Maybe Nothing Changes
I walk outside to get the car warmed up. A snow drift from the roof has piled neatly on my windshield. I use a thickly covered arm to spread the mound off onto the icy driveway.
Underneath the snow, tucked under a wiper blade, is a torn piece of paper. The writing bleeds, but it is legible.
“I watched a thug try to break into here. I think he saw the car seat and backed off. Yours, Weston.”
I take the note to the alley. I crumple the paper with a gloved fist and throw it into the garbage bin. Something rustles underneath. A rat, no doubt. Devouring last night’s overcooked meatloaf, seeking warmth under layers of diapers and plastic.
Inside, Maggie squeals in front of the TV. Friendly monsters dance across the screen. Her Cheerios make polka dots on the couch and the floor beneath.
The kitchen, a mess, feels humid with the stove cooking steel cut oats. The smell of cinnamon. An opened bottle of vanilla. That’s how he likes it.
I walk into the bedroom and David is still sleeping. His mother’s old curtains block out any natural light. The TV is on mute. Donald Trump is shaking hands with Clarence Thomas, a little later Bob Dole.
“You’re watching me sleep,” he says suddenly.
“Just making sure you’re still alive.”
“For now. We have a new president.”
“What did he say?”
“America this. America that. America first. America great.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“It’s just too absurd. Like, the very definition of absurd. I guess, I hope he does a really good job.”
“Why?” he asks, turning over.
“Because then it might open the door for other absurd presidents. Like, other reality TV stars. Who’s the guy that hosts Survivor? He seems diplomatic. And look at Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’s following in Trump’s footsteps.”
“He can’t be president.”
“Are you sure? In the age of Trump, anyone can be!”
“Arnold’s not American, you dope.”
“Oh.”
I stand there in silence, watching him breathe. He’s been sick for a very long time now. I’m beginning to think he’s avoiding work. The last case hit him hard. Drunk driving father in a police chase, slammed his car into a river, and he got out and ran, leaving his three children to drown. When David told me the story he cried. He had seen the photos.
“Weston’s been spying on us again,” I revealed.
“Guy’s just waiting, I guess.”
“For?”
“For me to kick it. Then he can make his move.”
“He’s going to be waiting a long time.”
David is quiet for a moment, then, “Maybe I could tell work that Inauguration Day gave me cancer. I could have short-term leave or something.”
“I don’t think you wanna joke about that. Bad juju.”
I walk into the kitchen and take the oats off the stove. I grab a small ceramic bowl and ladle in the spicy goop. I check on Maggie and she is still delighted by the flashes of color on the TV. She claps her hands to the rhythm of a familiar song.
I put the oats on a tray with a glass of water and the pills. I breathe heavy and make sure that each pill is the right one, the right dose, the right time. I’m not sure if David even takes them. Maybe he hoards them for a bigger payoff right before bed. Either way, he doesn’t need them.
“It’s strange times we live in,” he says to me. He slurps the oats with a slack mouth. His once heavy, strong forearms look weak. He’s been in and out of bed for a month. He lies there, but he stays awake as long as he can. He prefers not to dream.
“Really strange,” I agree.
I grab Maggie and the three of us sit in bed. We watch the 24/7 news for a while. We witness the Obamas board a plane, turning one last time to wave. Then we see our newly elected president walk through crowds of similarly privileged people, all claiming to be somewhat different, but to us, in bed, very much the same.
