Flight’s at six,” he says, tears still flowing. 

He was always the emotional kid who cried at every baseball game. Embarrassing.

The clocks tick. I love my antique clocks. They’re all over the house. I wind them religiously. 

“Those clocks. I swear, I still hear them in my head,” he says, a wistful smile. Poor kid. 

“Thank you, Jack, for coming. What a surprise! Dad and I just loved seeing you,” I say. 

It’s important to give him a way out. Otherwise he’d linger unnecessarily. 

“I hope so,” he says. 

“Absolutely.” I  hand him a tin of homemade cookies I’d pulled from the freezer. “Your favorites.” 

Jack focuses on my face. What’s that in his eye? I glance down, avoiding his eyes.

“You never think of yourself, do you? It’s like you’ve given up your entire life for him,” he says.

Silence. The clocks tick. I must say I begin to feel rather sick.

“We’re just so lucky to have you, that’s all I want to say,” he finally concludes.

“I’m the lucky one, truly,” I say, gathering his shoulders in an awkward hug, then walking him out onto the front porch, hearing a buzzing in my ears, my legs going rather wobbly. 

I wait for his rental car to start and abandon the driveway before shutting the door and leaning against it, waiting for a hot flash to pass.  

Herman sits in a chair, his hanging head defeated.

The clocks. Those damned clocks. 

He’s got just a week or two left, by my estimation. 

I’ve seen him through, indeed, as promised. There’s that, at least.

I must start dinner. I put my hand in the crook of Herman’s arm and pull him to standing. Exiting the living room, we lumber along, almost like our wedding day, but different, passing the milk glass chickens, antique banks, the watercolors of rivers, treasures collected across a lifetime. 

I’ve defrosted the ham bone from Easter. Herman and I love pea soup. I usually eat something else, separately, but tonight, maybe I’ll join him.