Jer says. Or deceived you? Or withheld
or misrepresented certain information?
It was for your own good. To make your
life better.
Jer, why are you even going there
right now? says Meg.
Sometimes, to do good, there are
steps along the way at which goodness
must be temporarily set aside or lost
sight of, says Jer.
Hooray, says Meg. Good meeting.
Make your “X,” 89, says Jer.
Maybe now we can get out of this
stupid tiny bathroom at least, says Ken-
nedy B.
I love that idea so much, says Meg.
Carol, I say.
What’s that, 89? says Jer.
Carol Spencer, I say. Carol K. Spencer.
Ah, shit, says Meg. Perfect.
Carol K. Spencer, 439 Becker Street,
Schenectady, New York, I say. 12304.
Then place pen in sink Polite l y.
P
er Meg Jer takes me into yard
For frank urgent pep talk pronto.
This, right now, 89? says Jer. Dusk.
That there? Aspen. Over there? Storage
shed. Gate. Sunflowers. This thing blow-
ing? Breeze. Check that out. Up there.
Did you even know that was a thing?
Sun and moon in sky at once.
You seem agitated, pal, says Jer.
Standoffish. Not your usual peppy self.
I blink.
Would like to visit, I say.
Visit what? Jer says.
Ma, I say.
Ha, wow, interesting, Jer says. Bar-
gaining. Pretty advanced. Is that your,
uh, demand, 89? Like, pre-signing de-
mand? We take you to see your mother,
you sign?
Yes? I say.
I’m going to level with you, 89, Jer
says. Have we done level with you? Fig-
ure of speech?
Tell the truth, I say.
Remember when we had all those
moths back at Room Valiant? Jer says.
And sprayed? And they were like lying
all over everything? Not moving? And
we swept them up and bagged them up
and all of that? Those moths? Were
dead. Had died. Perfectly normal. Re-
member Gladys? Who used to clean
Room Valiant? Remember when Gladys
started no longer coming in? A person
reaches a certain age.
No spring chicken, I say.
Exactly, Jer says. Happens to every-
body. Even you. Even me. Our moth-
ers, even. I mean, think about it, 89, how
old are you? Seventy-five, eighty? Your
mother would, of course, be older.
Low over yard comes V of birds.
Geese, says Jer. That sound? Honk.
The honks go deeper, lower as geese
fly farther further One geese falls
behind Flies funnily faster until back
home again in his or her V.
My mother is death? I say.
Ha, no, your mother is not death, 89,
Jer says. She is dead. Has died. Is how
we might say that one. Sorry. Sorry for
your loss. Must be painful. To forget
your mother existed, then remember
she existed, then right away find out
she’s all of a sudden dead? Ouch. I
thought I had it bad, when I knew all
along my mom existed and then she
died. But, sadly, this is the type of pain-
ful thing that occurs when a person gets
a subpar Scrape.
Level with me, I say.
Just did, says Jer.
Again, I say.
We’re crazy tight on time, 89, Jer says.
How did I get here? I say.
Back door swings open Shape of
light runs out Lightshape To Jer Jer’s
shoes Which light up With light.
Glimm’s here, says Kennedy B. He
needs help. With the portable. My back
is shit and Meg’s back is shit. So.
Kennedy B. goes back in, closes door.
Lightshape follows.
Yard dark.
Speaking again, or still, of death, 89?
Jer says. Look how weird and slow you
walk. How short of breath. Are you en-
tirely well, totally young? We, as a com-
pany, paid for a routine physical. Char-
itably. For all you folks living under that
bridge. For lots of folks, living under a
number of bridges, across a number of
states. Results, for you? Not great. So
you said, intelligently, to yourself, Hey,
do I want to sicken and die under this
bridge over the next ten to eighteen
months, in the company of those same
drugging/drinking creeps who have bul-
lied and treated me like shit most of
my adult life, or go live somewhere safe,
out West, with killer meals and free
meds and a team of young colleagues
who’ll watch over me and maybe even
“I love nature.”
