Lucky

Yesterday we were slashed by harsh criticism. It’s not a clean wound, but one with deep, ragged edges. I am plotting my revenge.

I arrived home mid-afternoon in a pretty fine mood having avoided the rainstorm, and the dreadful, evening traffic, and discovered my husband splattered with paint. Without any prompting, he had spent his day off patching the grotesque cracks in the plaster, and was close to completing the first glorious coat of bright, white paint in what had been the mightily depressing dining room. Ms. Nancy was at the stove, humming as she stirred the steaming pot of spaghetti carbonara. My hound thrust her wet snout at me with uncontainable enthusiasm. Without question, it was a lovely homecoming.

Jack was occupied in her bedroom with both the television and radio at full volume, and Ms. Nancy had the funky beats playing loudly in the kitchen, so the din afforded a few minutes for me to unwind and for us to chat. Since my husband had been home he recounted his mother’s day, and his role, like meeting the physical therapist, and conferring with Ms. Nancy about how things were going with Jack’s care. Ms. Nancy works week days until three o’clock, so we rarely have a chance for in-person encounters. We should talk more often.

My husband learned from Ms. Nancy that she and Jack head to the animal shelter several times a week so they can check out Lucky and walk him around the ‘hood.

As my former law partner used to say, if Lucky didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. Before Jack “rescued him” he lived at the no-kill shelter for seven years. This is God’s honest truth, he is bereft of fur. Poor Lucky suffers from this chronic auto-immune disorder which afflicts him with raw, red, itchy skin that is sensitive to any kind of pressure--like a dog collar. He also has rheumy, beady eyes. And it’s not like he has a winning personality. If you walk into the room, nine times out of ten he runs into the closet. If Jack was nearby however, he’d plop down beside her wheelchair scratching and gnawing at his itch. During dinner.

Despite his unfortunate habits, he somewhat grew on us, and during the five months we lived together we’d agree to take him for car rides and to the park. Since Jack can’t really hear much, between us we referred to him as Stinky, because, OMG he was. I dreaded taking him in my car because of the detritus he’d leave behind, so my husband usually volunteered his car, and at the park to hold his leash. I couldn’t always bear the looks and comments from people who thought we owned a dog with mange.

Jack loves to walk Lucky. Lucky, not so much. I’d often spy them out the window. She rolling along in her wheelchair, dragging the protesting Lucky behind. About two weeks before Jack was hospitalized, one of our thoughtful neighbors called animal control to report Lucky’s “abuser.” Fortunately, one of the no-kill shelter volunteer walkers observed the ruckus, and was able to get the shelter to intervene and explain to the officer that God, not Jack made Lucky that way.

Lucky is a needy and expensive patient. He is on a strict regimen of medications and a special diet, and needs to be taken weekly to the pet hospital for a medical baths. Jack struggled to care for him, a challenge made harder with the limited use of her hands. She was grateful for the help of her neighbor $%#$$!, an outgoing divorcee who came to our home every afternoon to help with the pills and the eye medicine. We were too, and frequently invited $%#$$! to dinner and gatherings, and to spend evenings with us.

When Jack had to check into the hospital a few months ago, and had to take Lucky back to the shelter, $%#$$! volunteered to go to the shelter daily to walk Lucky until Jack came home. We saw how sad and depressed Jack became every time we heard $%#$$! tell Jack that Lucky was desperate for Jack to bring him home.

As we prepared for Jack’s return home, my husband and his siblings expressed trepidation about Lucky’s return. The consensus was to see how things progressed. That was the logical dialogue.

On the other hand, there was $%#$$! droning on to Jack about bringing Lucky home. My husband, falling on the sword, telephoned $%#$$! and informed her of the decision, and asked her to ease up on the pressure. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she spat, and followed up by avoiding us. Life moved along.

Fast forward to yesterday when my husband was telling me about his chat with Ms. Nancy. This week when Ms. Nancy walked to the shelter with Jack and informed the volunteer--who’d she’d previously never met-- that they were there to check out Lucky, she was treated to a diatribe.

What! Did Ms. Nancy defend us I asked? My husband called in Ms. Nancy who reenacted the encounter in Technicolor. Ms. Nancy confirmed that she wanted to “slap the girl silly,” when she heard the volunteer parrot what she’d heard. “Did you know that her son won’t let her bring Lucky home?” Ms. Nancy demonstrated how her mouth dropped open, when the volunteer let Ms. Nancy know that Ms. Jack’s son has some nerve ‘since he is living there, and NOT EVEN paying the mortgage.’ We locked eyes. We both knew the source of that evil misinformation. The $%#$$!

Life is a Bowl of Scaries

Are we bad people if our domestics don’t recycle? I spend waking hours cringing over concerns like this, but stop short of rummaging through the trash. It’s scary in there. Are we going to be sued because Jack is flagrantly violating labor laws? I requested a copy of our insurance policy so I’ll be ready if the day comes, but I’m not about to be the bad cop. There’s no clear direction of where we are headed, but, by my calculations Jack’s wad will run out in about nine and a half weeks. On all things financial Jack is making scary choices. Even the domestics agree.

Getting proper care on a dime from her new roster of care workers is of the highest priority. Right now, as before, Jack insists on being like George Bush—the decider. She has no budget and certainly has no cogent plan. But, she still has access to a checkbook. She is hemorrhaging money.

She currently employs Ms. Crisco, and Miss Toast. Ms. Crisco is recycled. Her former appearance was as the caterer who prepared my late father-in-law’s repast—her term. Repast? Anyway, Ms. Crisco visited my mother-in-law in the rehab hospital with her erstwhile boyfriend in tow. Jack offered him a job. We saw that he was clearly a shyster, but Jack saw two strong arms lifting her in and out of the wheelchair. A ticket to her version of paradise. When Ms. Crisco dumped him two days later, she emerged as Jack’s caretaker and personal chef. The good news is that Ms. Crisco is whipping up elaborate meals all the time so Jack no longer has the need to haul home bags of fast food that we refuse to eat. The bad news is that I cannot open the refrigerator any more. It’s scary in there.

Miss Toast joined our happy family three days ago courtesy of Craigslist. Astoundingly, she is an incredibly thoughtful person and appears to have a work ethic. Rather than lounging during the down time like most of the domestics, she organizes drawers and cupboards and sweeps the floors. That’s in addition to her other full time job as a nanny for a wealthy family in the Palisades. Both women work incredibly long hours. They don’t complain, but are puzzled by Jack’s confusing and contradictory decisions about which hours they are supposed to work. Jack is flummoxed by her inability to come up with a scheme that allows her to live the life she enjoyed before she checked herself into the hospital. Sadly, there is no amount of money to achieve that goal.

When Jack arrived here two weeks ago it was clear she was relieved to be home. But, her physical limitations are very pronounced now, and she requires someone to tend to her basic needs all the time. She loudly rails against the notion that my husband or I assist her in any way, and politely and firmly resists suggestions on how to structure the home care. Naturally, Ms. Crisco and Miss Toast want to look to us for guidance. Out of instinct we duck and cover our eyes. It’s scary in there.