The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison

mail, no heaping recycle bin, no dishes glutting the sink. Th e carpets have been vacuumed, the pillows aired, the fishbowl cleaned. Everything smells of citrus and pine. And still, Elsa circles and sweeps and dusts.
    In the three hours since I arrived with my sack lunch and my crossword, I’ve yet to be called into service. I’ve scarcely moved from my station on the sofa. How long before Elsa runs the feather duster over me? I feel obligated to stay alert on the sofa, poised for action should my assistance be required in lifting Trev or warming up the van or hauling out the recycling. Th ough this last task is nowhere in my service plan, today I’m willing to test the boundaries, willing to throw all those mnemonics out the window for a little occupation. Th e Monday crossword was a pushover. Th e cat is presumably out roaming the farm and can offer me no company. I’ve already eaten my banana and half of my tuna sandwich. And to make matters even more excruciating, the face of the dining room clock is in full view as the minutes crawl by. Somehow I can’t bring myself to turn on the television. It’s one thing to sit around being useless and another thing to watch television. Instead, I gaze at the darkened screen and wonder if it’s another scorcher in Miami, whether it’s raining in Davenport.
    I should probably be thinking about the job market, as Trev’s condition has only worsened over the weekend. While I was out bandaging penises and spilling beer in people’s laps, the virus settled in Trev’s lungs. While I was nursing my hangover on Saturday, Elsa took Trev to Harrison once more for chest x-rays and a CT. He’s been on the respirator full-time ever since. Since the machine makes sleeping on his side difficult, Trev’s even more restless than usual in bed. Every fifteen or twenty minutes he calls for his mother, and they talk softly as she tends to his itches and clears the sweat from his watering eyes. On those frequent occasions when Trev needs the toilet, it’s Elsa, not me, who lifts him out of bed and onto the toilet, Elsa who awaits his call outside the bathroom door.
    Around 12:15 p.m., Trev’s cell phone starts ringing from the pouch of his wheelchair. Th ree times the ringing is cut short by voice messaging. When the cell finally relents, the house phone starts ringing almost immediately, and Elsa picks it up.
    â€œWhat is it, Bob? . . . Yes, Bob . . . No, Bob . . .”
    She waves to me across the dining room to indicate that she’s taking the call outside.
    I wave back, at the ready should Trev require assistance.
    â€œBad idea, Bob,” Elsa says, closing the back door behind her. I can still hear her muffled voice as she passes below the window. “It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think? . . . I’ll tell you how I know, Bob. Because for the past four or five . . .” Th en I lose her as she drifts deeper into the backyard, though I can still see her as she begins pacing with the cordless beneath the big maple.
    Poor Bob will never have closure. He’ll never live down his mistake. What does he hope to accomplish with this phone call? And what is his bad idea, anyway? Does he simply want to talk to Trev, to run into the same brick wall over and over, to be judged for his failings yet again? Maybe he wants to fly out from Salt Lake City and sit at the bedside of his son, or what’s left of his son, to plead his case. I can’t help but wonder whether Trev might secretly relish his father’s testimony. Who is to say that deep down Trev’s little boy isn’t still fighting to win approval? But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Trev will permit no such drama, and probably, in his position, neither would I. Trev will hoard his advantage until the very end, withholding the one piece of evidence that might ever absolve his father, namely, that he still loves him.
    As Elsa continues her