who he is, but I already know his name. I
wonder if he’s Robert’s dad. The man clearly looks old enough to be Robert’s
father, but wouldn’t he have the same surname as Robert? Wouldn’t his last name
also be Carver? Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if Robert disowned his own father,
changed his name, and threw the poor old man into this retirement home. Seems
like something Robert would do.
“I should probably get going back to the office before the rain
picks up again,” I say. “It was nice to meet you, though, and I’ll pass along
the message to Robert.”
“I don’t get that many visitors,” the man offers, twisting his new
slippers in tiny circles. “It’s always nice to have company.”
I sit back down.
“Robert comes when he can, but he’s quite busy.”
“Are you his dad?” I blurt. It’s none of my business, but I can’t
help myself. Instantly, I hear yapping in the hallway, the trampling of feet,
and then an old man yelling, “No!”
Mr. Spencer swats his hand at the door. “Old Mr. Poop-pants hates
having his diaper changed. He goes through the same commotion every morning,
gets the nurses all riled up. They should just turn his wheelchair into a
toilet, save us all a lot of trouble and stink.”
Mr. Spencer opens his drawer and pulls out a bag of throat
lozenges, unwraps a red one, and pops it in his mouth. While he sucks, he
shakes his head.
“No, I’m not Robert’s father. Not in the traditional sense. But
for all intents and purposes, you could say that I’m his dad.”
So Robert does throw his father into an old age home.
Relief swings into my gut. Although, as far as old-age homes go, I’ve imagined
worse. This one isn’t too bad.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, hoping to keep the
conversation from growing cold.
“Four years, ever since Robert took the job at the firm and moved
to the city. He wanted me to be close by, where he could keep an eye on me. He
didn’t want me starting anymore fires in the kitchen while he was away.” He
sucks on the lozenge and crosses his arms in front of him.
“Fires?”
“You know how you’re reading a newspaper, and then you want to
make some tea, but you put the newspaper on the stove. Then you turn the stove
on and walk away to wait for your tea to boil?”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m thinking No.
“That happened one too many times. Nearly burnt the apartment
down. Robert yelled at me. I know I’m not supposed to put the newspaper on the
stove while I’m making tea. I just did it. Can’t explain why now. Doesn’t make
sense, does it? Something’s not working right upstairs.” He taps on his temple.
“Comes and goes though. Most days I’m quite fine.”
Of course Robert yelled at him. Makes my teeth clench. Poor Mr.
Spencer. I notice instantly that my squishy shoes have left a trail of small
puddles on the tile floor.
“Oh no, I’ve made a wet mess of your floor. I’m so sorry.” I
contemplate seeking a towel from the receptionist.
“Nothing to worry about. It’ll dry.” He smiles at me, a mouth full
of perfectly white, straight dentures. “Must be hard working for Robert.” I
notice he’s looking at my wet pants now.
You have no idea, I want to say, but I just grin back at him as if
we’re talking about the weather rather than the bane of my existence, the knife
in my side, the chokehold around my neck.
Mr. Spencer smiles as if his thoughts are pleasing to him alone. “He’s
a bit of a hellfire, that one. I took in four foster kids after my wife died.
Robert was the first, the youngest. He was only ten at the time. Surly little
bastard, that one. Took me a good five years to even become friends with him,
let alone develop any kind of father-son bond.” Mr. Spencer plucks a piece of
lint off his pant leg and tosses it. “Bet you didn’t know he was in the foster
care system, did you?”
I shake my head and look at him. He’s just transformed from a
clueless old man into the Oracle
wonder if he’s Robert’s dad. The man clearly looks old enough to be Robert’s
father, but wouldn’t he have the same surname as Robert? Wouldn’t his last name
also be Carver? Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if Robert disowned his own father,
changed his name, and threw the poor old man into this retirement home. Seems
like something Robert would do.
“I should probably get going back to the office before the rain
picks up again,” I say. “It was nice to meet you, though, and I’ll pass along
the message to Robert.”
“I don’t get that many visitors,” the man offers, twisting his new
slippers in tiny circles. “It’s always nice to have company.”
I sit back down.
“Robert comes when he can, but he’s quite busy.”
“Are you his dad?” I blurt. It’s none of my business, but I can’t
help myself. Instantly, I hear yapping in the hallway, the trampling of feet,
and then an old man yelling, “No!”
Mr. Spencer swats his hand at the door. “Old Mr. Poop-pants hates
having his diaper changed. He goes through the same commotion every morning,
gets the nurses all riled up. They should just turn his wheelchair into a
toilet, save us all a lot of trouble and stink.”
Mr. Spencer opens his drawer and pulls out a bag of throat
lozenges, unwraps a red one, and pops it in his mouth. While he sucks, he
shakes his head.
“No, I’m not Robert’s father. Not in the traditional sense. But
for all intents and purposes, you could say that I’m his dad.”
So Robert does throw his father into an old age home.
Relief swings into my gut. Although, as far as old-age homes go, I’ve imagined
worse. This one isn’t too bad.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, hoping to keep the
conversation from growing cold.
“Four years, ever since Robert took the job at the firm and moved
to the city. He wanted me to be close by, where he could keep an eye on me. He
didn’t want me starting anymore fires in the kitchen while he was away.” He
sucks on the lozenge and crosses his arms in front of him.
“Fires?”
“You know how you’re reading a newspaper, and then you want to
make some tea, but you put the newspaper on the stove. Then you turn the stove
on and walk away to wait for your tea to boil?”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m thinking No.
“That happened one too many times. Nearly burnt the apartment
down. Robert yelled at me. I know I’m not supposed to put the newspaper on the
stove while I’m making tea. I just did it. Can’t explain why now. Doesn’t make
sense, does it? Something’s not working right upstairs.” He taps on his temple.
“Comes and goes though. Most days I’m quite fine.”
Of course Robert yelled at him. Makes my teeth clench. Poor Mr.
Spencer. I notice instantly that my squishy shoes have left a trail of small
puddles on the tile floor.
“Oh no, I’ve made a wet mess of your floor. I’m so sorry.” I
contemplate seeking a towel from the receptionist.
“Nothing to worry about. It’ll dry.” He smiles at me, a mouth full
of perfectly white, straight dentures. “Must be hard working for Robert.” I
notice he’s looking at my wet pants now.
You have no idea, I want to say, but I just grin back at him as if
we’re talking about the weather rather than the bane of my existence, the knife
in my side, the chokehold around my neck.
Mr. Spencer smiles as if his thoughts are pleasing to him alone. “He’s
a bit of a hellfire, that one. I took in four foster kids after my wife died.
Robert was the first, the youngest. He was only ten at the time. Surly little
bastard, that one. Took me a good five years to even become friends with him,
let alone develop any kind of father-son bond.” Mr. Spencer plucks a piece of
lint off his pant leg and tosses it. “Bet you didn’t know he was in the foster
care system, did you?”
I shake my head and look at him. He’s just transformed from a
clueless old man into the Oracle
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