The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison

attention to the wall of family photos behind the bar, from which I’m noticeably absent, save for my right arm, which I recognize steadying Piper’s shoulder as she perches on her new bicycle in front of the Christmas tree.
    â€œSo, then, how have you been?” I say.
    â€œFair,” he says, still peering over the rim of his reading glasses at the instructions.
    I drift a little closer to him, as though drawn by curiousity. “Brooklyn Bridge?”
    â€œManhattan,” he intones.
    Th ere was a day when my slightest curiosity would’ve been met with a soliloquy to the Manhattan Bridge, an ode to the engineering genius of Ralph Modjeski, a poetic inventory of spans and dimensions. Now it seems there’s no bridge big enough or strong enough to span the distance between us.
    â€œEighteen nineties?” I venture.
    â€œNope,” he says, without further explanation.
    â€œAh.” I fall back again to the photographs, as Bernard studies his schematics. I’m just glossing over the photos now, as I might gloss over photographs of somebody else’s life. Th e man in the fishing hat is not Bernard. Th e woman in the wedding gown is not Janet. Th e child being steadied by the ghostly right arm is not Piper.
    â€œNineteen oh nine,” Bernard says, after a long silence. “ Th e bridge.”
    â€œWonder if the Yanks won the series that year.”
    â€œ Th ey didn’t,” he says. He looks up at me for the first time. “Ben, why are you here?” His gray eyes are not without pity, but the cruelty of the question takes the breath out of me. I don’t have an answer, not a sufficient one. All I can do is stand there, exposed and aching dully like a giant tooth.
    â€œGo home, Ben,” he says. “Move on.”

the horse

    F orest is convinced tonight is a big step for me. Like Janet and everybody else, he thinks it’s high time that I set my grief aside and get back on the old horse. It’s Saturday midmorning, and despite his invitation for french toast with Melissa and the girls, I’ve pulled Forest away from his family yet again, this time for coffee in Poulsbo at the Poulsbohemian, where I’m too anxious about this evening’s events to pay the cute counter girl much notice. Upon prior sightings in the food court with Trev, we’ve discussed in no small detail the possibility of giving this counter girl a Dirty Muskie or a Gaylord Perry. But today I am too consumed with the possibility of getting back on the horse.
    â€œRelax, Benji. Lord knows I’m not telling you to go out and get hitched. I’m talking about a hookup here—maybe a booty call. What’s it been? Th ree years?”
    â€œTwo,” I say into my coffee cup.
    â€œTonight’s the night. Everything will work out great,” he says, clapping me firmly on the shoulder. “Hum now. No reason to be nervous. She’s not expecting a marriage proposal, and she’s not expecting Brad Pitt, either.”
    I lower my coffee midsip.
    â€œNo offense,” he says.
    â€œNone taken.”
    â€œBesides, I’ve met her ex-boyfriend and he’s a total goat roper. Just don’t go getting all, you know, needy and stuff. No crying.”
    â€œGot it. No crying.”
    â€œWhat about the papers? Did you sign the papers?” He can see I haven’t signed the papers. He closes his eyes and shakes his head grimly, then sighs. “Tomorrow you sign the papers. Tonight you get laid, tomorrow you sign the papers. Got it?”
    â€œGot it.”
    I know that Forest has only my best interests in mind, and I also know that he’s absolutely right, that immobility is slowly draining the life out of me, like a car left to sit in the driveway too long. For all my mall gazing and talk of Rusty Trombones and Alabama Hot Pockets, it has never actually occurred to me to take decisive action with a woman since Janet left. Th e idea of ever