Sir Gregory

It’s been a tough year. My sister finally lost her battle with the big C, her boy—my nephew—is starting to get into trouble that his dad can’t seem to get ahead of, and now grandpa is losing his mind, and not in that way they depict in those Rexulti commercials, where an old man is quietly looking around his room wondering where he is as his family watches on, lovingly, wishing that they had more fully appreciated him when he was lucid. No such luck. He’s losing his mind violently. That kind of dementia that puts him, and those around him, in real danger. It doesn’t help that he’s kind of an asshole. And by ‘kind of an asshole,’ I really mean ‘a total dick.’

He’s going into a home this afternoon, and his daughter, my wife, Kelly, and I are consolidating our lives, moving into his house and taking over the finances in hopes that her and her not-so-helpful brother won’t lose the family home. We have no idea how we're going to make ends meet, but we’re going to give it our best shot, our own pursuits and dreams to be put on hold indefinitely, and most likely never fully realized.

Between his two kids and me, I’m the only one that seems to have any sympathies for the old man. Granted, I didn’t have to spend my childhood with him. My father was a loving, supportive, and selfless man, who taught me to be kind and generous and work hard at the things I love. Bless his heart. Still, it tears me up inside that grandpa feels like he’s on his own despite his kids doing everything they can to try and make his transition into his final chapter as painless as possible.

One of the worst parts of the whole thing is that his body is still strong as a gorilla. His heart is in top-notch shape, his kidneys and his liver are outperforming my own, and since they took that little node of his adrenal gland, his lymphatic system has become supercharged. I don’t think Kelly’s going to get her wish of some sort of nocturnal infarction, and as much as I’ll be sad to see the old man go, I agree that it sure would be the easiest way for all parties involved. I guess all we can do is cross our fingers. Though, the most likely outcome is that he spends the next decade in memory care, draining us of all our resources and we all die at the same time. Him, while wrestling an orderly who’s finally had enough; us, of destitution intermingled with nihilistic laced exhaustion.

Right now, though, I’m sitting in my office. My office that will soon be cleaned out, its contents boxed and stored, enjoying the last moments in the one space that gave me solitude and comfort, staring at the urn that holds the ashes of the one guy whose brain I wish I could pick for advice, Gus. The urn reads; Rosie. Rosie was a stubborn pomeranian I’d rescued from the humane society during the handful of years I volunteered there. I’d lost her actual ashes, along with every other worldly possession I’d owned in the wild fires almost ten years ago now. Kelly had taken it upon herself to get me a new urn with Rosie’s name embossed on it, and though her ashes were lost among the ashes of our old life, the urn served as a symbol of her memory. I remember the day well. I’d cried into the night over that dog, drank a little too much as well. When Gus–an old boyfriend of my mother’s who had imparted on me what little wisdom he’d had—died, I’d brought Rosie’s empty urn to the crematory and asked them to fill it with his ashes. You should have seen the looks on their faces. You would have thought I’d asked them to flush him down the toilet. It didn’t bother me a whit. I knew the old man would have loved the joke. And even if he didn’t—sometimes he’d take hard stances I didn’t see coming—fuck him for making me deal with his mangled corpse and meager estate after killing himself.

The clock on my mantle—one of the few keepsakes left to me by my grandmother, whose last piece of advice to me was, ‘the most important thing to hang on to is your sense of humor’—chimed two o’clock, bringing an end to the small moment of rumination I was allowed before pulling up my pants like a big boy and dealing with the rest of our soon-to-be overwhelming life.

I found Kelly in the back yard feeding her crow, Sir Gregory, for the last time. She was sobbing as he hopped around, looking at her with one eye at a time and snatching peanuts from her palm with his broken beak. We’d often speculated at how he’d lost half of his maxilla. Maybe he’d been shot by a boy’s pellet gun or hit by a car, maybe he’d flown head first into a window or almost caught by an owl or hawk, though he seemed far too smart to fall prey to any of these natural hazards. I’d always suspected that he’d been born with it. I waited for Sir Gregory to finish the last of the nuts, and fly off to return with whatever prize he’d choose to reward her with. It turned out to be one of those red, plastic sticks from the Handi-Snacks I remember eating as a kid. She clutched it and the single peanut—he never took the last one—and cried harder. I gently placed a hand on the nape of her neck.

“It’s time, darling.”

She nodded and swallowed and stared down at the peanut and red stick in her palm.

I took them from her, stuck them in my pocket and helped her to her feet, regarding the corvid. “Goodbye, Sir Gregory. Be well, old crow.”

She garbled a farewell that sounded vaguely French, “Olive goo, Egg,” through her snotty tears.

I guided her to the kitchen, gave her a soft smile and a kiss on the forehead, “I’ll be home soon,” and left her to finish packing.

She nodded and sniffled and wrapped a mug in newspaper.

I sat in my pickup—our only vehicle big enough to facilitate grandpa’s considerable girth—watching the doors to the hospital. Eventually he emerged, sat in a wheelchair pushed by a large orderly and flanked on the other side by another, equally large. He’d proved to be quite a handful, and judging by the scowls on their faces, today had been no exception. I got out, made my way around the front of the truck and opened the passenger door as they pushed him to the curb. The old man squinted up at me, a suspicious wrinkle on his brow.

“Have we met before?”

“Hey, Gamp. It’s me, Mike.”

His squint deepened for a long moment before he nodded slowly. “Kelly’s boyfriend.”

“That’s right.”

He glanced around, pushing himself out of the chair. “Where is that little bitch?”

I fought the urge to kick him square in his chest, instead offering him a hand. “We’re going to see her right now,” I lied.

He swatted it away. “‘Bout goddamn time.”

I raised my hands and backed up a step, letting him slowly work his way into the cab, and closed the door behind him once he was in. I turned to the orderlies. “Thanks a lot, guys.”

“Good luck, buddy.”

“Thanks.”

They chuckled to each other and shook their heads as they turned to wheel the empty chair back to the hospital.

This time I made my way around the bed of the truck, not wanting to look at him through the windshield. I got in without a word, put the clutch in drive and pulled away from the hospital.

I pulled into the gravel drive, watching Grandpa from the corner of my eye. He leaned forward in his seat peering ahead, the building growing closer. I pulled the pickup into a loading spot, put it in park, and sat back, letting the old man get his bearings.

After a long moment he spoke without turning to address me. “Fuck are we doing here?”

I’d planned this moment out a bunch of times. “We're here to pick up a package.”

He grumbled.

For him, ‘package’ was code for drugs. I’d heard him use it back when he was still lucid and spinning old tales from his meth-snorting, crank-chewing, truck driving days. The old man was as big and tough as they come, and even in his compromised mental state, I knew he’d jump at the opportunity to go on one more binge. Of course, there were no drugs in the building, at least not the ones he wanted, only even bigger orderlies than the ones at the last facility, who, after only a short time getting to know him, were going to be more than happy to forcefully restrain the old man.

“Ready?”

He grumbled again and opened his door.

I got out after him, making no effort to rush to his assistance, part of me hoping he’d trip and fall head first onto the drive, cracking it open and putting an end to the hardship of everyone who had the unfortunate pleasure of crossing his path.

I walked ahead, confident he would follow, slow enough that he could keep up. And he did. I gave a wave to the front desk as we passed through the lobby. The heavy sliding doors buzzed and opened as we approached. Grandpa followed me through and they closed behind us.

Mariam, general manager of Chapter House, had a unique technique for introducing her new patients to the grounds. It seemed unethical, sneaky… wrong even. But, she really had a way of making it sound like it was compassionate. Really, the only kind way forward… for everyone.

He followed me across the short lawn. I took a seat at one of the tables overlooking the duck pond. He took a seat next to me and cocked an eye toward the falls beyond the pond and grumbled at a chime of wren. A nurse passed by, casually placing two glass bottles of coca cola—his favorite—on the table before going about her business. I picked one up and twisted the cap. The hiss turned the old man’s head.

“What’s that?”

I handed it to him. “Got you one, too.”

He eyed the unopened bottle, eyed the one I was holding, then me, before snatching it and taking a deep pull, bubbles gurgling up through the dark caramel water. He gasped, brought a fist to his chest, and belched. He flashed me a sideward glance, set his bottle down and leaned back in his chair. I did too, and I have to admit; they were damn comfortable.

The flock of wren twisted into a murmur, diving into an oak canopy, barely rustling the fat woody leaves. A duck duo flapped heavy wings, gliding into the water, joining the rest of their gaggle for the afternoon scavenge. A crow cawed from the elm that shaded us. The call rang with a familiar timbre. I cocked my head up at him in disbelief. We were half an hour from home. Kelly and I had looked it up once. Crows from regions with harsh winters would migrate up to thirty miles, seeking out warmer micro-climates, while here in California they tended to stay put year round. It had become a running joke; when we were out of town we would always ask other crows we would meet if they knew Sir Gregory, knowing, of course, that it was a ridiculous question. There was no mistaking his broken beak. Sir Gregory had followed Grandpa and I to the home.

I remembered the red spreading stick and single nut and patted the tidy bulge they made in my pocket. I set down my bottle, leaned to the side and fished them out. I picked out the red stick, put it back in my pocket and held up the single nut for the crow to see. He chittered and ruffled his feathers as he quietly cooed in anticipation. I tossed the hourglassed shaped legume toward the base of the elm and it landed neatly next to a gnarled root poking out of the expertly manicured edge of the lawn. Sir Gregory bobbed his head, stepping side to side, and chittered again before gliding down, his black feathers fluttering gently. He stepped to the side and back, bobbed his head and glanced at me before gripping the shell in his talon and quickly striking it. Once, then twice, then a final time. He dug out the meat, jogged his head forward as he swallowed it down and gave the shell a few more cursory stabs to make sure he’d gotten it all. He scraped his beak against his legs, fluttered as he hopped a handful of bouncing steps, and gave a final cry before setting off to the sky. I shook my head and chuckled to myself. What were the odds?

I gave Grandpa a glance. It was hard to tell if he was taking in the verdant scenery, lost in his own thoughts, or was just staring off, nothing in his head at all. Just as I was about to interrupt the moment and let the old man know that it was time for me to head on my way I heard the faint tink of talon on steel patio furniture. I turned to find Sir Gregory perched on the edge of the table. He cocked his head, a flashing regard, before stepping silently across the grated table. He stopped at grandpa’s half finished soda, blinked once and dropped two tiny white objects into his bottle. The dark liquid fizzed. Sir Gregory flashed a final regard and flapped his black wings, his feathers almost grazing my face as he took off. The flutter snapped Grandpa from his meditation and he slowly swung around to look at me.

“What’d’ja say?”

I raised a palm and shrugged. “Nothing.”

He gave me that familiar, mean and beady eyed stare before noticing his bottle and snatching it up.

As I think back I’m still not sure if I did the right thing. Should I have knocked the bottle out of his hand? Should I have warned him? Said something like, ‘I think a crow put something in your drink,’ absolving myself of, at least direct, responsibility? Was someone going to think I had done it? It all happened so fast and I was frozen in disbelief. What I ended up doing was watching him chug the last of the soda down, thump his chest to loosen up a great belch, and set the empty bottle back down. It wouldn’t be the first time Grandpa had snuck medications he wasn’t supposed to take, but it might be the last. Or they might have just been Tic Tacs.

On my drive home I felt a profound sense of relief wash over me. I cried most of the way. Which was weird for me. I’m not really much of a crier. When I got home I heard Kelly’s voice in the kitchen, low, reverent. I walked to the door and waited until she noticed me.

“Everything okay?”

She had tears in her eyes. “It’s dad.”