Page 36

Lately, Alex finds himself talking louder and more slowly, like Poppy is hard of hearing as opposed to just forgetful and confused.

“Okay?” Poppy’s inflection turns the word into a question. He’s not sure it’s okay. Neither is Alex.

“Did Barb pick up my tuxedo for the Hartwell Ball?”

This is another charade Alex chooses to go along with. Simone has read all the books, outlined all the strategies of dealing with dementia patients, and it seems to boil down to: just go with it. Wherever their brain is stuck—in first grade, on their wedding day, on a battlefield in Normandy—you meet them where they are and indulge whatever memories or thoughts randomly surface, like music on a jukebox set to autopilot.

Alex has already told Poppy the ball isn’t happening this year. It didn’t go over well the first time or the second time, and he doesn’t want to have to explain it again. Plus, he doesn’t need him all freshly agitated and soured before Alex can broach the sale. “I’m not sure, I’ll ask her about the tux. Here, eat your breakfast, okay?” Alex slides the plate of congealing eggs in front of him.

Poppy obediently brings a spoonful to his mouth with a shaky hand. Alex might have at one point relished this role reversal where he gives the commands and Poppy acquiesces, but in reality it’s more unsettling than in his teenage fantasies.

Alex reaches for the plastic day-of-the-week pill container that lives on the lazy Susan in the middle of the oak table. Every Sunday, Simone carefully sorts meds into each of the seven tiny squares, but Alex hasn’t ever looked in them. He’s surprised to find each day is full of a colorful rainbow of pills—he shakes today’s allotment into his palm and counts. Nine. That seems like an excessive amount of daily drugs, especially for a man who didn’t even believe in taking an aspirin; who’d once told the dentist, on Alex’s behalf, that Alex didn’t need Novocain when he had a cavity filled. “He’ll be fine,” Poppy assured the hesitant Dr. McClure, daring Alex to deny it. It was a test, everything with Poppy was a test.

“Where’s Simone?” Poppy asks after a few more bites.

The torture of answering the same questions over and over again, and swallowing the reflexive irritation each and every time, and then feeling the shadow of guilt about being irritated in the first place. It’s a vicious cycle—trap is more like it—you can’t escape.

“Remember? She’s not here today, but you and I are going to spend some time together. I’m sorry I haven’t been by much.”

“I want to see Father Michael today. Will you take me?”

This could explain the suit, that he’s dressing up for church. But Alex is still confused. They haven’t seen the parish priest in years. Poppy had regularly invited Father Michael to the Hartwell Ball, where he would introduce him around as an old chum from Tate. Back in the fifties and sixties, a good number of Tate men graduated and went on to be priests. In this part of Milwaukee there was one in nearly every Catholic family that had more than a couple of boys. And even though they’ve never been what you would call a religious family, Poppy has always enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of holiday masses and would make sure they were seated in the front pew at Holy Redeemer on Christmas and Easter, but regular church? Confession? Never.

“Okay, sure… why?”

“I need to talk to him about… something.” Poppy himself seems unsure what the topic is.

Alex suspects the obvious: that it has something to do with confronting his mortality. Despite the lack of true belief, his grandfather has given a staggering amount of money to the parish over the years, which Alex has always taken as a way to hedge his bets to get VIP entry to the pearly gates. Maybe he’s counting on Father Mike to offer some sort of assurances on his investment.

“I need help,” Poppy says.

“From Father Mike? With what, Poppy? Is there something I can help you with?”

“Not this.”

“Try me.”

“It’s a sin…”

Alex is unaware his grandfather believes in those either.

“What? You planning on murdering someone?” Alex jokes.

“Sort of, I suppose… I need help dying.”

“What?” Alex heard him loud and clear. Not only heard, he felt the statement carve through him, but asking Poppy to repeat it buys Alex precious seconds to process this jarring declaration.

“I want to die, Alex. I’m ready to go.” Poppy has that much more conviction when he repeats himself. He suddenly appears as clearheaded as he’s been in weeks, despite his questionable sartorial choices.

“Absolutely not.” Alex firmly rejects the idea. Though it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, not for Poppy, but for himself, imagining what he would want if he were in Poppy’s shoes, if his brain were deteriorating faster than a sandcastle at high tide. If he ever got to the point where there were days that he couldn’t remember anyone he loved, Alex would want mercy. He’d want to spare Simone from having to be his caretaker and feel sorry for him, and maybe grossed out, as his body failed him over and over in the most mortifying of ways. Of course he would want to save himself from that perfect hell. But those were the kind of thoughts you never say out loud, the kind you only allow in the deep recesses of the night when you can’t sleep.

“I don’t need your… permission,” the old man sighs; a wheezy, indignant little huff. “I can’t go on like this. I won’t.”

Alex respects his grandfather enough to summon an iota of wherewithal to treat this seriously, to at least hear him out.

“But how?” That’s when Alex remembers the gun. Alex had found it in Poppy’s study in fifth grade, when he broke into his grandfather’s strictly off-limits sanctum using the key he knew was hidden behind one of the iron sconces in the hallway, on a dead-end mission to find a Playboy magazine. Instead he’d stumbled upon the small metal revolver and got so freaked out, he ran out of the room. He remembers something else too. What his grandfather said after Alex had burst into tears as a kid from reading the scene where Travis shoots Old Yeller when the dog contracts rabies. “He did the right thing, son. Dog couldn’t live like that. The boy knew when to put it out of its misery.” Would his grandfather expect him to…? No. Alex can’t even finish the thought.

“I don’t know,” Poppy concedes. “That’s why I need help.”