On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel

A dissertation presented to

the faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of Ohio University

In partial fulfillment

of the requirements for the degree

Doctor of Philosophy

Jason L. Jordan

April 2016

© 2016 Jason L. Jordan. All Rights Reserved.

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This dissertation titled

On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel

by

JASON L. JORDAN

has been approved for

the Department of English

and the College of Arts and Sciences by

Joan Connor

Professor of English

Robert Frank

Dean, College of Arts and Sciences 3

ABSTRACT

JORDAN, JASON L., Ph.D., April 2016, English

On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel

Director of Dissertation: Joan Connor

The dissertation is divided into two sections: an essay titled “On the Five Topics of On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel ” and a book manuscript titled, On the

Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel.

“On the Five Topics of On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel” covers the five main topics of the novel in the order in which they appear: dementia, hoarding, the manifesto genre, fascism, and euthanasia. The essay defines each and provides rationale as to why they are essential to the novel.

On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel focuses on protagonist Joseph

Kolakis, who provides eldercare for his nonagenarian grandmother, Bertha “Berth”

Kolakis. Due to her late-stage dementia and the family’s hoarding, Joseph experiences powerlessness that only abates when he writes a manifesto that advocates fascism. The manifesto both empowers and requires him to make choices that conflict with humanitarian ethics.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

Abstract ...... 3 On the Five Topics of On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel ...... 5 Introduction ...... 5 Dementia ...... 6 Hoarding ...... 9 The Manifesto Genre ...... 20 Fascism ...... 28 Euthanasia ...... 35 Works Cited ...... 43 On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel ...... 45

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ON THE FIVE TOPICS OF ON THE MERITS OF FASCISM: A MANIFESTO NOVEL

Introduction

On the Merits of Fascism: A Manifesto Novel is about protagonist Joseph Kolakis, who agrees to provide eldercare for his nonagenarian grandmother, Bertha “Berth”

Kolakis, who suffers from late-stage dementia, and what happens to them during the course of her disease. Due to his grandmother’s helplessness and his resulting frustration,

Joseph pursues empowerment by writing the eponymous manifesto, which advocates fascism and details how one could institute a totalitarian dictatorship in the contemporary

United States. In this vision, he may see himself as the leader, referred to throughout as the “proto-talitarian,” who would have the authority and power to address his extended family’s hoarding, which negatively affects Berth’s living conditions, as well as decide at which point he would be able to commit euthanasia with her best interest in mind. The climax occurs when Joseph suffocates Berth—an act that his finished manifesto not only sanctions but requires.

Of the novel’s main topics, I have selected five to analyze, which are as follows: dementia, hoarding, the manifesto genre, fascism, and euthanasia. I have placed the topics in order of appearance, though it is apparent in the novel that they are interrelated.

That is, removing one would weaken the effect of the others. In this introduction, I will explain these topics, both at large and in the novel’s context, and I will also prove that they are essential through textual support and rationalization. In other words, I have read the text as a writer, and I will now read it as a literary critic. I must note, however, that my substantiation of the topics cannot be considered self-fulfilling, because I wrote the 6 novel prior to this introduction. Let us now begin with dementia—perhaps the cornerstone of them all.

1. Dementia

Much of my knowledge of dementia comes from personal experience, because both of my grandmothers have been clinically diagnosed with it. This is unsurprising insofar that Emily Tomlinson and others assert that “One in three people over 65 will die with dementia” (721). It is a common syndrome, in other words, and I have learned about it firsthand by observing and interacting with my grandmothers. In addition, I have learned about it secondhand by listening to stories that my family members have told me about their interactions with my grandmothers. Still, just because events occur in real life does not mean their believability will transfer to a fictional setting. This is why I have tried to portray the syndrome in a realistic way, including, too, the methods of treatment that are often suggested and employed to prevent it from progressing at a faster rate. With this section, I aim to define dementia, show that it is Berth’s condition, and cement its necessity as a whole.

Oftentimes, dementia is mentioned in conjunction with Alzheimer’s, and a common misperception is that they are synonymous and can be used interchangeably.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, “dementia” is defined as the “impairment of memory and of abstract thinking, often with other disturbances of cognitive function and with personality change; a syndrome characterized by this, resulting from primary degenerative disease of the brain (most commonly Alzheimer’s disease in the elderly)”

(“Dementia”). It would appear, then, that dementia should be referred to as a syndrome 7 rather than a disease, for, unless one specifies which disease, the term is a misnomer when applied in this context. “Dementia is an umbrella term for a set of symptoms including impaired thinking and memory,” reports Alzheimers.net (“Difference Between

Alzheimer’s and Dementia”). Alzheimer’s, “a form of dementia that specifically affects parts of the brain that control thought, memory and language,” may be the reason why the patient has dementia, just as other diseases may qualify that person for the same designation, but they are not synonymous (“Difference”). With so much unknown about these nebulous diseases, as well as the brain in general, it is easy to see why they may be confused with one another. This explains, too, why the Kolakis family calls “dementia” a

“disease” and, unless Berth’s primary care physician was able to diagnose her with a specific form of dementia, they would not know to use the disease’s moniker in place of the syndrome’s.

In the beginning of the novel, Joseph informs the reader that Berth is in “Stage 4 of dementia: CDR-2 or Moderate Impairment,” and her actions suggest that, in accordance with the claim that “Dementia is a brain disorder that affects communication and performance of daily activities,” she does indeed suffer from such an ailment (Jordan

45; “Difference”). He relays stories he has heard from other family members about Berth when she “use[d] the TV remote as the cordless phone, carried around a loaf of bread like a baby, left the tap on and flooded the hall bathroom, and, perhaps the worst, messed herself on a regular basis” (Jordan 45). Evidence of Alzheimer’s disease enters the narrative, too—especially when it comes to Berth’s memory. “‘Doug?’” she asks upon seeing Joseph (Jordan 50). He says, “‘No . . . It’s Joseph, your grandson’” (Jordan 50). 8

What Berth does in this scene is mistake Joseph, her grandson, for his father Doug, her son. Later in that same scene, Joseph asks her if she had lunch, to which she replies,

“‘Well, I can’t say I remember’” (Jordan 51). Elsewhere, Berth’s memory lapses become more pronounced when she, for instance, confuses a department store with a fast food restaurant: “‘There was that good hamburger place we used to go to—Dillard’s, I think it was called. Yes, a hamburger from Dillard’s’” (Jordan 57-58). It is clear in this opening scene that, in light of her age and symptoms, Berth suffers from some form of dementia.

Throughout the novel, Berth routinely misremembers or fails to remember what she has and has not done. The first evening that Joseph watches her, Steve returns and asks Berth if she took her night pills. “‘Why yes I did,’” she says, though Steve finds them in her pill organizer in the kitchen (Jordan 75). After Berth confuses Joseph for

Doug a second time, Steve says to Berth, “‘That’s Doug’s son. Are you losing your mind?’” (Jordan 78). As is often the case, such diseases take a toll on relatives and friends of the patient, because they witness the mind’s deterioration and are powerless to stop it. Or, when Joseph leaves Berth unattended to use the bathroom, he returns to find her on the ground but is unable to piece together what happened. When questioned, she answers, “‘I don’t know’” (Jordan 120). Though frustrating, such responses cannot be helped when the person’s mind cannot process information like it used to be able to, and this gets at the crux of dementia’s place and importance in the novel.

What makes dementia unique, as well as integral to the story at hand, is that it does not matter in what physical shape the patient is, because advanced dementia requires constant care. Though it could be argued that Berth is physically able to care for herself, 9 she is unable to as a result of her affliction. This necessitates constant supervision then, lest something happen to her that she cannot explain nor figure out how to remedy. And, what makes dementia difficult to cope with is its unpredictable nature. By way of example, if Steve, prior to leaving for the day, were to write Berth a note instructing her what to do regarding self-care, leave it in a prominent place, and tell her about it before he left, who is to say that she would remember that he told her in the first place? Who is to say that she would see the note but not think it was from long ago? Who is to say that she could follow her train of thought long enough to interpret the message? Who is to say that she would remember how to read and what the words mean? In order for the story to progress, it is necessary that Berth be unequipped to care for herself and, thus, require others to share the responsibility that ultimately leads Joseph to smother her.

2. Hoarding

In the novel, Joseph’s uncle, Steve, exacerbates the conflict by hoarding, which prevents Berth from living in a sanitary, easily navigable home. During a phone call,

Joseph’s father, Doug, acknowledges that Berth grew up in a time in which saving things was necessary and routine: “she came from a poor household that survived the Great

Depression in the ‘30s,” he says, and so “she was already accustomed to saving everything and penny pinching, which she’s done ever since” (Jordan 76-77). He continues, “She never abandoned the mindset that you should keep everything, because even if it isn’t useful now, it might be useful someday” (Jordan 77). This does explain the family’s hoarding, to an extent, but it is actually Steve who is the true culprit in this respect. “Berth’s house had always been ‘cluttered,’” Joseph admits early on, “but since 10

Steve had divorced, retired, and moved back in, he’d brought in so much stuff at such a rate that there wasn’t anything else it could be called but hoarding” (Jordan 52). There are many passages that illustrate Steve’s hoarding, of course, but before I turn to them I will first examine the origin of hoarding in addition to its definition, possible causes, and potential ramifications.

Hoarding may actually stem from what John de Graaf, David Wann, and Thomas

H. Naylor define as “affluenza” in their book, Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic.

They define the “disease” as “a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more” (de Graaf,

Wann, and Naylor 2). That is, “the affluenza epidemic is rooted in the obsessive, almost religious quest for economic expansion that has become the core principle of what is called ‘the American dream’” (de Graaf, Wann, and Naylor 3). While the term

“American dream” may speak to a time in which the average person, through hard work and determination, could achieve financial success in a free country, it has lost its impact to the point that it is used ironically except, it would seem, in political rhetoric. If updated for the contemporary, digital era, “The new American dream is to go viral,” says Jeff

Jarvis (qtd. in Silverman 66). People seek celebrity via the Internet in order to capitalize on their fame. Whether one considers the antiquated or the new American dream, the driving force behind both is the same—acquiring wealth.

The danger of affluenza, then, is that one prioritizes things instead of people. De

Graaf, Wann, and Naylor warn that it is “a choice that disconnects us from community life and causes even more consumption, and more disconnection” (67). In other words, 11 while someone diagnosed with affluenza may already own a lot of material possessions, the discouragement resulting from their lack of restraint in purchasing what now does not satisfy them, combined with the thrill they receive when indulging in their addiction to accumulate more, urges them to obtain more (de Graaf, Wann, and Naylor 39). As the hoard grows, it is likely that the hoarder will expend more time and energy tending to it than interpersonal relationships (de Graaf, Wann, and Naylor 39). This also complicates matters insofar as their home no longer serves as a living space, where people can visit the homeowner, but a storage space that is probably off-limits to visitors due to the homeowner’s shame and the overall inability to maneuver within the home itself. The moral of Affluenza is not to refrain from buying anything but to reject materialism and unnecessary accumulation by “buy[ing] carefully and consciously with full attention to the real benefits and costs of your purchases, remembering always, that the best things in life aren’t things” (de Graaf, Wann, and Naylor 8).

But what separates a hoarder from someone who amasses things? Or, to put it differently, at what point during the accumulation process does the person cease to be an accumulator or clutterer or collector and become a full-fledged hoarder? In Stuff:

Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things, Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee aim to answer these questions by defining hoarding and conveying firsthand accounts of excursions into the homes of hoarders who permitted them to document their experiences. Though hoarding can be defined, simply, as the act of accumulation without relinquishment, they intimate that classifying hoarding as a disorder is a difficult proposition (Frost and Steketee 21). “Hoarding,” they write, “has been widely considered 12 to be a subtype of OCD [Obsessive Compulsive Disorder], occurring among one-third of the people diagnosed with that disorder” (Frost and Steketee 12). While OCD is linked to anxiety, the momentary elation that hoarders express during acquisition and reminiscence causes the authors to believe that hoarding is more in tune with ICD [Impulse Control

Disorder] (Frost and Steketee 12-13). Frost and Steketee state that “compulsive buying, a major component of hoarding, is considered to be an ICD” (13). Still, the fact that aspects of hoarding are in line with both OCD and ICD tendencies leads them to admit that perhaps hoarding should be a disorder unto itself (Frost and Steketee 12).

Regardless of its classification, however, Frost and Steketee identify several root causes of hoarding that, though not necessarily comprehensive, further clarify what has happened in a hoarder’s life that has motivated him or her to pursue such an endeavor and what that pursuit is intended to achieve. In accordance with what Joseph’s father says about Berth growing up during the Great Depression and living through the leaner years of World War II, Frost and Steketee aver that “other mental health experts” told them

“that it [hoarding] was a response to deprivation,” and that “in our first study of hoarding, we found that many people described much of what they collected as ‘just in case’ items”

(32). Even so, the hoarders confessed that they had never been in a prolonged situation that would warrant such a practice (Frost and Steketee 32). Although it may seem ironic, hoarders are often perfectionists (Frost and Steketee 26). “Irene,” one of the hoarders that

Frost and Steketee visited, “spoke of having a place that was truly hers and things no one else could touch, as if yearning to achieve some type of ideal state” (26). This is ironic in that a hoarder’s home is filled with items that do not appear organized in any fashion, 13 which means that the valuable and worthless items are intermingled (Frost and Steketee

24). And yet, what the authors come to understand is that hoarders view everything as valuable, and that is one reason why they express reluctance when admonished to discard certain things (Frost and Steketee 24).

Moreover, the authors mention that hoarding is related to one’s upbringing in that some hoarders are not close to their parents, and they emphasize the role of the distant father as instrumental in the development of the disorder (Frost and Steketee 34). This is supported in the narrative, because Joseph’s grandfather (Steve’s father) is deceased.

Now, even though Joseph’s grandfather is deceased, it does not follow that he is completely absent from the story, nor does it follow that being deceased would prevent him from appearing in flashbacks or at least through the other characters’ portrayal of him. Joseph’s grandfather is absent literally but also in the respect that he is mentioned casually without due acknowledgement of his personhood. He is nameless, for instance, and when he is referred to, other characters use the term “grandfather.” Doug, Joseph’s father, tells Joseph that Berth “‘received a Survivors Pension from the government for her first husband’s death in World War II, until she married your grandfather’” (Jordan 76).

Elsewhere, Berth remarks to Joseph that “‘Sometimes your grandfather and I would take

Sunday drives and bring a picnic basket’” (Jordan 102). The characters use the grandfather’s biological role in the family’s propagation, rather than a term of endearment, both as his name and identity.

There are other examples, naturally, but what is most enlightening about the family’s propensity for hoarding is that the grandfather is remembered for his things. At 14 one juncture, Joseph explores his “grandfather’s train room,” which, he says, partly came to being from his “grandfather’s affinity for carpentry and woodworking” (Jordan 125).

Joseph appreciates “the handmade objects my grandfather crafted that, maybe someday, my kids could play with,” because he recognizes value insofar as the objects connect him to his family even if they are not valuable in and of themselves (Jordan 126). In the basement saloon in Berth’s home, Joseph recalls how “According to my dad, when the family would still gather here for an occasion, my grandfather and his brothers would sneak downstairs to the saloon for drinks while the rest of the family remained upstairs,” which highlights the grandfather’s absence even when he is in his own home (Jordan

126-27). Joseph wonders, too, if his grandfather saw those times in the saloon as rituals that others in the family were not welcome to attend: “Or did they view the saloon as an escape from those who hadn’t grown up alongside them and, therefore, hadn’t earned the right to drink with them?” (Jordan 128). No matter the answer to that question, it is evident that Joseph’s family does not refer to his grandfather with terms or stories that imply intimacy.

Still, while hoarding may be a reaction to distance, it may also be a reaction to closeness in the form of emotional trauma, which “cause[s] people to reach for things” as a way to comfort themselves (Frost and Steketee 87). Frost and Steketee write that “The types of trauma most often experienced by hoarders include having had something taken by threat or force, being forced into sexual activity, and being physically assaulted” (87).

Hoarders may strive for comfort through the attainment of things in general. “Perhaps this is actually the goal—to fill space,” say Frost and Steketee, in order to “close in their 15 living spaces to achieve a cocoon-like feeling of comfort and safety” (58, 85). If in doubt about their self-worth, hoarders may momentarily alleviate doubt by forging connections to the things they acquire (Frost and Steketee 79). Overall, Frost and Steketee confess that “we have been struck by the idea that hoarding is not about the objects themselves but about ownership,” and, in speaking about their subject Irene, they explain that her things “connected her to something bigger than herself. They gave her an expanded identity, a more meaningful life. It wasn’t the objects themselves that she valued, but the connections they symbolized” (46, 45). Each item has a connection, that is, and each connection endears the item to the hoarder regardless of what the item actually is and in spite of its value or worthlessness to others.

So, then, how is hoarding different from collecting? To differentiate between hoarding and collecting, Frost and Steketee offer the following definition: “a collection must be a set of objects, meaning more than one, and that the items must be related in some way—they must have some kind of cohesive theme. They also must be actively acquired, meaning there must be some kind of passion or fire to seek out and obtain”

(52). They elaborate on this by writing that “the things have to be acquired and organized in a certain way” (Frost and Steketee 53). Thus, one important difference between hoarding and collecting is organization. While the hoarder may not group like items, the collector will. Also, what separates the hoarder from the collector is what effect the accumulation has (Frost and Steketee 58). The hoarder suffers “Distress or impairment” as a result of obtaining items upon items, but the collector does not (Frost and Steketee 16

58). Contrary to what may be popular belief, they claim that “Hoarding is not defined by the number of possessions” (Frost and Steketee 58).

In the novel, one encounters proof of both collecting and hoarding. Regarding the former, even though Joseph knows his family members are hoarders, he notices what could be considered collections within the hoard itself—before the hoard consumed everything. Shortly after entering his grandmother’s home, he observes “figurines in a multi-tiered glass case against the wall” (Jordan 49). “Most were angels,” he notes, made of “transparent glass, opaque glass, brass. Some were playing harps, while others had their arms extended as if awaiting crucifixion. They ranged in size from two to six inches” (Jordan 49). One cannot assess whether Berth experienced positive or negative feelings from acquiring these figurines, but they do satisfy the qualifications of being like items grouped together in one location.

Similarly, in his father’s former room, Joseph sifts through boxes containing, respectively, “tennis rackets” and “baseballs” (Jordan 103). Elsewhere in the room he documents other groups of like items: “a line of [baseball] bats against the wall,” a closet floor full of “sneakers, sandals, dress shoes, baseball and golf cleats, and even a pair of flippers,” numerous “umbrellas leaned up in the corner,” a box of “vinyl records . . . so packed that I don’t think I could’ve fit another record into it if I tried,” and a bookshelf with “some organizational principle involved, because each shelf contained a different magazine. On the top of the case itself and on the top shelf were issues of National

Geographic, on the next shelf Time, on the next People, on the next Life, on the bottom

Esquire” (Jordan 104-06). Due to Joseph’s knowledge of hoarding gained via TV shows, 17 however, he admits that there is something amiss about the grouping of like items in his grandmother’s home and rationalizes the organization: “my dad must’ve organized his old room before Steve moved in. Or he’d hired a professional organizer. If he had, little evidence remained except in his former room” (Jordan 103).

Berth’s home does house other collections that Joseph unearths during his foraging. The two I refer to are especially important, because Joseph steals from each. In his aunt Monica’s room, there are “trinkets on top of the dressers,” many of which are

“small exotic animals made of glass—an alligator, giraffe, lion, elephant” (Jordan 163).

Joseph takes the elephant, then discovers, under the bed in Steve’s room, “stacks of magazines that each reached from the floor to the bedframe,” consisting of issues of

“Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs” (Jordan 164). From “the motherload of porno mags,” he removes several issues that he combines into a stack and places in the trunk of his car (Jordan 164). At his own home, he inches closer toward his hereditary destiny to become a hoarder when, despite the fear of being caught with the stolen items, he carves out a space for them on the top shelf of his closet (Jordan 174).

Just as Joseph describes collections early in the book, he also points to examples of hoarding within Berth’s home. As soon as he enters, he cannot help but notice the disarray: “The room was a mess . . . and . . . I couldn’t see the carpet because it was covered with stuff—newspapers, jeans, collared shirts, shoes, baseball equipment, cardboard boxes full of books, gardening tools, etc.” (Jordan 49). When he sees Berth for the first time that day, he says “She was huddled in the corner of her couch, surrounded by newspapers and articles of clothing. There were stacks of old magazines on the coffee 18 table and end table” (Jordan 50). The kitchen is no better: “The kitchen table was full. I couldn’t see any surface area whatsoever. Plates, glasses, newspapers, a lone glove, a box of empty water bottles, a hundred or so colored straws, a stopped pocket watch. In the sink: dirty dishes piled high. On the stove: dirty pots and pans. On the counter: empty canned goods, empty boxes of crackers and cereal, empty bags of chips, a rotting apple here, a rotten banana there” (Jordan 52-53). As one would expect, the fridge is full of expired and rotten food.

Such conditions negatively affect how Joseph cares for Berth. For example, instead of preparing Berth a meal from the food on hand, Joseph says that “I knew I wasn’t going to navigate the kitchen again—especially not the fridge—and attempt to find and eat fresh food,” because he doubts its existence in the first place (Jordan 57).

Thus, he resorts to feeding Berth by either getting fast food or bringing food from his home to hers. Other than the fact that the hoarding makes Berth’s home more difficult to navigate than it would be otherwise, people have to clear spaces to find space to occupy comfortably: “Steve walked to the couch, pushed newspapers and magazines aside, and sat next to her”; “I fought the urge to lie down, because I would’ve had to clear off the newspapers and clothes from the other end of the couch”; “I stayed in my clothes and stretched out on the sofa I always sat on. Half of it remained submerged under clothes and newspapers, but I put my feet on top of the pile, turned off the lamp on the end table, and tried to sleep” (Jordan 74, 131-32, 196). Routinely, the characters in the book must solve problems that relate to space in what would otherwise be ordinary circumstances if hoarding were not a factor in their lives. 19

Predictably, hoarding makes life more challenging for hoarders and, like many disorders and addictions, hoarding may beget more hoarding in that the hoarder finds him or herself shamed to the point that s/he feels the need to acquire more in order to stave off shame, only to find that relief is momentary. “Depression is a common affliction among hoarders,” report Frost and Steketee (38). After concluding their research, they determine that “nearly 60 percent of the participants . . . meet diagnostic criteria for major depression—much of which results from the hoarding itself” (Frost and Steketee 38). As mentioned, the hoarder’s self-esteem lowers when faced with the overwhelming amount of things that testify to lack of self-control, and s/he will often retreat from interpersonal relationships because hoarding creates living conditions that the hoarder considers shameful (Frost and Steketee 38-39). This situation means that hoarders are reluctant to invite anyone into their home lest they risk debilitating embarrassment. Some, in fact, will not permit anyone into their home at all, including family members and friends. To contend with their disorder, however, some hoarders may develop what Frost and

Steketee refer to as “clutter blindness,” wh ich “allows them to function with less emotional turmoil” (163). If one ignores the problem, perhaps the problem does not exist.

As the primary hoarder in the novel, Steve appears to endure emotional problems that he shies away from by removing himself from the situation that causes such problems. Though Steve is not diagnosed with depression, his plan “to spend the summer gallivanting around the state going to ballgames, concerts, and fairs” indicates that he would rather indulge in escapism than confront his mother’s illness and his hoarding

(Jordan 45). This modus operandi ensures that he becomes his father in the sense that he, 20 too, is distant from his family. While it is not indicated in the text, I imagine that a hoarder such as Steve may view his hoarding problem as insurmountable. Once hopelessness sets in, with this disorder and numerous others, the afflicted person may further engage in problematic behavior because s/he considers the attempt to combat it fruitless.

In the end, Frost and Steketee turn to Lita Furby, “a pioneer researcher in the field of ownership and possessions,” to ascertain meaning about the objects we surround ourselves with (50). Furby suggests that there are “three major themes” to ownership:

“possessions provide a sense of personal power or efficacy . . . a sense of security” and

“become part of an individual’s sense of self” (Frost and Steketee 50-51). No wonder it is difficult for someone to get rid of items that s/he views as part of his or her identity.

While it may be true that the hoarder encounters more difficulty than the average person when asked to forfeit certain possessions, it also seems fair to say that many average people would cling to certain items that they feel are emblematic of their personhood.

The emotional weight that hoarding puts on the Kolakis family is one reason, among said others, that hoarding is not only inextricable from the narrative but essential to it.

3. The Manifesto Genre

Aside from the story at hand, the other component of the book is the “found” manifesto that Joseph begins writing shortly after becoming entrenched in a maddening situation that involves dementia, eldercare, and hoarding. The manifesto shares its title with the book itself, and, fittingly, the book delivers both in a fragmented manner so that, in spite of clear starting and stopping points, there is little formal separation between the 21 two texts. The two co-exist and unfold simultaneously, in other words, and there is no clear indication as to when Joseph is writing the manifesto, how the reader is privy to it, or what the main plot text is either (written document? memory? confession?). “On the

Merits of Fascism” as a title is important in the respect that, unless ironic, it provides a positive connotation for a term and concept such as “fascism” that is typically met with animosity or derision. A title like “On Fascism” would be ambiguous to the reader, whereas it appears that Joseph is being polemical by claiming that not only does fascism have merit, but it has merits plural. Joseph’s manifesto bears analysis, needless to say, but it is necessary to investigate the genre and its origin in order to determine what a manifesto actually is and what sets it apart from other genres.

Perhaps the most widely-known manifesto is the Communist Manifesto, published in 1848 by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, which examines socioeconomic class through a Communist lens. Many manifestos have been published since then. In Galia

Yanoshevsky’s “Three Decades of Writing on Manifesto: The Making of a Genre,” he mentions notable examples, which include “‘classical’ prewar avant-garde manifestos

(futurism, Dadaism, surrealism); through postwar manifestos, such as the 1948 Refus global; counterculture manifestos, like Valerie Solanas’s (1967) controversial SCUM

Manifesto; Punk and Cyber manifestos, like ‘A Cyberfeminist Manifesto for the Twenty- first Century’ by VNS Matrix (1991); to manifestos published on the Web, like the

Stuckists’ virtual manifestos” (258). Yanoshevsky bases many of his assertions on the work of Claude Abastado, who claims that the manifesto is known primarily for its

“multiformity” (qtd. in Yanoshevsky 261). And, though the manifesto may assume many 22 forms, Abastado offers by way of definition that “The term manifesto, strictly speaking, applies to (often short) texts published in a brochure, in a journal or a review, in the name of a political, philosophical, literary or artistic movement” (qtd. in Yanoshevsky 261).

Furthermore, Yanoshevsky paraphrases Abastado when he asserts that the manifesto “is any text that takes a violent position and produces a flagrant commanding relationship . . . between its producer and his or her audience” (263). The manifesto, then, is a call to action from a writer to a reader/follower. According to Jeanne Demers, its

“explicit function is precisely to question the system” with “crisis” serving as exigency

(qtd. in Yanoshevsky 263). It is through the manifesto that the writer will relay new knowledge that is of such importance that it will change the reader’s life and bears repeating to a mass audience (Yanoshevsky 265). Another characteristic of the manifesto is the lack of vacillation when it comes to proposing ideas, because the writer is conveying the solutions to problems that s/he has already worked out for him or herself

(Yanoshevsky 264-65). Any doubts about the validity of the admonishments expressed therein are left unwritten for the reader to identify and ponder. “Because it is programmatic discourse seeking to legitimize a speaker on behalf of a group, a movement, or a poetic reform,” according to Yanoshevsky, “manifesto language is highly rhetorical and at times even manipulative” (276).

Kenneth DiMaggio also wrestles with the concept of the manifesto’s place within literature, but he first states characteristics of the genre, noting that it “seems born from discontent, desperation, and anger” and is “concerned with evoking immediate social or cultural change” (29). Though the political manifesto does not aspire to literary heights, 23 for its message trumps its delivery, it may resemble certain literary forms that present conflict then resolve it (DiMaggio 31, 30). There may be a back and forth, for instance, that occurs between the naysayer and the author, which may call to mind scenes from a short story, novel, or play (DiMaggio 30). Interestingly, DiMaggio points out that “there is no ‘Manifesto-ist’ the way there is a poet, a novelist, and essayist” (33). Later, he writes that anyone can write a manifesto regardless of literary ties (DiMaggio 33).

Concerning the manifesto, it “seems to be more of a creation that redefines or even rejects the traditional role of the author” (DiMaggio 33). In accordance with Foucault’s thoughts on authorship, DiMaggio agrees that the writer of the manifesto can be seen as more of a conduit or facilitator (33). And, it should be noted, DiMaggio alludes to the author’s “utopian vision and hyperbole that often characterizes many manifestos” (34).

The preceding definitions outline the content of a manifesto, but what happens when the manifesto does not self-identify as a manifesto? Can a manifesto be mistaken for, or actually be, something else? In this case, the manifesto’s fluidity is not a positive characteristic when one seeks to define the term rigidly, because it could be argued that other forms qualify as manifestos. Yanoshevsky employs Abastado’s reasoning again when he writes that the latter “emphasizes the fuzzy borderlines among various types of texts: manifesto, proclamation, appeal to action, address, preface, and declaration” (262).

To provide further support, Yanoshevsky enlists Hubert van den Berg, whose research has compelled him to study the idea of manifestos masquerading, possibly, as the

“decree, the proclamation, and the petition, the appeal to action, the ultimatum, flyers, pamphlets, explanations, prefaces, open letters, answers, and so on” (263). In light of this, 24 the writers mentioned above, as well as a few others, conclude that there must be at least one other component to a manifesto if it is truly classifiable as a manifesto. It is a genre

“that always co-occurs with other kinds of text: manifesto and document; manifesto and proclamation; manifesto, proclamation, and document; program and manifesto; theoretical writing and manifesto; essay, manifesto, and theoretical writing; and so forth”

(Yanoshevsky 263). Even so, Yanoshevsky proposes that absence of the manifesto label, whether a result of the author and/or the readership neglecting or refusing to classify it, does not mean that a manifesto cannot be labeled as such, provided that it meets the previously mentioned definition (265).

There are those, too, who do not engage with the term “manifesto” but, instead, deal with what is “manifestary” and “hortatory,” preferring to concentrate on “the manifesto’s functions,” while others attempt to categorize manifestos by type rather than the umbrella term (Yanoshevsky 265, 266; italics his). Of the three types Yanoshevsky focuses on—political, artistic, and literary—I will only address the political manifesto, because it is most relevant to the novel. Yanoshevsky’s reiteration of Alain Meyer’s argument is that the political manifesto is “action oriented and time bound—with deadlines for carrying out the political actions required” (268). He extends this using the writing of Marcel Burger to state that political manifestos are “anchored in the public sphere and related to citizenship,” and, importantly, “constitute part of an existing public sphere that they support” (Y anoshevsky 269). That is, the new paradigm will include vestiges of life before the revolution as opposed to a complete overhaul that is so foreign from the preceding rule that it is unrecognizable. This bodes well for the new regime in 25 that, even if the manifesto advocates immediate action, the changes in power and daily life will be gradual.

Given that I have defined the (political) manifesto and accepted those definitions as accurate, what makes “On the Merits of Fascism” a political manifesto? First, at approximately twenty-six pages, it qualifies as short. Second, the manifesto is delivered as a document. At the beginning of this section I explain that, despite not being aware of how the document is accessible, it is clear through the use of layout, chapter titles, and other traits that the text is an actual document. Besides the fact that Joseph admits to writing a manifesto, there is no other evidence that it is connected to the narrative in a concrete manner. Third, the call to action is made obvious in the premise: “This manifesto, then, will explain who, why, and how to subject or empower in order to perfect the totalitarian dictatorship in the United States of America in the twenty-first century” (Jordan 55-56). Fourth, and concurrently, the deadline for the societal change comes at the end of the call to action. The novel takes place in 2017 CE (e.g. “There were a few issues of Time underneath a stack of gossip magazines, and I pulled out the one from November 2016 with newly elected President Hillary Clinton on the cover”), which means that the deadline of the “twenty-first century” equates to 2100 CE, leaving eighty- three years for Joseph and his followers to achieve his goals (Jordan 72).

Next, and fifth, Joseph appears to know, or at least has convinced himself that he knows, what it takes to install a totalitarian dictatorship in the U.S. He does not grapple with any ethical dilemmas or struggle to develop his ideas or second-guess his assertions, because he is of the mindset that he is providing the reader with a surefire plan to perfect 26 the human being and society. The first chapter consists of his seven assumptions and the rationalization for each. Subsequent chapters illustrate what one, the “proto-talitarian,” must do in order to topple the U.S. government and replace it with a dictatorship of which he could be the dictator.

Sixth, the language in the manifesto can be considered manipulative, because it is strongly worded and instructive. “[I]t is necessary to outfit the leaders—anyone with a modicum of power, really—with trained bodyguards,” he writes under the first assumption (Jordan 69). He continues, “These guards should be trained in martial arts and firearms, and there should be some on duty whose expertise involves bomb detection and disposal” (Jordan 69). In the section that elaborates on his second assumption, he argues that “the strongest humans should take precedence over the weaker humans,” and, in the fourth assumption, he claims that “violence is needed and is also the quickest, most efficient means of persuasion” (Jordan 79, 97). Elsewhere in the manifesto, Joseph, speaking of the “proto-talitarian,” advises him that he “should join any branch of the military in order to learn self-defense, survival techniques, and military jargon,” or, if he is ineligible for military service, “he should begin by educating himself on the above- mentioned matters by reading relevant texts and enlisting the help of someone who is able to confer such knowledge without the context of what the proto-talitarian is preparing” (Jordan 138-39). There are several examples of this type of language in the manifesto as a whole, and what these passages share are words like “should” and

“must”—words that command readers to satisfy demands. 27

As for authorship, the seventh attribute, Joseph takes deliberate measures to write himself out of the manifesto. Other than the byline, he does not use his name nor pronouns such as “I” or “me” to refer to himself. When he does make a reference to himself, he uses “this author” as in “This author’s assumptions are…” (Jordan 59). On the whole, the manifesto is, unlike the primary narrative, a cold document devoid of personality. It is so removed from Joseph as a person that it is as if he is channeling the message instead of writing it himself. At places in the text he vanishes to the extent that one may forget one is reading his manifesto rather than just a manifesto, and, as a result, the ideas assume the forefront.

Finally, DiMaggio cites The Unabomber’s Manifesto when he brings up “utopian vision” as a manifesto hallmark, and Joseph’s manifesto is no different in that it also forwards the notion of an obtainable utopia. “Typically,” according to Joseph, “the regime aims for either a utopia, in which their citizenry is content with totalitarian rule and does not resort to civil unrest of any kind, or a utopia-in-progress, in which the utopia will come to fruition as soon as the threat of dissent is quelled once and for all” (Jordan

69). Simultaneously, however, he admits that achieving a utopic state is impossible,

“because no matter which course of action is taken, there will always be dissent,” pronounced or otherwise (Jordan 69). Still, perhaps Joseph does harbor the belief that a utopian political state is within reach. If he did not, it would stand to reason that the following would not serve as the only sentence in the manifesto’s epilogue: “It is in this way, using the rules and explanations outlined in this document, that humanity will eventually create the perfect society in which resides the ideal human” (Jordan 215). 28

For Joseph, the manifesto functions as a vehicle by which he justifies the adoption of fascism, thereby justifying euthanasia, and creates a call to action for himself that requires him to perform duties in accordance with the ideas he posits. Without the manifesto, there would have to be another motivating factor for him to reach the conclusion that propels him to commit the mercy killing under the guise of striving for absolute power and perfection. That is why the manifesto plays such a pivotal role in the novel and its title.

4. Fascism

No matter what the term “fascism” means to Joseph, there is no doubt as to its importance due to its appearance in both the title of his manifesto and the novel itself. He does not provide a definition for it, nor does he discuss other political ideologies. He does provide examples of what fascistic rule may entail, however, and this leaves the reader with the impression that he views the totalitarian dictatorship as the means to that end.

This suggests, perhaps, that Joseph believes that once totalitarian rule comes into play, all else will fall into place. The questions are whether what Joseph envisions can be labelled fascism and what prompts him to employ it instead of, say, totalitarianism. To respond, I will utilize Robert O. Paxton’s The Anatomy of Fascism as the basis of my analysis.

Paxton defines fascism according to what the fascists did. Rather than divulge his definition of fascism early in the book, he refrains from doing so until the end, after he has mulled over the origin of the system and the actions of its practitioners during the height of fascistic rule in the twentieth century. While he declines to pose his own definition early, he does refer to the term’s history: “fascism has its root in the Italian 29 fascio, literally a bundle or sheaf” (Paxton 4). He brings to mind the symbol of fascism in that “the word recalled the Latin fasces, an axe encased in a bundle of rods that was carried before the magistrates in Roman public processions to signify the authority and unity of the state” (Paxton 4). Paxton claims that fascism “was born in Milan on Sunday,

March 23, 1919,” during a meeting containing many who opposed socialism (5). Among those in attendance was Benito Mussolini, the founder of fascism, who would, three years hence, become the Prime Minister of Italy.

In terms of how fascism changed the political landscape, Paxton writes that fascism “redrew the frontiers between private and public” in a manner that can be described as Orwellian (11). “It changed the practice of citizenship from the enjoyment of constitutional rights and duties,” he argues, “to participation in mass ceremonies of affirmation and conformity” to quell possible dissent and upheaval at the hands of individualism (Paxton 11, 35). Essentially, the average citizen’s rights had to intertwine with those of the collective, and those in positions of power were free to assert their dominance at will (Paxton 11). Fascism appealed to its audience through pathos

(nationalism, especially) without having much in the way of philosophical support, other than the belief that one ethnic group is superior to all others and, therefore, deserves to reign over them, if not dispatch them outright (Paxton 16, 32). The fascists, in what could be labeled paranoia and/or political theater, viewed themselves as under attack from a range of enemies both foreign and domestic (Paxton 36). Whereas other systems of rule may strive to solve problems peacefully, fascism at the time preferred violence above all means of resolution (Paxton 169). 30

While Paxton invokes the work of German historian and philosopher Ernst Nolte to explain that fascism resulted from a particular set of events such as the “cultural pessimism of the 1890s, the turmoil of the first ‘nationalization of the masses,’ the strains of World War I, and the incapacity . . . to cope with that war’s aftermath, and . . . the spread of the Bolshevik Revolution,” he lists a number of “mobilizing passions” that were instrumental in the rise and adoption of it (172, 41). They are represented in full as follows:

 a sense of overwhelming crisis beyond the reach of any traditional solutions;

 the primacy of the group, toward which one has duties superior to every right,

whether individual or universal, and the subordination of the individual to it;

 the belief that one’s group is a victim, a sentiment that justifies any action,

without legal or moral limits, against its enemies, both internal and external;

 dread of the group’s decline under the corrosive effects of individualistic

liberalism, class conflict, and alien influences;

 the need for closer integration of a purer community, by consent if possible, or

by exclusionary violence if necessary;

 the need for authority by natural leaders (always male), culminating in a

national chief who alone is capable of incarnating the group’s destiny;

 the superiority of the leader’s instincts over abstract and universal reason;

 the beauty of violence and the efficacy of will, when they are devoted to the

group’s success; 31

 the right of the chosen people to dominate others without restraint from any

kind of human or divine law, right being decided by the sole criterion of the

group’s prowess within a Darwinian struggle. (Paxton 41)

Yet, he admits that others emphasize certain aspects of fascism, respectively, that are so intrinsic to it that they may, in fact, serve as its core. He cites both the “effort to have the public sphere swallow up the private sphere” and general “Brooding about cultural degeneracy” as examples of defining characteristics that others have put forth in their attempts to reduce fascism to its main thrust (Paxton 144).

Before Paxton promotes his own definition of fascism, he is quick to point out what separates fascism from other governmental systems of rule. He writes that fascism and the “military dictatorship” are typically thought of as synonymous when that cannot be assumed (Paxton 216). What differentiates this form of dictatorship from fascism is tyrannical rule without regard for common, fascistic ideologies (e.g. ethnic superiority and nationalism), in addition to its possible lack of a “necessary connection to a failed democracy” (Paxton 216). The authoritarian regime cannot be considered fascistic, because it allows of modicum of privacy and deregulation (Paxton 217). For instance, organizations related to churches and the marketplace are free from total control (Paxton

217). “Authoritarians would rather leave the population demobilized and passive,” says

Paxton, as a means to “cling to the status quo rather than proclaim a new way” (217).

Conversely, the totalitarian dictatorship would control organizations and the economy, leaving nothing exempt from their authority except that which they try but fail to suppress. One may infer that totalitarian rule would not meet the requirements of fascism 32 if the former prioritizes absolute power over the ideologies that would strengthen its subjects so that they, too, would rule over the unworthy. Perhaps the citizen living in a totalitarian dictatorship would feel “demobilized and passive” as well instead of enervated to forward the party’s ideals (Paxton 217). Lastly, Paxton submits his own definition of fascism:

a form of political behavior marked by obsessive preoccupation with community

decline, humiliation, or victimhood and by compensatory cults of unity, energy,

and purity, in which a mass-based party of committed nationalist militants,

working in uneasy but effective collaboration with traditional elites, abandons

democratic liberties and pursues with redemptive violence and without ethical or

legal restraints goals of internal cleansing and external expansion. (218)

Though Joseph may not realize what fascistic rule would look like in practice down to minute detail, or the conditions in which the populace would have to survive, it appears that he believes the totalitarian dictatorship is the direct path to fascism. Either way, many of Joseph’s assertions rely on inference through omission. Based on Paxton’s definition, Joseph’s manifesto speaks to “obsessive preoccupation with community decline” in that he appears to believe that “community decline” results from the inability of the powerful to assert their will through fascistic rule (Paxton 218). In his list of assumptions, Joseph states that “A fascistic government is good for the powerful and, thus, the goal in and of itself” so that the powerful may wield control over “worldwide resources” (Jordan 59). Also, current societal practices have allowed unfit humans to subsist, whereas Joseph makes it clear that “the strongest humans should take precedence 33 over the weaker humans” (Jordan 79). Strength is determined through analysis of one’s

“able-bodiedness, intelligence, and physical prowess” as a means to separate the strong from the weak (Jordan 79). Other desirable traits include being “areligious, heterosexual,” and “fully Caucasian” (Jordan 92). After Joseph specifies who is worthy to be a citizen of the nation that rises following the dissolution of the United States, the manifesto becomes, essentially, a manual.

The role of “mass-based party of committed nationalist militants” plays its part in the manifesto as well—mostly in the recruitment stage and actual coup (Paxton 218).

Near the outset, Joseph says that “it is necessary to outfit the leaders . . . with trained bodyguards” to ensure that those in power are protected from subversives (Jordan 69). As the document unfolds, Joseph’s recruitment strategy becomes clear: he wants

“commitments from those whom this manifesto convinces to join together” such as “high school students, veterans, militias, neo-Nazi groups, and the Ku Klux Klan” (Jordan 145).

After the regime gains in numbers, the recruiting process will expand by the “proto- talitarian” enlisting emissaries to move “throughout the country to visit select hate group chapters and solicit membership” (Jordan 146). “It is crucial that the regime continues to grow,” he writes, “because tens of thousands of members will be needed if the current government is to be usurped” (Jordan 157). Eventually, these “tens of thousands of members, if not hundreds of thousands” will “converge on Washington, D.C.” to realize their plot (Jordan 175).

Certainly, Joseph’s manifesto urges its adherents to “abandon democratic liberties and pursue with redemptive violence and without ethical or legal restraints goals of 34 internal cleansing and external expansion” (Paxton 218). Such practices are mentioned throughout. Beginning with his assumptions, Joseph claims that “Certain humans are more valuable than others,” and, partly as a result, “the population must be stabilized and reduced by any means necessary,” which frees those who believe in the manifesto’s tenets from wrestling with moral dilemmas (Jordan 59). “Dissenters,” too, “should be eliminated” (Jordan 59). When it comes to subversives, Joseph explains that even their

“relatives, friends, and acquaintances” will be punished for their crimes against the state as a form of guilt by association (Jordan 129). And, naturally, those who do not meet the personal requirements of the regime, “will be subject to involuntary disposal” (Jordan

92). Such “weeding out” will be accomplished via “execution, euthanasia, eugenics”

(Jordan 187). Following the usurpation, the new regime will address “external expansion” by “invad[ing] and conquer[ing] nearby countries until it controls all of the

Western Hemisphere. Then, the regime should invade and conquer Europe, Asia,

Australia, and Africa in that order” (Paxton 218; Jordan 187). Finally, after the world succumbs to the regime, it “should then infiltrate the everyday lives of the citizens” through the abolishment of the Internet, subversive speech, traveling, weapon ownership, and other activities that could be considered “democratic liberties” (Jordan 188; Paxton

218).

Joseph’s “On the Merits of Fascism” may not call for “working in uneasy but effective collaboration with traditional elites,” but, if one accepts Paxton’s definition as valid, the ruling system that the manifesto advocates does indeed appear classifiable as fascism (218). While Joseph favors the totalitarian dictatorship, if his goal is “to establish 35 an ideal form of government to create the ideal human form,” then his concern for the new state and populace in the wake of democratic rule supports the label of fascism

(Jordan 145). What this all seems to say is that, as Joseph steps toward the extreme act that he feels he must perform to alleviate Berth’s suffering, he also believes that he must endorse the most extreme form of rule to justify his own actions. Once he makes this connection, it frees him to abide by the principles he sets forth in the manifesto—cruel as they may seem.

5. Euthanasia

Following Berth’s second stroke, she tells Joseph that “‘Maybe I should just die’” and that “‘It’s terrible getting old’” (Jordan 199, 212). Joseph wonders if there is more to them than face value. “I searched her eyes as best as I could in the dark room,” he says

(Jordan 212). “Was she stating a fact, lamenting her situation, or pleading with me? Some of each?” (Jordan 212). After thinking it through, Joseph arrives at a course of action and tells Berth, “‘Next time’” (Jordan 212). Still, even though it would appear that Joseph is resolute in his plan, he asks Berth: “‘Are you sure you want me to do this?’” (Jordan

216). She, however, does not reply. The climax of the novel occurs when Joseph commits euthanasia by smothering Berth in an act that he views as a mercy killing but that many would see as murder. Such a scenario raises a few questions: Is euthanasia ever an acceptable practice? If so, how should it be performed and to whom? If not, why not?

Using the work of Neil M. Gorsuch, Emily Tomlinson, and others, I will answer these questions in the context of the novel. 36

Prior to debating the issue, it is necessary to clarify the term “euthanasia,” even though I will refer to it primarily in its catch-all form, because it can refer to several possible acts whose acceptance varies from country to country and, within the U.S., state to state. That is, there is no uniform, widespread practice that completely encompasses

“euthanasia.” There is “active euthanasia” in which the “person directly and deliberately causes the patient’s death,” just as there is “passive euthanasia,” which happens when

“someone lets the person die” by either “withdrawing or withholding treatment” (“Forms of Euthanasia”). The former types describe euthanasia with regard to the person committing the act. For those on the receiving end of euthanasia, voluntary euthanasia means that the person wanting to die requests euthanasia (“Forms”). Non-voluntary euthanasia equates to someone else deciding on behalf of the person who is unable or unfit to make the decision for him or herself (“Forms”). Involuntary euthanasia occurs when the person wants to live but is euthanized in spite of his or her decision (“Forms”).

Indirect euthanasia suggests that an overseer commits euthanasia by “providing treatment

(usually to reduce pain) that has the side effect of speeding the patient’s death” without killing him or her outright (“Forms”). Additionally, there is (physician-)assisted suicide, during which a person, usually suffering from a terminal illness, enlists help from someone else, who may or may not be a physician, to commit sanctioned suicide

(“Forms”). Based on these kinds of euthanasia, Berth’s qualifies as active, but whether it is non-voluntary or involuntary is arguable. From Joseph’s perspective, it is non- voluntary. 37

According to Neil M. Gorsuch, euthanasia was a fairly palatable idea in the

United States until Americans learned of the practices of Nazi Germany (36). Gorsuch intimates that, prior to World War II, “Many feared that America was itself headed toward degeneracy—that social undesirables were reproducing . . . in alarming

Malthusian numbers and constituted nothing less than a public health crisis” (33). Certain members of society called for involuntary sterilization and involuntary euthanasia to solve this problem, and, perhaps as a testament to this perception, the Euthanasia Society of America was established shortly thereafter in 1938 (Gorsuch 33, 35). Notable

Americans such as Sherwood Anderson and Abraham Wolbarst “argued that society had a duty to kill those with defects because they unnecessarily drained community resources” (Gorsuch 35). Progress came to a halt, however, when Americans discovered that the Nazis were guilty of “the killing of 200,000 disabled and elderly persons,” which included even native Germans (Gorsuch 36).

As the decades elapsed, the debate surrounding euthanasia changed insofar as the rationale of the common good ceased to trump personal autonomy in a life or death decision (Gorsuch 38). This led some to reason that there is, in certain cases, a duty to die

(Gorsuch 40). Yet, Derek Humphry, Richard Lamm, and others who propose such a duty seem to revert back to the common good, in that Humphry argues that the money used to care for the terminally ill could be better appropriated elsewhere, just as Lamm talks of the elderly “free[ing] up social resources” (Gorsuch 40). What complicates matters is when a person becomes so incapacitated that his or her personhood is called into question. Gorsuch claims that Dan Brock recommends, in the case of Alzheimer’s 38 patients, what I think of as empathic euthanasia: if you were in the incapacitated person’s position and could articulate your thoughts, would you choose to die? (41). Similarly, noted utilitarian Peter Singer argues that, “because infants are not self-aware, it is a morally neutral or even a morally upright act to kill them, depending on the circumstances and whether the killing would maximize overall social welfare and happiness” (Gorsuch 42). For some, self-awareness is the determining factor in what constitutes justifiable euthanasia.

In other countries, the Netherlands can be evaluated as a case study in terms of euthanasia legalization. Despite its legalization and the controversy surrounding it, euthanasia is seldom practiced there (Gorsuch 103). It is important to keep in mind, though, that unless the data refer to a per capita percentage, then it is fair to assume that euthanasia cases in the Netherlands, with a 2014 population of approximately 16.8 million people, would be far fewer than in the United States, which, in 2014, was estimated to contain approximately 322.6 million people (“Population by Country”).

Even in light of this discrepancy, the legality of euthanasia in the Netherlands may serve as a litmus test for the rest of the world.

A watershed moment occurred in 1981 during a court case in which the court declared that “a physician might be exempt from any punishment for killing a patient suffering severe physical duress,” eliminating the boundary between euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide (Gorsuch 104; italics his). The Dutch Supreme Court went so far as to endorse implementation of euthanasia even when the patient’s suffering is psychological but not physical (Gorsuch 105). In 1990, a survey of physicians reported 39 that most euthanasia procedures were carried out not because of relentless anguish on the part of the patient (“18.8 percent of the cases”), but more so due to a bleak outlook pertaining to recovery, due acknowledgement of the likelihood of inevitable death, relatives seeking closure, and the patient’s overall, “‘low quality of life’” (Gorsuch 110).

To the Dutch, Gorsuch claims, it is the physician and not the patient who provides the compelling rationale for euthanasia (111). While the patient may be in a state of obvious, constant suffering, the physician’s diagnosis is needed to obtain legal permission to commit euthanasia. In 2001, the law became more specific, and arguably more humane, by stating that, if called on to perform a euthanasia, a physician:

1. holds the conviction that the request by the patient was voluntary and well-

considered,

2. holds the conviction that the patient’s suffering was lasting and unbearable,

3. has informed the patient about the situation he was in and about his prospects,

4. and the patient [held] the conviction that there was no other reasonable

solution for the situation he was in,

5. has consulted at least one other, independent physician who has seen the

patient and has given his written opinion on the requirements of due care,

referred to in parts 1-4, and,

6. has terminated a life or assisted in a suicide with due care. (Gorsuch 106)

Gorsuch believes, however, that euthanasia as a solution may render a disservice to current and future patients (128). That is, euthanasia could function as the reason to dissuade researchers from pursuing new cures and treatments, just as it could eliminate various options intended to prevent further suffering—personal nurses, hospice care, and 40 pain medication (Gorsuch 128). This could also include ignoring psychological and religious counseling. Gorsuch writes, too, that such a practice could make physicians’ lives more troubling by forcing them to commit euthanasia—an act that contradicts the

Hippocratic Oath and may conflict with their ethical beliefs (129-30).

Personally, Gorsuch believes that life is good in and of itself and is, therefore, its own justification (157-58). In other words, life need not contribute to a so-called “greater good” or other purpose in order for it to be considered worthwhile (Gorsuch 157-58).

Now, though it may help to know what exactly constitutes “life” in Gorsuch’s eyes, he does say that if “different human lives bear different value depending on their instrumental worth to society or other persons, a critical rationale for equal protection would wither if not drop away altogether” (159). If this is the case, he posits, then it does not make sense to treat people equally when some are indeed unequal (Gorsuch 159).

The study conducted by Tomlinson et al. is relevant, especially, because it surveys how sixteen Americans who have cared for dementia patients view physician- assisted suicide and euthanasia. Though the article prefaces the study’s results with information that I have covered already, such as the defining of terms and the perceived notion that one has a duty to die to remove strain from others, what proves insightful are the results. “Over half” of the participants, for instance, “would want the option of an assisted death for themselves” to retain “comfort and control” (Tomlinson 722). On the other hand, most expressed discomfort at the prospect of making this decision for someone else due, perhaps, to our cultural valuing of autonomy (Tomlinson 724). Some of those who balked at endorsing an assisted dying approach brought up trepidations 41 regarding the patient’s (lack of) cognizance in making such an important decision

(Tomlinson 724). Others were hesitant because they were unsure of what was the right thing to do for all involved and would not want coercion to play any part in the decision

(Tomlinson 724). Still, Tomlinson admits that the “Research suggests that carers may feel unable to decide for other people due to uncertainty around (1) being able to reliably administer an assisted death, (2) anxiety about prosecution and (3) concerns about the emotional burden” (725). Plus, dementia patients may change their mind about their care

(Tomlinson 725). How would this situation be handled if a dementia patient changed his or her mind after the necessary paperwork had been filed? Would there exist a chance to reverse the decision? How long prior to the assisted death would that opt-out be possible?

How many times could patients opt in or out? In any event, Tomlinson et al. conclude that “Some participants contemplated an assisted death for the person they cared for”

(725).

To answer the questions from the beginning of this section, euthanasia in the case of Berth is not acceptable, because she has not expressed a clear wish to die.

Additionally, there are alternative forms of care that the Kolakis family neglects to utilize. Berth could live in a dementia-care facility, or the family could enlist the services of a live-in caregiver with the medical knowledge necessary to accommodate a dementia patient. And, though Berth requires near-constant supervision, she can still do many things for herself. For example, she can walk, talk, eat, drink, and express her emotions through body language. With that said, Joseph’s decision rests upon the premise that his family will never take the steps needed to ensure proper, comfortable treatment, so before 42 the syndrome progresses he takes matters into his own hands to save Berth from a fate that is, he seems to believe, worse than death. While euthanasia is integral to the novel, it is, arguably, the least ethical among several options the family has to respond to Berth’s illness.

Using textual evidence and research, I have attempted in this introduction to show that the novel’s five main topics—dementia, hoarding, the manifesto genre, fascism, and euthanasia—are essential to the narrative and its success. Each bears a load in a way that if any were removed would cause the novel to fold in on itself until it collapsed under lack of adequate rationale for what the characters think, say, and do. The topics are so interrelated that one cannot examine any of them without discussing the influence of the others. By the end, one can see that Berth’s dementia and Steve’s hoarding motivate

Joseph to write a manifesto advocating fascism that compels him to commit euthanasia.

43

WORKS CITED

De Graaf, John, David Wann, and Thomas H. Naylor. Affluenza: The All-Consuming

Epidemic. San Francisco: Berrett-Koehler Publishers, 2001. Print.

“Dementia.” Def. 1. OED Online. Oxford UP, Dec. 2015. Web. 13 Jan. 2016.

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Things. 2010. New York: Mariner Books, 2011. Print.

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22 Sept. 2015.

45

ON THE MERITS OF FASCISM: A MANIFESTO NOVEL

“For those nearest our hearts are the ones most likely to tread upon them.”

-Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm

“…that long, map-less walk into dementia.”

-Sarah Hall, How to Paint a Dead Man

It was the summer after college that I’d decided to take my dad up on his offer:

He would let me live at home rent-free if I cared for my grandmother a few times a week.

Her regular caregiver Steve, my uncle, who lived with her, announced that he was going to spend the summer gallivanting around the state going to ballgames, concerts, and fairs.

Someone, he said, would need to stay with her while he was gone in case she ate something she shouldn’t, fell down the stairs, or set the house on fire. My grandmother,

Bertha, or Berth as we called her, was ninety-seven years old and, according to her doctor’s diagnosis, in Stage 4 of dementia: CDR-2 or Moderate Impairment. This meant that her short-term memory suffered, resulting in disorientation and trouble with regard to simple tasks like daily hygiene. Often Steve would call my dad and tell him about what crazy thing Berth had done that day—attempted to use the TV remote as the cordless phone, carried around a loaf of bread like a baby, left the tap on and flooded the hall bathroom, and, perhaps the worst, messed herself on a regular basis. My dad’s family, his brothers Steve and Jef and sister Monica, had enough money among them to put Berth in a dementia ward, where she’d have her own nurse and 24/7 monitoring. Steve refused to consent, however, and moved back into their childhood home. 46

I couldn’t say I was looking forward to the arrangement, but, after graduation, I searched for jobs and couldn’t find any that suited me. I got a B.A. in anthropology, because it seemed interesting—the study of people, right? What’s more interesting than ourselves in this anthropocentric world? The self(ie)? Sure, as a white male with no criminal record, I could’ve driven down to the Shell, or the Wendy’s, or the Walmart and got hired on the spot, but I wasn’t going to return to my high school jobs like retail or food service after the degree. They were now beneath me. Or I was too proud to admit they weren’t. Because my parents footed my college bills, though I worked on campus for spending money, I graduated without debt and could afford to watch Berth for the summer, if only to prolong my search for a decent job that would allow me to live with myself and retain a little dignity.

It was also around this time that I began writing my manifesto.

47

In mid-May, on the first afternoon of my new “job,” I arrived at my grandmother’s house—the one she grew up in and eventually inherited, where I spent many weekends during my childhood. Often my parents were too busy working to look after me but too cheap to pay for daycare. At family get-togethers, I had to listen to my dad and his siblings talk about how the neighborhood used to be good, how they could play outside all day and night without worrying about being abducted or shot, how nice everything was, they said, before the blacks moved in. What was true, at least, was that the projects were encroaching, and crime in the area had risen due to the drug trade. Then again, drugs were everywhere. Perhaps my uncle and grandmother warded off potential threats with the ADT stickers they had on the front door and back door. They’d had the service for a while, but after canceling they kept the stickers. Why not, you know? I’d even tried to help by giving them an NRA sticker that the NRA had included in a letter to me, coaxing me to join. They put it on the front door next to the ADT sticker to give second thoughts to those who might consider breaking in. There wasn’t a security system, nor were there any guns in the house, to my knowledge, but sometimes appearance is everything. Steve, my dad told me when he gave me a key to Berth’s house, was a couple hours away at some minor league baseball tournament, so I was to let myself in and tend to Berth.

I hadn’t seen her house in a long time. Berth used to host every holiday gathering there, but, in light of her age and condition, in recent years my aunts and uncles traded off those duties. She hadn’t hosted anything since before I was born, in fact, because it was deemed too much work for her without my grandfather around to help. Still present, 48 however, were the things I remembered from my childhood: the steep incline of the driveway that made backing out difficult unless you didn’t care about scraping your car’s undercarriage; the big tree whose branches and leaves created a canopy for the front yard, whose lowest branch was too high for me as a scrawny kid; the black gate surrounding the front porch that’d always been in need of paint; and the front room’s bay window.

New to me was the sprawling pile of garbage under the carport. I left my car on the street and walked up the driveway to the improvised landfill. There were several empty pizza boxes and cans of Big Red, as well as empty milk jugs, water bottles, paper plates, rotting fruits and vegetables, among other trash. Had I not known my uncle, I may have assumed he was sorting for recycling and compost. Instead, I knew that because the trash can was full, he was just throwing stuff in the vicinity. But because there was so much of it, I had to wonder why he wasn’t setting out the trash can on the curb for pickup. I approached the front door to escape the sweltering heat.

Hanging next to the front door was the small metal mailbox affixed to the house’s red brick façade. I opened it and took out the contents: the latest issues of O, The Oprah

Magazine and the AARP Bulletin, two credit card offers, a letter from a bank, and some ads. I shoved it all under my left arm and opened the creaky screen door. Before I got out my key, I studied the front door, noticing how the green paint was chipped away to the point that the door was more of its original brown than green. Someone should paint this,

I thought. I took out the key and put it in the deadbolt lock, unlocking it first and then the doorknob lock. 49

I opened the door and stood in the sitting room, or whatever they called it. First I heard the TV blaring from the other room. The smell hit me immediately, too: mustiness, like an old library. I knew my dad’s side of the family were hoarders, so I expected the place to stink of rotten food and maybe even urine or excrement, but it didn’t. The room was a mess, though, and other than the landing, which needed to be free of debris so the door could be opened, I couldn’t see the carpet because it was covered with stuff— newspapers, jeans, collared shirts, shoes, baseball equipment, cardboard boxes full of books, gardening tools, etc. The only available seating was Steve’s armchair, angled toward the TV. Stuff had overtaken the couch, but it’s not like I could’ve reached it anyway without climbing over things. The only path in the room led to the T where you could either go left to the hall bathroom and two other bedrooms or go right into the den.

I suspected Berth would be in the den where, my uncle told me, she “sits on her ass all day.”

I shut the door and locked both the deadbolt and the doorknob. I walked a few steps and studied the figurines in a multi-tiered glass case against the wall. Most were angels: transparent glass, opaque glass, brass. Some were playing harps, while others had their arms extended as if awaiting crucifixion. They ranged in size from two to six inches, and though closing the door had darkened the room, the display case appeared free of dust, which led me to believe that it hadn’t been opened since the last addition to the collection—years ago, maybe, or even decades. I leaned over to look at more and clutched the mail to make sure I wouldn’t drop it. The floor creaked while I perused the photos on the wall. They were in frames that held multiple pictures, so none occupied too 50 much real estate and everyone in the family got their share of wall space. I stopped and looked at my dad as a kid, a blonde boy with blue eyes. His cheeks were red like he’d been sweating and, similar to a hockey player, he was missing his front teeth. I could see my dad’s face as I knew it, but it was foreign too. People say I get my looks from my dad.

“Hello?” I heard from the den. It was Berth’s weak, raspy voice.

“Hey, Berth,” I said, walking into the den. She was huddled in the corner of her couch, surrounded by newspapers and articles of clothing. There were stacks of old magazines on the coffee table and end table: Cosmo, People, Redbook, Us Weekly,

Vogue, and others I wouldn’t regret tossing in a Dumpster. Though, to be fair, there was a stack of National Geographic.

“Doug?” she said.

“No,” I said and pushed a bunch of clothes off the adjacent couch so I could sit down and face her. “It’s Joseph, your grandson.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure when I saw her last, but her appearance unnerved me. She was waif-thin with spotted, sagging skin. Her neck was like a turkey’s: melting. Her irises had always been bright blue, but her eyes were red-rimmed and probably in need of eye drops. Her poofy hair had thinned to the point that anyone could see her scalp through it, but she still made regular trips to the salon to have it colored blonde. One of the family chauffeured her, of course, because she hadn’t been permitted to drive for years. She cleared her throat and said, “You look like Doug.”

“I’m Doug’s son, Joseph. You used to call me Little Joe. When I was little.” 51

“Oh,” she said and swiveled to refocus on the TV, which was situated on a stand and broadcasting a court program. I recognized the name of the show but not the judge.

The volume was loud, but I recalled that Berth had lost much of her hearing. Next to the

TV stand was a wall affixed with several shelves; each of which was filled with so many upright picture frames it was as if they were reproducing. I searched for me and noticed two—one when I was a toddler, the other when I was ten or eleven. Berth’s house was a time capsule. There were also paper plates scattered about, smeared with streaks of butters, jellies, and spreads, in addition to any number of glasses half full of water and a brown liquid, which, knowing my family, was sweet tea. Sugar, in other words, with a little tea. I inhaled and detected a faint scent of stale urine. I wondered if Berth was wearing an adult diaper and, if so, how many years she’d been wearing them. Unlike most other family-related information, which had a tendency to trickle down to all members of all standing, I never heard if she did or didn’t use diapers. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, and I reassured myself that, if she was in fact wearing a diaper, that was something Steve would deal with when he got home. I wasn’t going to. It wasn’t yet my time. I’d face that when my parents got old but not any sooner.

“Did you have lunch, Berth?” I said. I’d looked at the paper plates and glasses, but I couldn’t tell which, if any, had been recently used.

“What?” she asked and turned toward me.

“I said, did you have lunch?”

She kneaded the Kleenex she was holding. “Well, I can’t say I remember.” She smiled—more out of embarrassment than contentment—and resumed watching TV. 52

Seeing that it was the afternoon, I was sure Steve fixed her breakfast before he left, but I wasn’t sure if he left before lunch or after. If before, she probably hadn’t eaten because her appetite had diminished to the extent that, unless she were starving, she wouldn’t fix herself food. She’d eat if you prepared it and put it in front of her, but only then. If Steve left after lunch, he’d probably had her eat something. The problem, I learned, was lack of communication. Steve hadn’t left a note to explain any of this, so I had to fend for myself when it came to Berth’s well-being.

“Are you hungry now?” I asked, speaking louder than I wanted to.

“Not really,” she said. Her eyes remained on the TV, but she lifted her arm toward the nearest glass, opening and closing her hand like we were in the dark. I reached the glass first and placed it farther away from her.

“Let me get you a fresh one. Tea?”

“Yes,” she said. I got off the couch and walked into the kitchen. In addition to the big wooden kitchen table, there was a bar and, theoretically, plenty of counter space.

Berth’s house had always been “cluttered,” but since Steve had divorced, retired, and moved back in, he’d brought in so much stuff at such a rate that there wasn’t anything else it could be called but hoarding. I’d watched a few episodes of Hoarders on A&E and

Hoarding: Buried Alive on TLC, through which I learned that hoarding was an attempt to comfort oneself through object accumulation. The kitchen table was full. I couldn’t see any surface area whatsoever. Plates, glasses, newspapers, a lone glove, a box of empty water bottles, a hundred or so colored straws, a stopped pocket watch. In the sink: dirty dishes piled high. On the stove: dirty pots and pans. On the counter: empty canned goods, 53 empty boxes of crackers and cereal, empty bags of chips, a rotting apple here, a rotten banana there. Again, little space to put anything. I could understand the pile of dishes, because they didn’t have a dishwasher, but everything else seemed easy: either throw it away or clean it. I found a glass—“127th Kentucky Derby”—in one of the cabinets and held it up to the light to see if it was clean. Cloudy but passable.

The freezer, though full of meat and dinners, wasn’t too bad. I grabbed an ice tray and wrenched it back and forth to free the ice, which cracked and chipped, and dropped a few cubes into the 127th Kentucky Derby glass. The fridge, however, was its own disaster: there was no more room. All the shelves and drawers were full. Most of the food was either expired or rotten, if not both. Jars of jelly, pickles, mayo, and others were half full but had expired a couple years ago. I found a jar of prunes that’d been expired for five years. There were three open packages of moldy bacon, and what I assumed was that my uncle kept buying more packages before finishing the open ones. And, for some strange reason, whether intentional or unintentional, he neglected to toss the old stuff.

The only items that weren’t expired were a gallon of 2 percent milk and a gallon of

Milo’s Famous Sweet Tea—each half full. I removed the jug and poured tea into the glass. I considered cleaning the fridge, but it wasn’t my job, so I put the tea back where I got it. I almost left the kitchen before I remembered that Berth liked straws in her drinks, so I snatched a red one off the kitchen table and put it in the glass. In the den, before I handed the glass to Berth, I noticed that every glass around us contained a straw.

“Thank you,” she said when I passed her the tea. She kept her eyes on the TV but moved the glass toward her face, searching for the straw with her tongue. She found it 54 and sipped. I sat down again and checked the time on my phone. I’d been there maybe an hour, but it already felt like several. I had the whole evening ahead of me, unfortunately, and the house already had me feeling suffocated. I couldn’t wait to leave. How was anyone supposed to live a comfortable life here? I leaned my head back, rested my eyes.

55

On the Merits of Fascism

By Joseph Kolakis

Foreword

Throughout the ages, certain members of our species have attempted to wield control over their fellow citizens through violent means. Some succeeded in attaining power but failed to maintain it. When one considers the totalitarian dictatorship, for instance, one usually thinks of men such as Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, and Joseph

Stalin, who, during the 1940s, led their countrymen, respectively, to defeat or victory.

One may dispute the term “victory,” however, insofar as the Soviet Union alone suffered approximately 18-24 million deaths during the Second World War. This figure reflects not only soldiers killed in action, but also wrongful civilian deaths as well as civilian deaths due to famine and disease.

Contemporarily speaking, one may think of Cambodian Pol Pot, former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, the Kim Jongs of North Korea, or any number of African despots who our nation’s leaders do not care about until they desire the country’s natural resources. (After all, one may rationalize the dictatorship as a form of population control—a subject addressed later.) Numerous examples of the totalitarian dictatorship can be found, but, while some have risen to power and sustained it for a time, none has perfected it. What “perfection” equates to is as follows: unlimited rule with absolutely no threat of genuine dissent in action, voice, or thought, but with regime-concocted threats of dissent from both within and without to establish and maintain fear in the populace.

This manifesto, then, will explain who, why, and how to subject or empower in order to 56 perfect the totalitarian dictatorship in the United States of America in the twenty-first century.

57

I woke up with cottonmouth. I swabbed my mouth with my tongue, trying to coat it in saliva and get the juice flowing again. Despite the noise of the TV, which was tuned to a celebrity gossip show, I’d fallen asleep. I looked over at Berth, who was still studying the TV, then at the glass of tea, half full, ice long gone. The lamp on the end table was on, but the room was dimmer because the sun was setting. I rubbed my eyes, checked my phone. The time was half past seven.

“Berth,” I said in a gravelly voice. I cleared my throat and started again. “Are you hungry? It’s dinner time.” She swiveled toward me. She had a hangdog look, like she was about to fall asleep or had just woken up. Her eyes, bloodshot and dull, were either dry or irritated.

“Supper?” she said.

“Yeah, supper.” I’d abandoned the word a few years ago. Always used “dinner” instead. There was something about “supper” that made it feel too country to me, too rural, even redneck, like “grub.”

“I could eat,” she said and returned her attention to the TV. I thought about asking if she’d used the bathroom while I was asleep, but I didn’t. She was still fine to walk, however, and I assumed she’d go if she felt the need.

“What do you feel like eating?” I said. I knew I wasn’t going to navigate the kitchen again—especially not the fridge—and attempt to find and eat fresh food. I didn’t know if there was any.

“Anything, really,” she said, looking at me again. “A hamburger, I guess, from…”

She glanced away while trying to remember the place she wanted it from. “There was 58 that good hamburger place we used to go to—Dillard’s, I think it was called. Yes, a hamburger from Dillard’s.” I stifled a laugh but still smiled. I didn’t want to laugh at her confusion and make her feel bad, but what was more disconcerting was that she might’ve not known why I was laughing. Others in the family corrected her sometimes, but I saw that as futile and, for her, embarrassing. Instead, I rolled with it.

“Anything else?” I said.

“No, that’s it. Get something for yourself.”

I got up from the couch and walked through the den toward the front of the house.

I reached the front door but backtracked to use the hall restroom, my uncle’s, before I left. I flipped on the light and stopped where I was: toiletries everywhere, murky water in the clogged sink, toilet stained with shit-streaked toilet paper in the bowl, bathtub brown, and newspapers on the floor and in crevices. My guess was that Steve hadn’t cleaned it since he’d moved back in and, after he moved back in, he stopped Berth from employing a cleaning lady. I had to go, though, so I edged into the bathroom, careful to avoid any dirty surface or object. I lowered my gym shorts and boxers so I didn’t have to touch anything, which meant I wouldn’t have to wash my hands, and peed. When I was finished, I didn’t flush because I wasn’t sure that the toilet wasn’t clogged. And, if I were being honest, I’d admit that it felt good to contribute to Steve’s mess, like, here, here’s a little payback for how you’ve inconvenienced your family. I considered it negligent—and maybe cruel—to force Berth to live in such conditions. She couldn’t clean after herself, let alone two people. I turned off the light and left through the front door. I locked it behind me and breathed deep the fresh air. 59

Chapter 1: Assumptions

In Darren Aronofsky’s Pi (1998), narrator and protagonist Maximillian Cohen, suffering from severe headaches as a result of staring at the sun when he was a child, attempts to pinpoint the mathematical formula that will predict the fluctuations in the stock market. Each day, before he resumes his work, he states his assumptions. This author’s assumptions are as follows:

1. A fascistic government is good for the powerful and, thus, the goal in and of itself

2. Certain humans are more valuable than others

3. Because certain kinds of humans are used to enduring subjugation, it is desirable

to continue this status quo

4. Coercion through violence is not only necessary but optimal to instill fear in the

populace

5. Due to global overpopulation, the population must be stabilized and reduced by

any means necessary if the powerful are to retain access to and wanton use of

worldwide resources

6. The regime will be under constant threat (real or otherwise) and, therefore, should

be under constant protection and utilize widespread surveillance to gather intel

7. Dissenters should be eliminated before they pose danger.

Permit the expansion and further explanation of the preceding assumptions in order to dispel any possible misinterpretation.

60

Even at twilight, the air was so thick and humid that I coughed immediately.

There was the smell of fire on the wind, and I thought about why anyone would be burning something for heat before I came to my senses and figured that something nearby was burning uncontrollably. Fire was another hazard of Berth’s house. How would firefighters wade through all that junk to find someone in the house if it were an inferno?

Would they spend too much time sifting through it all? Could Berth escape if she had to exit through a window? Would she know what to do? Or, at worst, would she even realize the threat before she asphyxiated? You think about these things and prepare for them, and then they never happen. But what if you don’t prepare?

I crossed the porch and unlocked my car. I left the door open while I started the engine and rolled the windows down. Turned the air conditioner on the lowest setting so it had time to cool. Shortly after, I held my hand to the vent and felt cold air. I rolled up the windows, turned on the headlights, and shifted into reverse. The incline was steep, and, concerned about grinding the undercarriage on the concrete, I rode the brake the whole way. The driveway wasn’t made for cars; it was better suited to SUVs and trucks.

With the car in drive, I turned on my MP3 player and tried to lose myself in

Soundgarden’s Down on the Upside. I turned onto Main before I knew where I was going, before it hit me that Berth’s preference for ice cream meant that she’d enjoy a

Frosty from Wendy’s, where I ended up. I ordered her a small burger, fries, Coke, and

Frosty and ordered myself bigger versions of each. Had my family not told me that Berth was free to eat whatever she wanted—she was ninety-seven, after all—I would’ve assumed she was on a healthy diet. As I checked and smelled the food in the bag, I 61 wondered what it would require of me to live to see ninety-seven, but, then again, I wasn’t convinced I wanted to reach ninety-seven. It’d be one thing if my faculties remained intact, or mostly intact, but if they wouldn’t, you could count me out. It occurred to me that Berth probably hadn’t specified her care in her will, and that was something I’d want to do for myself to avoid any ugliness.

Back at the house, I eased my car up the driveway and emerged from it in the dark. I went to the passenger side and removed the bag and drink tray from the seat and put them on the roof. Once I locked the car and checked the doors, I grabbed the bag and tray and walked onto the porch, where I set the bag down to ready the key. When I got the door open, I picked up the bag then took a deep breath. Blew it out. Entered.

“Steve?” Berth said after I’d locked the door behind me. The TV blared, as usual, and I wasn’t sure how she heard me over it.

“Nah, it’s Little Joe,” I yelled. I walked into the living room where she was still ensconced on her couch. The TV was tuned to The Bachelor—a show the females in my family couldn’t get enough of, like Dancing with the Stars. I hated both. “Hungry?” I said and held up the Wendy’s bag.

“Yes,” she said and glanced from the TV to me to the TV again. I sat on the adjacent couch and set the bag and tray on top of magazine stacks that looked sturdy. I unpacked the food for Berth and handed it to her. She took the burger and fries from me, and she unwrapped the burger as soon as she placed the fries next to her. I removed her

Coke and Frosty from the tray and put both within reach of her, though I first had to move a couple of glasses out of the way. 62

I plunked a straw through the lid on the Coke but set a spoon on top of the Frosty to prevent her from eating it before the food. Next I got out my own food and set my drink and Frosty on the end table wherever they would fit without toppling something else. The burger reminded me of what I enjoy about them: even though there was so much on it (lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, mustard, and ketchup), each element’s distinct taste and texture were identifiable among the cheese, beef, and bun. The fries were crispy and salty. The Coke’s sweetness and fizz hit me good, but I hiccupped immediately following my first gulp—annoying but worth it. I was so busy appreciating the food that I forgot to pay attention to Berth, who was eating her hamburger. She had discarded the wrapping by letting it sail to the floor, which meant that the ketchup and mustard dripping from the burger had no place to go but the front of her blouse. She was about halfway finished with it, however, so I decided to let her finish before cleaning her up because she’d probably spill more anyway. Her mouth was a smear of ketchup and mustard but, against my urge, I refrained from wiping it.

Turning back to my food, I recalled what Steve had said and other family members had echoed these past years: she’s like a little kid, a baby. That is, she lost the ability to do much for herself, so her caregiver had to cook for her, prepare her food, clean up after her, drive her places, do the shopping, take out the garbage, etc. Not that all that stuff was getting done with Steve at the helm. It was cruel that we were born babies and many of us would die babies. One would hope that the body would be able to judge its effectiveness and quality of life for itself and, if both were lacking more than not, the body could and would self-destruct. I had a bite left of my burger but, instead of popping 63 it in my mouth, I left it in the wrapper and wadded it up into a ball. I squeezed the ball, gradually increasing the pressure until my left arm was palpitating.

When she had finished her meal, Berth’s blouse contained a mix of ketchup, mustard, and Frosty, and there was one lone fry on her lap. Her mouth and chin were soaked in ketchup and mustard, too, but she acted as if she didn’t notice, and maybe she didn’t.

“Want me to help you get cleaned up?” I said.

“What?” she asked over the TV’s blare.

“I said, ‘Do you want me to help you get cleaned up?’“ I didn’t wait for a response before I grabbed the Wendy’s bag and began stuffing our trash into it— wrappers, napkins, spoons, cups.

“Sure,” she said. I pinched a couple of napkins from the short stack on the table and leaned toward her. I gently wiped her mouth free of ketchup and mustard. Once I finished wiping her mouth, I dabbed at the red and yellow splotches on her blouse, but I was careful not to rub too hard or spread the stains. I shoved the fry from her lap and the soiled napkins into the bag. That was about as good as she was going to look with me on the job.

“Your blouse needs to be changed, but Steve can do that when he gets home.”

“Steve’s home?” she asked and turned to me. That was the quickest and most animated response I’d gotten all night.

“No,” I said, louder, “your blouse needs to be changed, but Steve can do that when he gets home. After all, you’ll be going to bed in a couple hours.” 64

“Oh.” She resumed watching her program.

“I’m going to toss this,” I said, holding up the Wendy’s bag. I rose from the couch and walked past her into the kitchen, where I looked for a place to discard the trash. First

I had to find the light switch, because I couldn’t remember where it was. Even though I spent a significant portion of my childhood in this house, so much of it remained alien to me. Either I was never in certain rooms, or the rooms were unrecognizable due to the strewn junk. I considered flipping the switches near the sink, but I decided against that because I didn’t want to mistakenly turn on the garbage disposal, which always startled me even when expecting the noise. I took out my phone and turned on my flashlight app to scan the kitchen walls. I found a switch on the wall adjacent to the fridge, and I thought that if Steve’s piles grew higher, they would block the switch altogether. To my surprise, the overhead light actually worked, dim as it was, so I closed the app and returned the phone to my pocket. I stepped on the toe thing to open the compactor to find that the bag was full, having been compacted several times, and I wasn’t going to be able to fit anything else. In fact, Steve or Berth or both had piled garbage on top of the compactor, which I’d initially failed to notice. How long had the bag been full? I bent over, took a whiff, and smelled sulfur.

“We need another bag,” I said. Because Berth’s hearing had diminished, and the

TV was nearly as loud as could be, I knew I could have a conversation with myself and she wouldn’t notice. I opened the cabinet under the sink, but it contained no bags among the dozens of neglected cleaners. I checked a few more cabinets to similar results. “Not my place,” I said. Steve could change it. If anyone knew where the bags were, he would. 65

I considered taking out the bag, tying it, and setting it out for the trash, but I was concerned that they’d start throwing trash in the compactor without a bag, eventually rendering the whole compactor useless. There wasn’t a free spot on any surface in the kitchen, so I put the Wendy’s bag on top of the trash heap. I waited a second to see if it’d topple, but it didn’t. Rather than returning to the den and subjecting myself to more

Dancing with the Stars, I walked from the kitchen through the hall that leads to Berth’s bedroom.

She only slept in the bedroom, and no one else was ever in there except to help her get out of bed. I turned on the overhead light, sniffed and caught the scent of an old person and the mustiness particular to her house. I’d never been sure what made her house smell the way it did, but I always remembered it and could pick it out of a lineup.

It was better that it was a hardwood floor, I imagined, because the scent wouldn’t get trapped in the carpet. Plus, if there were carpet, it’s not like Steve would ever vacuum it. I walked to her unmade bed to get a closer look at the comforter. It was white and green with a pink rose bush pattern, and I ran my hand over the material, which was coarser than I’d prefer. Her sheets were pink, but I knew she had little say about that. If she needed something, Steve would get it without asking her what she wanted it to look like, but, to be fair, maybe she didn’t care or couldn’t comprehend the question without the options in front of her. And, unless Steve wanted to make a day of the outing, it was easier to leave her at home than assist her getting into the car, using her wheelchair to get her into the store, and carting her around. And in this heat? Steve wasn’t about to do that.

I don’t know that I could have either. 66

Next to her pillows was the Twiddle Muff my dad bought her a few Christmases ago—a white cat with three attachments on its body and a ball inside. It was designed for people with Alzheimer’s and dementia so they could keep their hands busy and warm while relieving arthritis pain. I picked it up and stroked its fur, soft like velvet, and inspected the attachments with my free hand. There was a sealed, opaque bag of marbles, a few ribbons, and some wooden beads. I inserted my hands in the cat and squeezed the rubber ball at its center, reaffirming my dislike of stress balls or anything squeezable meant to eradicate stress. They stressed me out more, because I felt the need to destroy them and would squeeze as hard as I could in vain. I was squeezing the life out of it when

I heard shuffling in the hallway followed by Berth’s emergence into the bedroom.

“Hello,” she said, slowly making her way into the room, a hand on the wall to steady herself.

“You forgot your cat,” I said and held up the Twiddle Muff.

“Oh.” She laughed. “She’s been a bad kitty.”

“Why’s she been a bad kitty?” I spoke before I could stop myself. Over the years

I’d learned to take much of what Berth said at face value and not inquire about it because she probably wouldn’t understand her own reasoning and, in the worst cases, might not remember what she’d said at all.

“She’s just been a bad kitty,” she said. She made her way from the entryway past the walk-in closet, jam-packed with clothes and shoes from several decades, to the bathroom. I watched her walk, and I cringed when she crossed the rug, which covered the lip of the threshold, into the bathroom. Every rug, threshold, and step was an obstacle to 67 her. I’d witnessed her trip on rugs several times, but she always regained her balance before falling. A few times she wasn’t so lucky. Right after I was born she mistook the flight of stairs leading to the basement for the bathroom and tumbled down, breaking her nose in the process, leaving her with two black eyes as well. Another time, at a local fair, a running boy knocked her over. She didn’t get hurt, thankfully, and by the time we’d checked on her to see that she was all right, the boy was gone. I’d like to think it was an accident, that the boy was so embarrassed and ashamed that he couldn’t bring himself to stop and endure the inevitable blowback. She was tough, but I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d fall, break bones necessary for walking, and become bed-ridden for the rest of her life. Even so, she was far better off than most other nonagenarians.

In the bathroom, Berth felt the wall for a few seconds before finding the light switch and flipping it. Earlier I noticed the green bag of Depends on the floor next to the bed, and I assumed she was wearing a pair of them, but once she reached the toilet she pulled down her pants to reveal skin. I turned away. I thought she’d close the door before she used the toilet, but I supposed it didn’t occur to her. She’d never been the type to shun privacy, so I had to believe the notion of privacy in this case never entered her brain. Before I was forced to listen to her do what she had to do, I dropped the Twiddle

Muff on the bed, lowered my head, and walked into the next room.

It got weird when she started losing control of her bodily functions. Once she began urinating and defecating in her underwear, I guess Steve implemented Depends in her daily dressing. But before that, she couldn’t suppress her farts. At Thanksgiving dinner, for instance, on her way from the dinner table to the bathroom, she’d release an 68 audible fart that spawned silent laughter among the family still at the table. We’d try not to laugh, because we didn’t want to embarrass her, but sometimes we, like her, couldn’t hold it in and a few of us would laugh without restraint.

“What’s so funny?” she turned and said to the group one time. And part of the problem was that we couldn’t tell if she knew what she did and was scolding us for laughing, or if she thought something she didn’t hear or see must’ve been funny.

“We’re just in a good mood, Mom,” said Monica, my aunt in from the West Coast for the Thanksgiving festivities. Since then, I’d done my best to stifle my laughter whenever she’d fart, or when she’d fumble with the blinds trying to lower them to no avail, or pour a glass of milk in a potted plant, or place the unopened mail in the dishwasher, or claim she knew Jacques Cousteau when he was president.

69

1. A fascistic government is good for the powerful and, thus, the goal in and of itself

What causes problems for many regimes is that leaders have a societal outcome in mind toward which they strive but, and here is what is most important, that outcome is impossibly out of reach. Typically the regime aims for either a utopia, in which their citizenry is content with totalitarian rule and does not resort to civil unrest of any kind, or a utopia-in-progress, in which the utopia will come to fruition as soon as the threat of dissent is quelled once and for all. Unfortunately for the idealistic regime, the utopia is always in the making, because no matter which course of action is taken, there will always be dissent. This is not to say that the intent and attempt to prevent dissent should not exist—they should—but that dissent can never be fully eradicated. Combating it will continue in perpetuity.

Thus, this changes the phrase “the means to an end” because, according to the assumption above, the “end” is actually the “means.” To pose it differently: “the means to the means.” If the totalitarian dictatorship is the optimal result, then the powerful are the ones who will and should benefit most from this arrangement. In order to capitalize upon this, it is necessary to outfit the leaders—anyone with a modicum of power—with trained bodyguards, the number of which depends upon the dictatorship’s hierarchy. These guards should be experts in martial arts and firearms, and there should be some on duty whose expertise involves bomb detection and disposal. The list goes on: leader decoys, armored vehicles, travel route ruses, underground bunkers, et cetera. These are necessary, for if the powerful are to wield power, they must be protected. 70

I found myself in Steve’s dark bedroom. I turned the overhead light on and surveyed the room. Like every other room in the house, this one was cluttered with only one clear path running from the door leading into Berth’s bedroom to the door leading to the hallway, where one could either turn left to enter the hall bath, go straight to enter the den, or veer right to enter either Monica’s old room or the sitting room. One thing I found odd but kind of cool about Berth’s house is that almost every room has multiple entry points. Excluding windows, almost every room in my parent’s house has only one entry point. Except for the family room, dining room, and kitchen, every bedroom, bathroom, and spare room have only one way to get in or out. Did Berth’s house reflect the standard at the time it was built, or did my grandparents specify such a layout? In any case, if I needed to make a quick getaway, Berth’s house provided the distinct advantage due to its labyrinthine nature.

Steve had covered his bed with piles of clothes. I noticed sweatshirts, T-shirts, jeans, slacks, white underwear, black dress socks, white socks, mud-caked brown work boots, white tennis shoes, black dress shoes, old Cincinnati Reds baseball caps, black winter coats, gloves, scarves, toboggans, white handkerchiefs, and navy blue bandanas.

Because of the clothes, the bed couldn’t be slept in, so he’d set up a cot in the middle of the room, in the middle of the aisle, with a pillow and quilt. On the floor were newspapers, books, tools, and parts that looked like they came from bicycles, motorcycles, and cars. Opposite the bed was a dresser and mirror. I made my way past the cot to inspect the dresser, careful to avoid crushing anything important, but, then again, to hoarders everything is important. The dresser drawers were stuffed full of 71 clothes, while the top contained bathroom toiletry overflow—sticks of deodorant, cans of hairspray, combs, fingernail clippers, a few toothbrushes. Most of the products were used up or too old to be any good and could’ve been thrown away but hadn’t been. The mirror was dusty and contained small spots and splotches.

Near the corner of the room, opposite the door, stood an ironing board with a couple of irons from different decades on it, along with various clothes strewn over it.

There was a filing cabinet in the very corner of the room. Though the window wasn’t blocked, the curtains were closed, and I wouldn’t have been able to get to it without moving or climbing over junk. I planted a foot on top of some things in order to glance into Steve’s walk-in closet but it, too, appeared overflowing with clothes. Maybe he never got rid of anything. Maybe that was it. Maybe when he outgrew an article of clothing or wore it until it was full of holes, he tossed it in one of these piles or threw it in the closet. I let the closet be and walked to the doorway leading into the front of the house. I was about to turn off the overhead light when something on the dresser I’d overlooked caught my attention—a worn black lighter. There was a layer of dust on everything, and when I picked up the lighter it left a thin, dust-free rectangle. I wasn’t sure what year it was from, but it looked old, and the bottom read only:

ZIPPO MFG. CO. BRADFORD, PA. ZIPPO PAT. 2032695 Made in U.S.A.

I opened it, but nothing happened. The lighter fluid had evaporated, or had never been refilled after it ran out. There wasn’t a way to make the dresser look untouched. If I had wiped off the dust where the lighter had been, the dresser would’ve appeared cleaner than 72 it should have been. If I’d done nothing, the dust-free rectangle would’ve indicated that something had been there but was no longer. Or I could’ve put something else in its place. I decided that the least noticeable option was to take the lighter without trying to cover my tracks. After all, I reasoned, eventually dust would cover the clean spot too, rendering it indistinguishable from its surroundings. I slipped the Zippo into my pocket and turned off the light.

Back in the den, Berth was in her spot on the couch, and I returned to mine, the one I’d cleared earlier. “Everything all right?” I asked her.

“Fine,” she said without looking away from the TV. Dancing with the Stars was to end within the hour, and we expected Steve to return home about then. Rather than watch the show, I glanced at the coffee table and end table to find something to read.

There were a few issues of Time underneath a stack of gossip magazines, and I pulled out the one from November 2016 with newly elected President Hillary Clinton on the cover. I flipped through the glossy pages, eyeing certain pictures and skimming the few articles of interest to me. Later, I looked up to find Berth asleep, her head against the wall and top of the couch, mouth open. Occasionally she snored. I grabbed the remote off the table and turned the TV’s volume down to a bearable level and, soon after, I heard someone opening the front door.

“Nigger Steve’s back,” came the voice from the front room. Steve was the type whose inside voice was in between talking and yelling. It was like he thought everyone in the vicinity, even if engaged in other conversations, should hear what he has to say about 73 everything. “Nigger Steve’s here,” he said, closer. And he’d taken to calling himself

Nigger Steve because he viewed himself as Berth’s slave.

“Hey, Steve,” I said when he entered the room. I hadn’t seen him for months, not since Christmas, and I forgot how big he was. He was over six feet tall and had a big frame with a big gut to boot. His looks were similar to my dad’s—pale, blond—but more weathered because he used to be a manual laborer who now spent most of his days outside. In fact, Steve looked older than my dad because of their respective careers. My dad’s banking career kept him out of the elements, while Steve’s former plumbing business ensured that he had to go out in all seasons. Plus, the sun exposure at ball games, festivals, and other outdoor events was prematurely aging him, even though I’d occasionally see him squirt a dollop of sunscreen in his hand and apply it to his face, neck, and arms.

And what I could never figure out was why Steve was Berth’s favorite. She asked about him when he wasn’t there, and she’d rationalize his shortcomings no matter how egregious. “That’s just how he is,” she’d say, or “He’s had a rough life,” or, recently, “I guess I am too much trouble.” My dad was the first born, Steve was second, Jef was third, and Monica came many years after the three boys. Maybe Berth felt she had to stick up for Steve because Dad and Jef used to gang up on him. Or, because Steve’s career and childless marriage bottomed out, maybe she felt sorry for him. After all, my dad married, had me, and has a career; Jef married, had two kids, and practices law in

Florida; and Monica, though single, is an economics professor at a university in

California. I’d say that Steve has an abrasive personality in general, but I’ve always 74 thought he and I didn’t get along so well because he’s always been jealous of my dad. He wouldn’t admit it if he were, though, nor has he admitted much of anything.

“Joseph, how you doing?” he said. “How’s my mother?”

“Good,” I said. I turned to look at her. “She’s asleep, as you can see.” Steve walked to the couch, pushed newspapers and magazines aside, and sat next to her.

“Mom,” he said, shaking her shoulder. Berth slowly came to.

“Steve,” she said, “when did you get home?” She held out her arms to hug him, and he leaned in and hugged her.

He looked at me, “Too lazy to put her to bed?”

I put the magazine on the table and said, “I didn’t know what to do. No one gave me instructions.”

“It’s not hard,” he said. “You just take her in the bedroom and put her in bed.”

“What about pajamas and brushing her teeth?”

“She’d be fine.” He looked at her shirt and rubbed the stain with a thumb. “You didn’t clean her up either, did you?”

“We got Wendy’s earlier, and she spilled some of it. I didn’t know what to do other than wipe it off.” What I’d forgotten was that every conversation with Steve felt like an interrogation during which I could only give wrong answers.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He looked at Berth. “Did you take your night pills,

Mom?” She appeared confused, wondering, I surmised, what the truth was or, failing that, the answer he wanted to hear. 75

“Why yes I did,” she said. Steve looked at me again. I shook my head, because I never saw her take any pills.

“Let’s see then,” he said. He got up, walked into the kitchen, turned the light on, and disappeared from view, though I heard him rustling around near the sink. “Nope,” he said. He brought in Berth’s pill organizer and handed it to me. The bottom row, a.m., was green, and the top row, p.m., was blue. The MON p.m. compartment still had an assortment of pills. I opened the lid and studied them. Each varied in color, shape, and size, and I didn’t recognize any of them. I dumped them into my hand and passed them to

Berth. She held onto most of them, but a couple fell through her fingers and bounced on the couch then onto the carpet.

“Son of a bitch, Mom,” Steve said and began to scan the floor for them.

“That was my fault,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

“Help me look then,” he said. I leaned forward and hunted for them. He found one next to Berth’s shoe, and I found the other under the end table. “Is that all?” He extended his arm, the palm of his hand up, for the pill. I dropped it in his palm without touching him.

“I think so.”

“Give me the pills, Mom,” he said and held out his hand with the pills we’d found. Berth tried to take the pills she thought he was offering her. “No, dammit, give me the pills in your hand.” He grabbed her other hand, brought it over his palm, and started to peel her fingers back from her clenched fist. She understood what he was trying to do and opened her fist, letting the pills fall onto his palm. “Now take them one at a time.” I 76 watched his eyes move from glass to glass, searching, I inferred, for one with enough water to get them down. “I’ll get you a fresh glass,” he said and walked into the kitchen.

In the meantime, Berth lifted a glass half full of water and downed a few pills. Steve returned with a glass, trading Berth’s empty one for his full one, and sat down. Berth took a few more in her own time.

“Is that all?” she said, looking at Steve.

“Not yet,” he said and pointed at the remaining pills on the table.

“Oh,” she said and resumed taking them.

“Your dad’s paying you,” Steve said, looking at me.

“Yeah,” I said. I knew it wasn’t a question. In his language, he was intimating that my dad was paying me because he sure wasn’t going to. Steve had access to her checkbook and would write checks to cash if he needed money for food or gas, but my dad, I learned, was Berth’s fiduciary and had power of attorney. Berth’s bills were forwarded to him, and he paid them with her money. In light of my dad’s banking background, it made sense that he was the one to handle her finances, and that’s how all four siblings saw it when it was apparent that Berth was no longer capable of managing her own money.

One day, while I was still in college and my dad was at work, I asked him via phone about how Berth was able to subsist these days. “She does fine, Joseph,” he said.

“For years, she received a Survivors Pension from the government for her first husband’s death in World War II, until she married your grandfather. She was, let’s see, about twenty-one when the U.S. entered the war, and because she came from a poor household 77 that survived the Great Depression in the ‘30s, she was already accustomed to saving everything and penny pinching, which she’s done ever since.”

“That explains the hoarding,” I said.

“She never abandoned the mindset that you should keep everything, because even if it isn’t useful now, it might be useful someday. It didn’t get bad until my father died.

At that point, she couldn’t keep things organized,” he said then coughed. “Excuse me.”

“She has to have other money, though, right?”

“She gets social security as well, but most of what she accumulated came from what they saved when your grandfather worked at the factory and she worked as a seamstress.”

“And that explains the clothes all over the place,” I said. “How much would you say she has?”

“Last time I checked, she had about two hundred thousand dollars. She could invest and make more, but she’s never wanted to gamble with her money—not even conservatively.”

“That’s understandable,” I said, “because of the war effort. And the house is paid off?”

“It is and has been. Listen, I have to get back to work, but it was good talking to you, OK?”

“One last question: Do you think she has a lot of valuable stuff or is it mostly junk?” 78

“She has some valuable things, I’m sure, but most of it’s probably junk. She wouldn’t necessarily look to keep valuable things but things that could be of some value, no matter how miniscule. She’d often go to yard sales and flea markets, but she never sought out valuable objects unless they were of practical value. That’s Berth, for you.”

“She’s peculiar like that.” We said our goodbyes and hung up.

“You can go now,” Steve said.

“All right. I’ll see you later. Night, Berth,” I said and squeezed her hand.

“Goodnight, Doug,” she said, but I didn’t correct her.

“That’s Joseph, Mom,” Steve said. “That’s Doug’s son. Are you losing your mind?”

“I’ll see you later,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation so Berth wouldn’t feel embarrassed. I got up and walked into the front room, where I opened the door, locked the knob, and closed the door behind me. In between the screen door and front door, I shook the doorknob to ensure it was locked. Usually when I’d leave her house, I’d hang onto the screen door until it shut so that it wouldn’t slam, but I let go of it that time and it slammed as soon as I walked away. Everyone was still awake, though I forgot to consider the neighbors. I got in my car and drove home to a dark house in which my parents were already asleep.

79

2. Certain humans are more valuable than others

Then and now, some people are discriminated against due to inborn traits such as ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, and other characteristics. From a scientific standpoint, which adheres to the scientific method, there does not exist proof that one ethnicity is superior to another, or that one gender is superior to the other, or that the heterosexual is superior to the homosexual, or vice versa. On the level of DNA, the differences are minute. The differences are not stark enough to warrant the tag of superior or inferior.

Still, this does not mean that one cannot assign value to particular sets of humans.

One can. Specifically, if one accepts the premise that the strongest humans survive and survival is a good thing—all in accordance with Charles Darwin’s principle of “survival of the fittest”—then the strongest humans should take precedence over the weaker humans. What is meant by “strong” is able-bodiedness, intelligence, and physical prowess. “Able-bodiedness” refers to one being an intact human (no missing limbs, for instance, or other deformities) who, after physical and psychological evaluation, has been cleared of any and all disabilities according to the latest Diagnostic and Statistical

Manual of Mental Disorders (henceforth, DSM). The subject born without a left arm would be downgraded immediately, whereas the physically intact subject would undergo several psychological evaluations during its adolescence and adulthood. “Intelligence” pertains to the subject’s measurable intelligence quotient (henceforth, IQ) and, in this case, there would be a minimum score of 110 that the subject would have to obtain in order to move on to the next stage. “Physical prowess” would be measured according to 80 the regime’s desirable body mass index (henceforth, BMI) for its subjects, though it must be understood that muscular specimens who are considered overweight or obese on the

BMI scale are still desirable. For this reason, the body fat percentage (henceforth, BFP) scale is an acceptable alternative to determine whether an individual is of worth. Too, there could be obstacles that test the subject’s athletic mettle.

By way of the preceding material, one may infer that, in order to be considered a

“strong human” (and, therefore, be considered more valuable than others), one must satisfy the requirements of each above-mentioned attribute. Failure to meet or surpass even one of the requirements is grounds for downgrading, which means, in regime parlance, that the subject would be deemed “value-free.”

81

In the morning I woke up and heard my mom walking around upstairs. When I opened my bedroom door, I smelled coffee and eggs. That was another nice thing about living at home—regular meals I didn’t have to cook. I used the bathroom then went upstairs where she was reading the paper at the kitchen table.

“Good morning, Joe,” she said when she heard me, the hardwood creaking beneath my footfalls.

“Morning,” I said. Still in her robe, she got up and hugged me once I was close to her. “What are you doing home?”

“I’m working this Saturday morning, so they gave me a half day off. I have to be in after lunch, at one.” She was a branch manager at the same bank as my dad. They didn’t allow them to work at the same physical location, because they didn’t want any potential for a Bonnie and Clyde incident, but they worked for the same company. “You want some eggs?”

“Sure,” I said. Out of the cabinet I grabbed a black mug I’d received as a birthday gift from a local coffee shop called Keep Grindin’, poured myself a cup of coffee from the half full pot, and sat down at the kitchen table. I never drank coffee until college. I hated it at first, but it helped me stay awake to study, plus I figured it wasn’t as bad as the

Addy everyone else was popping. I used to add cream and sugar, but I got lazy and started drinking it black. It was cheaper that way, too.

“How many do you want?” she said, holding the fridge door open.

“Three, I guess.” I rubbed sleep from my eyes while my steaming coffee cooled.

“How do you want them?” 82

“Scrambled.”

“So how’d you do watching Berth last night?” She removed the egg carton from the fridge, set it on the counter, took out three eggs, set them on the counter, took out a glass mixing bowl from a cabinet beneath the counter, and cracked the eggs into the bowl.

“It was fine.” Carefully I took a small sip of coffee, which was still too hot. “I hadn’t been there in a long time, and I remember it being cluttered, but it’s much worse now. Most rooms only have one path. Otherwise, you’d have to move stuff or step on it to get where you’d want to go.”

“Your dad’s side of the family are hoarders,” she said, “as you know. It got a lot worse when Steve moved back in.” She added a little milk, whisked the mixture until it was yellow, added a thin slice of butter to the skillet, let it melt until it bubbled. “He brought in all his junk, and he’s not the type to clean up after himself,” she said, then poured in the eggs, sprinkled in salt and pepper and, once the eggs set, scraped them around with a wooden spoon until they were ready. She placed the eggs on a plate, ground pepper on them, put a few leftover orange slices next to them, got a fork out of the drawer, and set the plate and fork in front of me.

“Thank you.” I sipped the coffee again. It was hot, but it didn’t scald my tongue.

The coffee tasted watered-down, though, and I recalled that my mom liked her coffee weaker than mine. I wanted to taste coffee—not water—and I’d typically make my coffee using twice the grounds she did. I was going to point that out, but, considering that she 83 cooked me breakfast, I remained silent. I picked up the fork and ate some of the eggs.

“These are good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She topped off her beach scene mug, which we got some year in Florida on vacation at Jef’s house, and sat next to me.

“Is Berth’s condition bad enough that she should be in some sort of care facility?”

I asked.

“Your dad and I looked into it. It’d be about six thousand a month for her to live in an assisted living community, but Steve is against that because it’s so expensive.” She blew on her coffee and sipped it.

“But she has the money,” I said and finished my eggs.

“She does, but Steve doesn’t want to spend it on that when he’s there to take care of her.”

“Because he wants to be able to live on that money for the rest of his life when she’s gone.” I shoved a couple orange slices in my mouth and relished the taste of sweet citrus.

“Exactly,” she said and took another drink.

“He wants to leech, in other words,” I said and gulped the rest of my lukewarm coffee. I noted my hypocrisy, though, for condemning Steve when I was doing the same thing. The difference, perhaps, was that I was almost forty years younger than he and had most of my life and career ahead of me. Eventually I’d be in the position in which I’d never have to leech off anyone again. He was going to do it for the rest of his life and 84 wouldn’t have anything that wasn’t Berth’s or didn’t come from her money. “Why didn’t the siblings overrule Steve?”

“They agreed that big decisions should be unanimous.” She finished her coffee, too. “You want any more?”

I looked in my cup. “Sure.” She got up, grabbed the carafe, and refilled our mugs.

“Thanks.” She put the carafe back, then picked up my plate and fork and set them by the sink.

“Your dad’s too busy with work to deal with Berth’s problems, Jef’s in Florida,

Monica’s in California…”

“Steve was the only choice then.” I blew on my coffee and took a sip.

“By the time she needed constant supervision, Steve was already living there.

After his business tanked and the divorce was finalized, he didn’t have much left. Based on what your dad told me, I think Steve was happy to let his ex-wife have everything as long as he got out of the marriage quickly. Once he was settled in at Berth’s, he didn’t want to start his life over, so he just stayed.” She waved the steam away from the mug and drank. “He moved in with Berth and collected unemployment until it ran out. That’s been a while now. You were still in, what, elementary school when that happened?”

“I guess so. It all blends together.”

“Berth never wanted to move to Florida or California. And Steve was always her favorite.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.” She patted my hand and smiled. “You’re my favorite.” 85

“I’m your only.” I smiled, too.

“Anyway, don’t worry, we made it clear in our living wills how you’re supposed to take care of us if we can’t take care of ourselves.” She drank the rest of her coffee and took our mugs to the sink, where she rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. She rinsed the plate and fork I used and put them in. “I’ve got to run to the post office and grocery before I come home and get ready for work. I’ll see you later today.”

“I’ll see you,” I said. I rose from the table and went out the back door onto our covered deck. Because it was May, the weather would be bearable, and maybe even nice, for another month. June would usher in heat, humidity, and daily thunderstorms, but it was currently a sunny day in the 70s with low humidity. Come July and August, I’d wonder if Death Valley would be any worse, if not better. I felt the warm breeze and smelled fresh cut grass as I walked to the rail to look out at the pond in our subdivision.

There were groups of geese and ducks scattered about, sticking to their own kind. I thought about when I’d mess with the geese eating in our yard by walking onto the deck and just standing there. They’d raise their heads and stare at me until I got too close or made a loud noise like a clap or whistle, then they’d retreat into the water. One day I wanted to follow them into the pond to see what they’d do.

Since I moved home, I forgot how quiet it was out here and how that made sleeping different. At IU, whether in the dorms my first two years or in the house we rented my last two years, there was always noise coming from somewhere. In the dorms

I’d overhear loud conversations, music blaring, and doors being shut. In the house, one of my housemates was always watching Netflix or playing video games on the big TV in the 86 living room. Several nights a week I’d hear music and yelling coming from nearby parties until the cops shut them down and, occasionally, I couldn’t help but overhear one of my housemates having sex with his girlfriend in the next room. Sometimes I’d listen to my iPod. Sometimes I wouldn’t. What could I say? She was sexy, and I wanted to be the guy causing her to moan.

Here, however, it was a library at night. We had neighbors whose houses were close to ours, but everyone seemed to go to bed early. There weren’t many kids around, and the people who had kids had kids who were my age or older. Most of their kids were on their own. In college I used to stay up late, but I broke that habit when I got home, because I wanted my schedule to mesh with everyone else’s. At school it was routine to go to bed at four, five, six in the morning. Sometimes I’d skip my earliest class to sleep in, but, in my junior and senior years, I was able to avoid a.m. classes altogether. Here I was trying to go to bed no later than eleven and get up no later than eight, and I figured that schedule would help me transition into a job more easily, provided I landed a nine to five. The jobs I’d had before were dull, but it was worse to be tired at them.

I sat in one of the swivel bar chairs overlooking the pond. We had a table and bar chairs so that the black railing surrounding the deck didn’t obstruct the view when we were seated. I could’ve gone to the subdivision’s gym, watched Netflix, read a book or magazine, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do until I rested my hand on my leg and felt the lighter in my pocket. I removed it and studied it again. One throw and no one would’ve ever found it. It would’ve sunk to the bottom of the pond and stayed there for a hundred years, or at least a very long time, unless some creature brought it back to the 87 surface. The lighter was too cool to throw away, though, and as long as I still had it, I’d be able to return it whether or not Steve noticed it missing. I doubted that Berth would notice its absence, because I doubted she was ever in Steve’s room. I bet she hadn’t been in most of the rooms in her house since her faculties began deteriorating. Did she remember them, or did she even realize they existed? There was no way to tell. If Berth didn’t know the answer to a question, she’d either admit her ignorance or tell you what you wanted to hear. Her deceit wasn’t malicious; she just didn’t want to cause problems for anybody.

I rubbed the coarse lighter between my thumb and forefinger then slipped it back in my pocket. Once inside the house, I walked downstairs to retrieve my laptop. There was bound to be information about the Zippo on the Internet, so I grabbed my MacBook

Pro and sat on the couch in the entertainment room. I googled “zippo” in the Chrome address bar. The first result was Zippo.com. I didn’t know they still made them. I’d seen people who had them, but I never had a reason to keep a lighter on me. I didn’t smoke, so

I’d gotten used to ignoring them at gas stations and wherever else they were sold. I smoked pot a few times, but I always used other people’s lighters. I clicked on “About

Us” at the top of the page, then I clicked on “Then and Now” on the sidebar menu. There were pictures from various eras, and I learned that the brand dated back to Pennsylvania in 1933. When America entered World War II, however, they geared their product toward military servicemen rather than the average consumer, and I perked up when I read that

“The military initiative led to the production of the steel-case Zippo lighter with black 88 crackle finish.” That had to be it. I took it out again and looked, set it beside me on the couch.

In the address bar I typed “black crackle zippo.” I scrolled down past the Amazon listings to locate sites where I could get more information. The first promising page was titled “Zippo in the war.” I clicked on the link, and it took me to a page about “The famous World War II Black Crackle Zippo lighter – windproof, waterproof & troubleproof.” Due to several photos of the lighter, various ads from the time period, and letters to and from Zippo, the site seemed legitimate. What first caught my attention was a photo of a letter dated July 11th, 1942, from the founder and president of Zippo, G. G.

Blaisdell, addressed simply to “Gentlemen.” In the letter, Blaisdell informs Post

Exchange retailers that “Due to the War, we have had to convert from brass to steel and further, we could not use nickel or chrome for the finish of our lighter . . . and are placing a baked black crinkly finish on the outside.” The finish was to prevent corrosion, and he offers to freely replace any of the old, corroded models. Zippo’s trademarked guarantee has always been, “It works or we fix it free.”

The page then discussed Ernie Pyle, who, according to his Wikipedia page, “was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American journalist, known for his columns for the Scripps-

Howard newspaper chain, where he worked as a roving correspondent from 1935 through most of World War II.” Apparently he was a Zippo fan and distributed them to G.I.’s he interviewed. Further down the page were two photographed letters that Pyle mailed to

Blaisdell in 1944. The one from May, on letterhead from The Dorchester Hotel in

London, stated that the Zippo is “the one lighter that all soldiers know—and covet.” He 89 continued, later, “Getting hold of a Zippo is liking [sic] getting hold of a hunk of gold.”

Was this one worth a “hunk of gold”? I picked it up and rubbed it. I opened my palm, trying to calculate how much it weighed. There was no way it was worth its weight in gold, but it was worth something. In the letter from October of that year, Pyle claimed that “There is truly nothing the average soldier would rather have.” Was he being genuine, or was he embellishing because he enjoyed the kickbacks he was getting in the form of free lighters as well as being a liaison for many of those who wanted lighters? I couldn’t say. When Pyle was killed in Japan in 1945, Blaisdell produced several hundred lighters on which “In memory Ernie Pyle 1945” was engraved and shipped them to the soldiers who knew him.

I scrolled down and found the checklist to determine whether the lighter I had was made in 1942 or 1943-45. After I checked the specs, I knew the lighter I had was undoubtedly from ‘43-’45. Evidently there was no way to pinpoint a specific year. I knew

Glen—Berth’s first husband and no relation to our family—died in 1944. I didn’t know which month or which battle he died in. Did he get a new lighter and ship the old one home? Did he intend it as a souvenir for Berth? Did he have a feeling he wouldn’t return from the battlefield? There was bound to be correspondence that explained it, if it had been saved and was still readable, somewhere in her house. I didn’t think she would’ve recognized the lighter, but sometimes she’d surprise me with tack-sharp recollection.

Steve may have known about it, but I couldn’t ask him unless I didn’t plan to keep it.

And I wasn’t sure about that yet. 90

Further down the page I glanced at the photos of and skimmed the copy of Zippo magazine ads from the early ‘40s until I reached the bottom. What I found funny was how openly they promoted smoking back then. These days, tobacco companies, or any company with ties to the tobacco industry for that matter, aren’t allowed to advertise anywhere. Due to that, the well-known adverse health effects, and high taxes, tobacco use has diminished. I can only think of a couple people I know who smoke, and perhaps the only smokers left picked up the habit in school to be rebellious but never dropped it.

Alcoholics as well, maybe, but so many states have passed smoke-free legislation that I can’t think of a single bar that allows smoking. Some don’t even permit vaping. Even a few years ago, ecigs took off to the point that I thought they’d eventually monopolize the market, and maybe they will.

In another tab I went to eBay and typed “black crackle zippo.” The first few results were replicas selling for between $12-$15 if one used the “Buy It Now” option.

The first vintage Zippo lot had a BIN price tag of $199.99. Another vintage lot contained the lighter, fold-out instructions, and the original box. The auction was slated to end in a few hours, and the current high bid was $500. I scrolled down and found another lot with only the lighter itself, the BIN price $249.99. I didn’t have the instructions or the box, but they may have been hiding at Berth’s. In any case, it appeared a reasonable estimation of the lighter’s value was $200-$250, pending authentication, unless people got in a bidding war near the end of the auction and drove up the price.

I examined the lighter again and thought about it. I knew I wasn’t going to sell it, but I also knew I wasn’t going to put it back where I found it. I wasn’t going to keep it for 91 good, but I was going to keep it for the time being. If Steve noticed it was gone, or if I dropped it in the presence of any family members who knew what it was, I’d still be in their good graces if I claimed I’d borrowed it to conduct research about it and determine its worth. I’d tell them about Blaisdell, Pyle, and the eBay auctions, then I’d hand it over.

But for now, it was mine.

92

3. Because certain kinds of humans are used to enduring subjugation, it is desirable to continue this status quo

As explained previously, the valuable members of a totalitarian society would be strong in regard to able-bodiedness, intelligence, and physicality. Said characteristics do not trump innate others, however, because those who have not only experienced subjugation but have learned to expect it are easier to mentally and physically subdue.

They conceive of the futility of resistance prior to resisting. This does not mean that they will not disobey—they will—but that their ultimate submission will come sooner than the submission of the headstrong and bullish.

Who is “they” not? “They” is not the areligious, heterosexual, fully Caucasian male, who is able-bodied, intelligent, and displays physical prowess. The areligious, heterosexual, fully Caucasian female, who is also able-bodied, intelligent, and displays physical prowess, should be considered a first-class citizen, too, though she will be relegated to the domestic sphere in order to Berth worthy citizens. Who, then, is “they”?

Through inverse one may infer that “they” is anyone who is not areligious, heterosexual, fully Caucasian, able-bodied, intelligent, and in possession of physical prowess. Nation- wide evaluations will prove instrumental in identifying who meets the criteria and who does not. Of course, if one does not meet all of the requirements, then one will be subject to involuntary disposal.

93

Steve called that afternoon when I was on Netflix. I heard the ring, paused the movie, got out my phone, and checked the number. It was vaguely familiar and the area code was local, so I answered.

“Hello?” I said, my voice congested from not having talked to anyone since Mom left for work.

“Joseph,” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

“Someone’s got to come over here and watch Berth tomorrow. I’ll be gone all day tomorrow at the 500 Festival in Indianapolis,” he said.

“What’s the 500 Festival?” I said.

“Shit, you don’t know?”

“No, but I guess it has something to do with the Indy 500.”

“Exactly right. I’ll be leaving about eight in the morning, and I’ll be gone all damn day. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back, but it might not be till eleven or twelve.”

He coughed and I waited for him to get his breath.

“What time do I need to be there?”

“Hell, Berth doesn’t usually get out of bed till noon. Sometimes she doesn’t even want to get up then but I make her. You be here by noon and things should be OK.”

“All right. I’ll be there.” We said our goodbyes and hung up. Because we were in the southern part of the state, I knew it’d take him at least an hour and a half to get there, maybe two if traffic was bad. Later, I was leaning against the stove peeling a banana when I heard the garage door open. Because it was before six, I knew it was my dad 94 coming home early. I bit off the top of the banana while listening to his dress shoes click on the hardwood.

“Hey, Joe,” he said when he entered the kitchen.

“The song,” I said, a chunk of banana lodged in my cheek.

He smiled. “Hendrix?” He set his briefcase down next to the island and loosened his black, gray, and white striped tie.

“His version’s the most well-known. If I remember right, The Leaves were the first to record and release it, in ‘65, but the songwriting credits are disputed. Billy Roberts copyrighted it in ‘62, so I guess he gets credit for it even if he didn’t originally write the whole song.” I chewed the banana chunk and swallowed.

“How do you know all that?” My dad took off his black suit jacket and draped it over a chair at the kitchen table.

“Once people learned my name is Joe, they’d quote that song’s lyrics to me, so I looked up the song one day. Read about it.” I removed the banana from its peel, tossed the peel in the trash, and resumed leaning against the stove.

“Fascinating,” he said but had already started preparing a highball.

“You leave early today?” I ate the rest of the banana, then crossed my arms and balanced on one foot like a flamingo.

“I did.” He opened the freezer and put a few small ice cubes in his glass. He went to the bar, near the kitchen table, where he grabbed the Angel’s Envy bourbon and poured a couple of fingers. Took a sip. “People were just getting on my nerves today. I’m an investment banker. I know what I’m doing. Sometimes you’re going to lose money 95 before you make it. That’s the way the market works. And yet people come in and raise hell about the smallest loss. I tell them it’ll get better, show them graphs of the investment taking hits here and there but rising overall in the long run.” He set the glass on the kitchen table, removed his tie and placed it over his coat, unbuttoned the top three buttons on his white collared shirt. “And they still don’t understand.”

“Maybe they don’t have anything better to do,” I said, switching feet.

“Could be. They’re all mostly retired.” He took another drink, then unbuttoned his shirt sleeve buttons and rolled his sleeves up a bit. “Hand me the paper,” he said, pointing to the island where the newspaper, which I brought in from the paper box earlier, sat unread. I uncrossed my arms, picked up the paper, and passed it to him. Something about another mass shooting on the front page. I’d stopped paying attention to those when their prevalence rose to the point that they no longer seemed rare but commonplace. The politicians would talk about reform and needing to do something about guns, but nothing ever got done except more citizen surveillance. Dad glanced at the front page and sat at the table. “How’d your day at Berth’s go?” he said without lifting his eyes from the paper.

“Fine. Have you seen her house recently?”

“No, not recently.”

“It’s a mess. I don’t know how you let something get that bad. Not ‘you’ as in

‘you,’ but ‘you’ as in ‘anyone,’ anyone in general.” I stood there thinking. What I should’ve done was take pictures of it. Document it for…proof of what it was like. I wasn’t sure what I’d need proof for, or for whom, but it struck me that it wasn’t a bad 96 idea to have it. Better to have it and not need it. I decided I’d take photos—maybe even video—of the place on my phone and keep them only on my phone. That way no one else could access them, and I could access them immediately if I needed to.

“Uh huh,” my dad said, still perusing the front page. Unless I wanted to continue our conversation and told him so, his attention was elsewhere. “Yeah.” I opened a cabinet and removed a paper plate. Opened the breadbox, took out the loaf of whole wheat, untied it, and put two slices on the plate. I was about to retie it when I considered that it wasn’t a bad idea to put a few slices in a Ziploc storage bag for tomorrow at Berth’s. I put six slices in the storage bag and sealed it. That’d make two sandwiches and two slices of toast for each of us. I walked to the pantry in the hallway and set the bag next to the jar of

Jif peanut butter, which I’d take too. “Sure,” I heard my dad say. Either he thought I was still talking and needed affirmation or he was so used to doing that that it was now a habit. Probably the latter. Back in the kitchen I got out the turkey, cheese, and mustard and made my sandwich. I took a bite of it and returned the items to the fridge, where I pulled out a can of Mountain Dew. Carried my plate and drink toward the steps to the basement, my dad frozen in place at the table.

97

4. Coercion through violence is not only necessary but optimal to instill fear in the populace

The concept of “needless violence” should not exist in fascism, because violence is needed and is also the quickest, most efficient means of persuasion. While some of the populace may adopt the regime’s prescribed ideologies based on logic alone, others will be less inclined to profess belief and express conviction without the threat of bodily harm. In order to persuade the incorrigible subject, it will often be necessary to make public the subject’s Rectification (i.e. extermination through physical means that avoid the subject’s cranium so that the subject remains conscious throughout unless overbearing pain renders the subject unconscious). The Rectifiers are encouraged to utilize Armament Systems and Procedures Friction Loc Batons due to their reputation within current law enforcement agencies. The Rectifications will lead the onlooker to choose the only viable choice—submission.

Even so, there will be those who challenge the regime and do not balk at the prospect of being sentenced to Rectification. This situation must be dealt with swiftly in the following way: rectify one of the rebellious subject’s loved ones until the subject concedes submission verbally. Then rectify the subject to illustrate that, even with repentance, one may not sin without punishment. Resistance cannot, should not, and will not be tolerated in a fascistic state if the powerful are to prosper.

98

In the morning, my phone alarm woke me at eight. I got up in an empty house and cooked breakfast—two scrambled eggs, wheat toast, an orange, and a cup of coffee.

While I ate, I skimmed some of yesterday’s paper but again avoided the mass shooting story. It was all the same news repackaged for another day. When I finished breakfast, I refilled my coffee and went out on the back deck, stood by the rail and searched for wildlife. There was a gaggle of geese on the opposite side of the pond—some in the water coasting aimlessly and some on land grazing. It was going to be another nice day with a high in the low 80s. Nearer to me were the two white swans the subdivision’s homeowners’ association had purchased to prevent the goose population from running amok. Some geese still made their home here, but the swans were successful in warding off most of them. Since the swans’ arrival, I’d wanted to test their boundaries to see how close they’d let me get to them before they’d attack. I’d always heard swans were territorial and mean, and once I watched a neighbor approach their nest only to have them stand their ground and hiss. He retreated before they engaged him. After I finished my coffee, I went inside and got ready to leave. I didn’t have to be at Berth’s until noon, but I thought I’d use the extra time to search another room before she woke. If she wasn’t up by noon, I’d wake her and ask if she’d like to sleep longer. She was ninety-seven, after all, and didn’t have anything she had to do. Before I left the house, I snatched the Ziploc bag of bread, jar of Jif, and a plastic cup.

I drove to Berth’s with my windows down and enjoyed the warm breeze that I knew was fleeting. July and August were coming soon, and the heat would make it miserable to be in a car, even with the windows down, if its AC hadn’t had a chance to 99 cool. If left outside, cars could double as ovens and saunas. I parked on Berth’s street, instead of in the driveway, and trudged up to her front door to unlock it. Inside, the rotten stench hit me immediately, but it wasn’t overpowering. After a few hours, I ceased to notice it, but it was impossible to ignore if you’d been out of it for even just a few minutes. I locked the door behind me. I considered calling out so Berth, if she were up, would know I was there, but I didn’t because I assumed and hoped she was still in bed.

The way Steve talked, she wouldn’t get up at noon if he didn’t force her to. Some days, the way he phrased it, she’d stay in bed all day if he let her.

In the hallway I adjusted the thermostat, turning it down from seventy-nine to seventy-four. Anytime Steve would leave, he’d turn the AC off to save money. Berth didn’t care, or even realize it, because she was always fully clothed and still cold. I lowered the temperature to seventy-four as a compromise—not too cold for Berth, not too hot for me. I was going to take pictures that day but only of the rooms I’d already explored. I didn’t want to take photos of the rooms I hadn’t, because once I began rummaging through them, I didn’t want the photos to show anything missing that I’d borrowed. Or, more accurately, to not show something that was supposed to be there but wasn’t. Steve and Berth would move stuff around after the photos were taken, but I wanted to be able to say, with a clear conscience, that I had no hand in the clutter’s arrangement. In short, leave everything the way I’d found it.

I stood still in the den and listened for sounds of any kind, but I didn’t hear anything, which led me to believe she was still asleep or at least still in bed. From the kitchen I saw that her bedroom door was closed, and this was a sign that she probably 100 wouldn’t rouse until the afternoon. I got my phone out to check the time and, in doing so, fumbled with it until it thudded on the linoleum a few times before coming to rest face up. I remained motionless, then tilted my head to better hear if Berth was going to acknowledge the noise. She didn’t, so I picked up my phone, glad that the case prevented damage, and noticed the time was about ten o’clock. I was going to sift through things for a couple hours and check on her at noon.

I decided to start in my dad’s old room. I wanted to take a stab at the kitchen, but the potential for dropping something or clanging things together and causing a racket was too great. And I didn’t want to accidentally break something and have to clean it up, especially if that meant breaking glass and having shards of it scatter all over the floor, which, to prevent Berth from stepping on one, I’d have to sweep and vacuum before I felt comfortable letting her walk around. I wouldn’t have wanted Steve to know I’d broken something, either, because he’d take me to task for it despite it being an accident.

So, with that in mind, I turned right at the fridge and opened the door to my dad’s former room. I met resistance when the door was halfway open. I couldn’t tell what was blocking it, but it sounded like cardboard. I squeezed through the opening and closed the door behind me. The room smelled stagnant, but sealing it off from the rest of the house had kept the rotten stench at bay. A narrow aisle—what hoarders call a “goat path”— snaked through the debris. There was a light switch on the wall, but either the bulb was burnt out or the light didn’t work. Either way, I wouldn’t have a light unless I used my phone, so I pulled it out and lit the way using my flashlight app. Sure enough, there were cardboard boxes stacked all over the place, though none had been labeled as far as I could 101 tell. The room also housed chairs, lamps, and other random objects I’d have to check out up close to ascertain what they were, what they were used for, and what value they had, if any. With the Internet on hand, I would’ve had no problem looking for sales or auctions of similar things unless, of course, the object was so rare that it required research to determine its use and value.

What was funny about my dad’s old room was that it led from the kitchen to the carport. A small door on the adjacent wall led into the laundry room, which, strangely, was tucked away between the den and sitting room. Or living room, whatever. But there was a door at the far end of the room that led outside. My dad told me he’d enjoyed the easy escape route when he was a teenager and wanted to sneak out. One day, he’d told me, before you were born, Berth crashed her car into that wall. She was pulling up the driveway too slowly to crest the hill so she stomped on the gas. She said she tried to stop but hit the gas instead of the brake, which sent the car lunging into her home. That was the last day she ever drove.

Right after I got my driver’s license, I was saddled with chauffeuring Berth to either a hair appointment or doctor visit or dental cleaning. Apropos of nothing I asked her if she missed driving.

“Yes I do,” she said. This was a time when most of her faculties were intact. She had more energy then and would often claw at the air with her left hand while talking. On this trip, as with many others since, she was wearing huge sunglasses to protect her eyes from UV rays. 102

“What do you miss about it?” I asked. With her in the car I drove more slowly, allowed more time to stop at red lights, and refrained from turning sharply.

“I miss…being able to go anywhere at any time,” she said and we were quiet for a moment. “Sometimes your grandfather and I would take Sunday drives and bring a picnic basket.”

“That was back before gas was so expensive, wasn’t it?” I made a mental note to check the price of gas at the next station in case I wanted to mention it in our conversation.

“Yes. Before most of this was here. Downtown was here, but not these…new places,” she said, pointing at the side of the road at various businesses. Even I had experienced the urban sprawl she was talking about. The subdivision we lived in was originally located in what my parents used to call the “country.” As dozens of houses sprouted around us, so did small strip malls full of restaurants, coffee shops, and stores.

The big chains—Walmart, Home Depot, and Target—soon followed. It got to the point where we had to drive at least a half an hour north if we wanted to be in a less urban area.

A solid hour if we wanted full-on rural, where people’s neighbors were much farther away than a few steps, driveways were gravel or dirt, and mailboxes didn’t match.

The first box I investigated was atop a stack taller than me. I lifted it off the tower and set it on the floor. Like a few others I noticed offhand, it wasn’t taped shut, but the flaps were folded in a way that kept the box closed without requiring tape. I was afraid that bugs would fly or crawl out when I opened it, but nothing happened. In the box were some neon Frisbees, a jump rope, tennis balls, and other assorted items to be used 103 outside. I sorted through enough of the merchandise to learn that there wasn’t anything interesting or valuable, so I closed the box and set it aside. The next box held a bunch of tennis rackets—most appeared older, ‘80s or ‘90s, and each was damaged in some form, usually broken strings. None of them looked old enough to be valuable. I closed the box and set it on top of the other one. Evidently this was the sports section. Hoarders don’t group like items, typically, but my dad must’ve organized his old room before Steve moved in. Or he’d hired a professional organizer. If he had, little evidence remained except in his former room.

The next box was full of baseballs—all of which had scuff marks from use. I picked up and inspected a few of them, and on some of them were the Rawlings and

MLB logos, “Official Major League Baseball” text, and the then-commissioner’s signature. They were probably foul balls Steve caught during his many trips to professional games. None was signed, however, so I couldn’t imagine they were worth much, if anything. How many balls left the park during an average game? I had no idea, but I knew it was a lot. There were a hundred and sixty-two games a year, and every at- bat seemed to have at least one or two foul balls hit into the stands. Some at-bats would have four or five fouls. I was sure some people had stats and charts explaining where most fouls and home runs land.

I didn’t have time to search each and every box, so I peered in the rest of the boxes in that stack and moved things around to ensure I wasn’t overlooking anything.

Among the items were catcher equipment, batting helmets, footballs (leather and Nerf), soccer balls, shin guards, goalie gloves, hockey pucks, bowling ball bags, bowling pins, 104 and other sports-related merch. Now that I’d moved the stack of boxes next to me, I saw a line of bats against the wall. I shined my phone’s light on them to get a better look.

Though there were a few aluminum ones, most were wood. Some had been painted black, or half black, but most retained their natural wood color. I picked one up and felt the wood. The worn surface led me to believe the bat had been used, and I turned it upside down to get a look at the Louisville Slugger logo. Inside the logo, at the bottom, it read,

“Made in the U.S.A. Louisville, KY.” Because we lived in southern Indiana, I’d been to the Louisville Slugger Museum and Factory in downtown Louisville a couple times, and I remembered they told us that over sixty percent of professional players use Louisville

Slugger bats. I never knew what the other brand names were. I shone the light on the row of bats near the barrels to sweep for other brands, but they were all Louisville Sluggers.

With that stack of boxes done, I set them back how they originally were, or at least as well as I could recall the arrangement, and turned to my left toward the closet.

There were several heavy boxes haphazardly arranged in front of the closet, so I removed enough to forge a clear path to the closet where I slid aside its white flimsy doors. The closet was full. There were old collared shirts and suits hanging up, and on the floor were piles of sneakers, sandals, dress shoes, baseball and golf cleats, and even a pair of flippers. The shoes weren’t organized in pairs, though. It was as if whoever put them in there hadn’t planned to wear them again, which may have been the case. Up top, on the only shelf, were sleeping bags and what was either a tarp or a tent. I closed the doors and caught sight of the umbrellas leaned up in the corner. Many were solid colors like black, 105 blue, and gray, but a few were polka-dotted with lighter colors like pink, yellow, and orange.

What I didn’t understand was how these rooms, the ones I’d looked through so far, were arranged. When Berth and Steve hoarded, did they centralize the valuable things? Or, provided there were valuable things to be found, were they mixed with the practical, low-value items? “Practical” may have been a misnomer due to the deterioration many of the objects suffered and, additionally, to the quantity on hand. One umbrella was practical. Two were practical if you kept one in the house and one in the car. Three, even, if you kept one in the house, one in the car, and one as a backup in case you lost one of them. But, unless you collected umbrellas, why would you need or want twenty of them? Where was the line between collecting and hoarding? Most people I knew collected something, two things at most, and I still had my baseball card collection from my youth, but I was wondering at what point someone would move from saying “I collect sneakers or Simpsons memorabilia or Fabergé eggs or trunks or clocks or oil cans” to, simply, “I collect stuff.” And when did “stuff” become “junk” or “trash” or

“garbage”?

Instead of looking through the heavy boxes before I’d moved them into the aisle to get to the closet, I searched them while returning them to their original position. I moved the first box back in front of the closet then shined the light into it, revealing a host of vinyl records. The box was so packed that I don’t think I could’ve fit another record into it if I tried. Without any room to flip through the records, I had to pull out a few to find out what they were. Though I’d never heard of the artists or bands, I could tell 106 they played country music. By the time I’d perused the rest of the boxes, I’d come across records by Merle Haggard, Hank Williams, Dolly Parton, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, and

Elvis. None was in mint condition, but most were in good shape. I thought some might be worth money, but I didn’t care enough to check. Initially I hoped to find some by The

Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Black Sabbath. This was strictly a country household, however, with an occasional nod to early rock like Cash and Elvis. The fact that I couldn’t recall where the record player and speakers were, if they had them in the first place, made me think that perhaps they never played these, just collected them. And yet, surely there was a record player somewhere.

Nearby, situated against the wall, was a set of bookshelves inaccessible due to the boxes in front of it. I set the boxes aside and shined the light on the shelves, each of which held as many issues of magazines as could fit. There was some organizational principle involved, because each shelf contained a different magazine. On the top of the case itself and on the top shelf were issues of National Geographic, on the next shelf

Time, on the next People, on the next Life, on the bottom Esquire. Flipped through an issue of each then put them back where I got them. The boxes I’d moved to get to the shelf were filled with books—mostly cookbooks, biographies, and history books about wars the U.S. has been in since World War I.

I turned around to check out the opposite wall. My dad’s old dresser, or what I assumed was his old dresser, was against the opposite wall next to the door leading to the laundry room or, more aptly, laundry hallway. Near the top of the dresser’s mirror there was a large crack, likely due to the numerous wood chairs stacked right in front of it. 107

Someone in here must’ve bumped into the chairs and one of their legs hit the mirror.

From what I could tell, there were only tall stacks of magazines littering the dresser’s surface. I couldn’t justify moving the chairs to check the drawers, which, in all likelihood, were just full of old clothes, so I stepped to the left to enter the laundry room.

Next to the doorway hung Berth’s oil rain lamp. It was gold and cylindrical with a nude woman posing in the center among artificial fern leaves. Various strings surrounded the scene, preventing anyone from touching the woman. I remembered long ago watching the beads of oil traverse the strings and wondering how the thing worked. I enjoyed it at the time, but now it struck me as gaudy—cheap, fake art posing as real art. The cord stretched down to the outlet right beside the couch, but the lamp wasn’t plugged in. I kneeled and plugged in the lamp, rolled my thumb on the lamp cord switch. Nothing.

Because it didn’t work, I didn’t think it was possible it could start a fire if I left it plugged in, but I unplugged it anyhow and stood.

The door to the laundry room opened without resistance, to my surprise, and I shined the light on the threshold where I had to step down. There was a light switch on the wall, so I flipped it and the overhead light came on. The washer and dryer sat side by side, while above them was a shelf built into the wall that held all manner of laundry- related items from detergent, to fabric softener, to stain remover, to laundry baskets, to clothespins. There were a few sheets of fabric softener on the floor, and lint and hair covered the carpet. Before I was to emerge on the other side of the laundry room, I went back into my dad’s former room and snapped a few photos. The lighting wasn’t great, but

I used the flash on my phone and did the best I could. Even though it wasn’t bad, I took a 108 photo of the laundry room, too, so that by the time I was done examining the house, I would’ve fairly documented every room—not just the ones filled to the brim.

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5. Due to global overpopulation, the global population must be stabilized and reduced by any means necessary if the powerful are to retain access to and wanton use of worldwide resources

At the time of this writing, the Earth holds eight billion people. The problem is not necessarily the existence of too many people in and of themselves, but that many of these people, if not most, engage in or at least strive toward the Western ideal of overconsumption through capitalistic hyperconsumerism. Humanity is, in other words, consuming too many resources too quickly with too many negative effects. Consider, for instance, average American John Smith in the United States. He drives his truck to the supermarket, where he buys items shipped from other states and countries. Each item is individually packaged, for the most part, and the packaging process is possible only through resource use and carbon emission. Did he buy meat? If so, how much food did farmers have to grow to feed the animal? How much fresh water did the animal drink?

How much methane did it emit over the course of its life? More food is grown to feed livestock than to feed humanity. If John were to reduce his meat consumption, even as little as foregoing meat occasionally while relying on other proteins such as beans and nuts, he would avoid taking part in a resource-heavy cycle. And this is all without any consideration of his spending and commuting habits—both of which could be modified in order to be environmentally sustainable.

Unfortunately, this twin problem—overpopulation-cum-overconsumption—is not unique to the United States. The citizens of other fully developed nations engage in this activity as well and, because first world nations lead by example and are the ideal for 110 which third world nations strive, the people of developing nations aspire to live and consume like the most affluent people in the most affluent countries. There is a reason centralized cities are prevalent in nations that can afford to build such infrastructures: they are desirable. It is no coincidence that in nations that have transitioned from rural to urban life, due in part to urban sprawl, their city skylines have come to resemble and even eclipse in magnitude those of New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Tokyo, Moscow, and others. Humans are building Babel in an attempt to reach Heaven, unaware that they are actually creating and submerging themselves in Hell.

In this context, one can plainly see the merits of fascism, because a totalitarian regime does not have to abide by any humane laws in reducing the population. While individuals in a democratic society, in which emphasis is placed on freedom and liberty, may advocate for free, widespread access to family planning services (e.g. contraceptives and abortions) and more restrictive immigration policies, the totalitarian regime simply does what it must to reduce the population. Without red tape, the regime may discontinue immigration altogether, remove the stigma from suicide, institute mandatory contraception, practice eugenics and involuntary euthanasia, and, eventually and ideally, dismantle rival nations. Naturally, the latter courses of action will require a formidable armed force—both to carry out said plans as well as repel the forces of nations that attempt to invade under humanitarian pretenses—but such a force will be realized in time. Once the homeland is stable and secure, the regime should turn its sights toward other nations and strike preemptively no matter the inevitable fallout.

111

It was going on noon, so I turned off the flashlight app and slipped the phone into my pocket. I glanced back at the stuff in my dad’s old room before I left to make sure my visit had been inconspicuous, and I closed the door behind me as I walked into the kitchen. I stood for a moment and listened for noise emanating from Berth’s room. Still quiet. Couldn’t help but smell the rotten stench lingering. I walked through the kitchen and hallway and up to her closed bedroom door. I tapped on the door with one of my knuckles, waited a second, and opened the door enough to get a glimpse of Berth, who was in bed. I opened the door wider and watched Berth. She didn’t move, but I could tell she was breathing. I stepped into the room, the floor creaking beneath me, and walked to her bedside. There was a stool against the wall, so I pulled it toward me and sat down.

She opened her eyes, surprising me, but I could tell she’d been awake for at least a few minutes, maybe longer, but continued to rest.

“Are you ready to get up, Berth?” I asked.

“Hello, Joseph,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, but those were the first words she’d spoken in fourteen hours.

“Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “What time is it?”

“It’s about noon—lunchtime. Tell you what, why don’t I make us lunch and you can rest a little longer.”

“All right.” She closed her eyes, and I put the stool back and left the room. In the kitchen I searched cabinets for paper plates and eventually found a stack. There were a few clean utensils in one of the drawers, so I picked a knife. I set out the bread and spread 112 peanut butter on both sandwiches. Because she used to cut my sandwiches diagonally, I cut ours that way then licked the knife clean and set it in the dishwasher. I found a clean glass for her, got a few ice cubes out of the freezer, which was full of meat, frozen vegetables, and TV dinners, and filled the glass with tap water. For myself, I put ice in my cup and filled it with tap water as well. During the preparation, I noticed garbage was still piled on top of the compactor. I opened the compactor, which was full, and the smell nauseated me until I closed it. The smell wasn’t too bad if the compactor was closed, but when open it was overpowering. Was this in my job description? I didn’t mind doing chores like that if I was explicitly told to or Steve simply forgot to do them, but I had a feeling Steve expected me to do that kind of thing without thanks. He wouldn’t tell me to do it, or complain about it if I didn’t do it, but he’d say it was my obligation. We were in a standoff. He wasn’t going to empty the trash, I wasn’t going to empty the trash, and

Berth couldn’t empty the trash, so it was going to stay there until one of us relented.

I stepped back to the bar and took a bite of my sandwich, washed it down with water. That was another issue: What were we going to eat if most of the food around here was expired? I didn’t mind going to the grocery for Berth and myself—after all, she couldn’t—but I didn’t want to store food here only for Steve to eat it. Grocery shopping was his responsibility in this case, and if I had to take a bag of groceries with me to

Berth’s every day, that’s what I’d do. I’d take them back to my house when I left. I realized, then, that what I should’ve done was get the nuances of the job in writing.

Taking care of Berth was easy in the sense that all I had to do was ensure that she didn’t fall down. If she did, I’d call 911. Truthfully, however, I was in charge of overseeing her 113 handle other aspects of living such as eating, using the bathroom, taking pills, and sleeping. She was able to complete those tasks on her own, but someone needed to be there in case she zoned out and didn’t know what to do next or forgot what she was doing entirely.

Right, her pills. If she hadn’t been up yet, she hadn’t taken her morning pills. I went to the counter near the sink and scanned for her pill organizer. Once I found it, I picked it up and took it to the bar, where I dumped the pills in the WED a.m. compartment onto my palm and set them on the plate with her sandwich. Closed the compartment lid and set the organizer where it had been. Then I walked to Berth’s room and patted her arm.

“Ready to eat?” I said. She opened her eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you need help getting up?”

“Maybe,” she said. She removed the covers, revealing pink and green pajamas with illustrated cats on them, and draped her legs over the side of the bed. She sat up, but it was evident she didn’t want to get up just yet. Instead, she wanted to sit on the side of the bed for a moment.

“You call me if you need me, OK?” I said.

“All right,” she said, her voice distinctly hers now. I made my way back to the kitchen, where I sat at the bar awaiting her arrival. Another aspect of her life I wasn’t sure about was the constant scrutiny she endured from those around her. I reasoned that if someone watched me doing everything, I might get nervous and screw up more than I 114 would if someone weren’t watching me, which was why I left her alone. If she needed me, I hoped she’d call me in time to help her before something bad happened. If not, I’d deal with the consequences. When she was diagnosed with dementia, her doctor told her that it was important for her family members to let her do as much as she could for herself. I found that out from my dad. While she may not improve, the doctor said, her agency in matters would at least slow the disease. It wouldn’t prevent it from getting worse, but she could slow it down long enough, perhaps, to live the rest of her life in a relatively cognizant state of mind. Steve complained taking care of her was like taking care of a child, and I didn’t want to know what it was like if she got worse to the extent that taking care of her would be like taking care of a pet—a life that relies on you but can hardly communicate. Some people had dementia so bad, I heard, that they couldn’t do anything anymore. They just lay there and waited to die.

Several minutes later, I heard Berth shuffling through the hallway and into the kitchen. “Good morning,” I said. “Lunch is served.”

“Good morning,” she said and smiled faintly. “I had to use the bathroom.” She walked up to the bar stool and turned around, lifted herself onto the edge of it and leaned back.

“Do you want to eat in here or in the den?” I was concerned she might lose her balance and fall. She was lucky in her previous falls—she didn’t break anything major— but I knew that, as old as she was and in the condition she was in, keeping her mobile was important both for her psychological well-being and her body. If she couldn’t get up 115 and walk when she wanted, her body would concede to immobility and she’d never walk on her own again.

“Here is fine,” she said. She looked at the sandwich but didn’t react, nor did she move to take it.

“First, let’s start with your pills,” I said and pointed at them.

“Oh,” she said. She picked up the glass of water and a couple of the smaller pills.

She took her time doing so, but she did swallow them. A few more the same way. “Do you want one?”

“Sure,” I said. I pinched a pill between my thumb and forefinger and twisted it so

I could look at it. It was a dark pink pill with “JANSSEN” on one face and “G 12” on the other. “I’m not supposed to have any, actually,” I said and returned the pill to her plate.

“How come?” She kept taking pills, albeit slowly.

“They’re for you, not me.” I grabbed my sandwich and took a bite of it so I was doing something, too—not just watching her.

“Where are yours?” she said between gulps.

“I don’t have any.”

“That’s too bad,” she said.

“I don’t have any yet, I should say.” I took another bite and chewed thoroughly.

Sometimes it was better, and easier, to leave things alone rather than try to explain to her that it was good I didn’t have to take pills because I was healthy enough not to need them. Someday I’d probably need them—maintenance drugs, I’d heard them called—but that day wasn’t here yet. 116

And it was the “yet” that bothered me. As we aged, we eventually succumbed to death, but it could be a long, messy process. At ninety-seven, Berth was a lot better off than most other ninety-seven-year-old people, I assumed, but there was no guarantee that her health couldn’t spiral downward in the coming weeks, months, or, if she had that long, years. What was so bad about meeting death halfway? Saying, sorry, you’re taking too long. Berth calling it quits before she doesn’t know who she is, where she is, or who anyone else is. Ending her suffering before it subsumed her. Kevorkian got it. Why do most people seem to oppose physician-assisted suicide when it’s clear that patients are going to die soon and will suffer until the very end? If someone doesn’t want to go through that, don’t force them to. What was so lamentable about Berth’s disease was that, aside from other symptoms, it stripped her of the ability to articulate coherent thoughts.

She couldn’t give consent, even though if she could’ve, maybe she would’ve.

While I was thinking, I finished the remainder of my sandwich. I looked at Berth, who had taken her pills and was eating the first half of her sandwich. She raised her glass to take a drink, so I formulated my question to pose when her mouth was empty and she could speak well. “Do you want to get dressed today or stay in your pajamas?”

She looked at herself. “Oh.”

“You don’t have anywhere you need to go today, do you?” I knew she didn’t, but

I thought I’d let her feel like she was making the decision, not me. These days she only went to the doctor, dentist, and salon. Occasionally my dad or Steve took her out to dinner or to go do something, but it was a hassle. She had a wheelchair so she didn’t have to walk too far. She had to have her food cut into small portions so she didn’t have to do 117 it herself. Otherwise, she’d stick a fork in, say, a grilled chicken breast and nibble on the whole thing, which my dad informed me she’d done in a restaurant a while back. She usually dropped food and spilled drinks while eating, but that was unavoidable.

“I guess I don’t,” she said. She lifted the other half of the sandwich and bit into it.

“You don’t need to change, then, if you don’t want to.” I wasn’t going to push the issue either way. Changing her clothes wasn’t worth the trouble. Though I felt bad about it, her body grossed me out. The less I saw of it, the better. I figured the time would come when I’d have to take care of my parents in some capacity, but I didn’t think I’d ever take care of my grandmother. The closeness to my parents would make the gross moments bearable, I figured, and even though Berth and I’d had a good relationship, we weren’t close. Perhaps we were just too far apart in age to cultivate a lasting friendship, and I’d been away at college the past four years and filled my summers with temp work.

When she finished the sandwich, I picked up our plates and stacked them on top of the pile of garbage on the compactor. I put my empty cup next to the sink, to use later if I had to, and sat down again. “Do you want to watch TV in the den?”

She looked out the big window in the kitchen, at the sun shining, and said, “I want to go outside.” She picked up her glass of water and looked at me.

“Let’s leave your water here for now,” I said, grabbing it, “and I’ll come back and get it once you’re outside.” I set the glass on the counter and rose from my stool. Berth moved to get down from hers, and I stood by her side to support her in case she stood only to learn she couldn’t support herself. She held onto my arm as we walked, slowly, through the kitchen, den, and front room. “Watch the step,” I said as we approached the 118 threshold of the front door. I held the screen door open while Berth made her way through the doorway to the wrought iron bench on the porch. “I’m going to get your water,” I said.

“Tea,” she said.

“You want tea? I’ll get you some tea,” I said and went inside to retrieve it. I palmed a handful of ice from the freezer, dropped it in the glass, and poured tea from the jug I got from the fridge. Back outside, I handed the glass to Berth and said, “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” she said and took it from me. I sat next to her, basked in the surroundings. It was sunny, but not humid, and the trees next to the house shaded us from most of the direct sunlight.

“It’s nice out here,” I said. I breathed deeply and exhaled slowly.

“Yes it is,” she said. She took a drink.

“I’m going to get a magazine,” I said and waited for her acknowledgement.

She put out her hand and waved it around, like she used to, and said, “Just enjoy the scenery.”

“OK,” I said. I could’ve gotten a magazine if I really wanted to, but I obeyed

Berth’s command and also refrained from pointing out that Steve’s Mount Trash in the driveway was part of the scenery. I had to admit it was peaceful outside. The weather was agreeable, and her street wasn’t a thoroughfare, so even though a car would pass by occasionally, they weren’t obtrusive. The environment was calming to the point that, after a while, I noticed Berth holding her glass of tea in her lap and tilting her head down, 119 eyes closed. I gently wrested the glass from her hands, which caused her to stir, and set it on the concrete by one of the bench’s legs. She didn’t stir for long, however, and resumed her rest without a word.

I studied her, curious if I would ever be that old. If so, who would I be in this scenario? Who would be the one to take care of me in this fashion? I had no idea, really, because if my caregiver were a family member, he or she hadn’t been born yet. Or would

I be in a nursing home where nurses would usher me into death? Or, as I hoped, would I die before I lost control of both my mental and physical faculties? If I found myself deteriorating to the extent that it significantly compromised my quality of life, would I have the courage to end my life before it got too bad? I wondered if there was a point that the mind was so far gone that it couldn’t comprehend mortality or the future—only the present moment. That would be terrible but, in that case, you wouldn’t even realize it.

My bladder urged me to pee, so I got up and took care not to disturb Berth by opening and closing the screen door as quietly as I could. I went to Steve’s bathroom just beyond the front room, but it was still gross, so I walked through his room, Berth’s bedroom, and into her bathroom, where I peed and washed my hands. Briefly I looked out the bathroom window at the backyard, which had overgrown to jungle proportions.

Back in view of the front porch, I saw Berth on the ground. She’d propped herself up on her hands, but her legs were motionless. Something didn’t compute with that picture, like it wasn’t supposed to be happening, before I understood that she had either fallen off the bench or had tried to stand but fallen. I rushed to the screen door and opened it. “Are you all right?” I said. I let the door slam and kneeled next to her. 120

“I think so,” she said. I put a hand on her shoulder.

“Does anything hurt?”

“No, not really.”

“You’re sure?” I said. “What happened?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. I assumed she woke up and saw she was alone, so she tried to go inside to find somebody. Or maybe something startled her—a dream, an animal, a car—and she fell off the bench.

“Let’s get you inside,” I said, “and I’ll take a look at you.” I rose and pivoted to where I was behind her, put my arms under her armpits, lifted her to a standing position.

“Can you stand?” I asked, still supporting her.

“Yes. I can stand.”

“OK then.” I let the pressure dissipate and held out my left arm for her to grab with her right hand. She was able to stand on her own, and we made our way into the house where I led her to the couch in the den. She sat down. “I’ll get your tea.” I went outside, grabbed the tea, and shut and locked the front door. In the den, I set the tea on the end table beside her and sat on the adjacent couch. “Let me see your hands.” She held out her hands like I was going to cuff them, and I took her veiny hands in mine to inspect her for injuries. Other than the scrape on the palm of her left hand and the scrape on the wrist of her right arm, she was fine. The blood was already clotting. “I’ll clean your scrapes and you’ll be good.” She nodded.

In her bathroom, I picked up a washcloth but couldn’t find the hydrogen peroxide.

I turned the hot water on, soaked the washcloth, wrung it out, squeezed a glob of hand 121 soap on it, rubbed it in. Back in the den, I told Berth it was going to hurt, but it would be over soon. She didn’t seem to understand what I was going to do.

“That’s good,” she said. I held her right hand with my left and scrubbed her wrist with the cloth. I tried to make it a gentle process but thorough enough that I felt confident the scrape wouldn’t get infected. Still, I wasn’t going to bandage her for such minor injuries. While I was scrubbing the palm of her left hand, I glanced at her face to check for discomfort, but she wasn’t reacting to it that I could tell. She stared at the TV like it was on, but it wasn’t.

“There,” I said. “I think you’ll be fine.” She retracted her hands and folded them on her lap. I got off the couch and walked to her bathroom where I ran the washcloth under hot water for a minute, wrung it out, and draped it over the towel rack. “You’ve had quite an afternoon,” I said when I entered the den.

“Yes I have,” Berth said. She pointed at the TV.

“Sure,” I said, looking for the remote. It was on her couch under a newspaper. I pressed the power button and the TV belted out audio from a daytime court show. “You want the clicker?” I said and held it out for her to take. She took it without saying anything. “I’ll be around.” I pointed back over my shoulder to signal that I’d be somewhere in the house, but she didn’t pay attention to me or what I said. I shrugged, turned around, and set about opening the gate that separated the kitchen from the stairs to the basement.

In the kitchen, technically, and adjacent to the hallway was a set of stairs leading to the basement. There was a structure surrounding the staircase—not sure what it was 122 called—that was chest high on the average person and prevented people from falling into the stairwell. On top of the structure, or wall, were various fake plants. The gate was accessible at the point where the kitchen met the hallway, and it could be opened by pulling it toward the hallway. When open, the gate blocked the hallway, but it never remained open. It was merely a passageway that, as far back as I could remember, had been closed unless someone was retrieving ice cream from the old upright freezer in the basement.

I closed the gate behind me and locked the deadbolt. Though there was railing next to the staircase, I didn’t want Berth following me. She wasn’t sturdy or surefooted enough, and I hated to think of the injuries she’d sustain if, again, she fell down the stairs, which creaked as I stepped into the darkness. It was bright in the kitchen, even in the absence of direct sunlight, but the wall surrounding the stairwell kept it in perpetual darkness until one turned on the lights in the rooms of the basement. I could’ve used the flashlight app on my phone, but I didn’t.

123

6. The regime will be under constant threat (real or otherwise) and, therefore, should be under constant protection and utilize widespread surveillance to gather intel

The advent of modern technology—consisting of, but not limited to, the camera, video recorder, computer, Internet, and smartphone—has made it possible to gather information about citizens using quick, easy methods that are seldom detected and can be impossible to trace. While it will be necessary to build and maintain various data centers in order to monitor, intercept, and store data from the nation’s citizenry, every day many people send valuable information about themselves into the world via the smartphone.

Using apps, people may divulge what they are doing, with whom, and where. This is an ideal scenario, because this type of surveillance requires merely a monitor—not someone actively seeking information. Though some may argue that rampant smartphone use leads to increased narcissism and hedonism, the smartphone can be a tool for the totalitarian regime in that it provides the regime with information and simultaneously entertains the user. Screens, whether television, computer, or phone, are the most effective means of placating the masses, for even those who become involved with political movements on social media resort to “slacktivism”: sharing and/or endorsing a belief without taking steps in reality to solve problems. Slacktivism manifests itself in sharing, as mentioned, and also in any of several manners of upvoting (e.g. liking, retweeting, among others).

The slacktivist, in other words, feels good without actually doing anything meaningful to help solve the problem.

This is not to imply, however, that the regime should not be proactive in monitoring its citizens, because it should. Specifically, once businesses become subject to 124 the regime, their surveillance apparatuses will be in service to the rule of law, which equates to thousands of cameras feeding directly to data centers where the information will be disseminated, analyzed, and filed. The data centers should have more than enough servers to store the data they receive, and backup servers should be located on different premises so the data is always in at least two places at once should unforeseen circumstances result in loss of data on one set of servers. It will be necessary, too, to install thousands of new cameras in mid- to high-traffic areas. The powers that be should supplement cameras with exhaustive wiretapping and hacking. Monetary compensation should be offered to those who turn in people who speak and/or act against the state as they are considered dangerous to a regime that has provided only prosperity to its citizens. Said tactics offer a range of positive aspects as they relate to surveillance, and each should be utilized to aid in the sustainment of the regime in the present and beyond.

125

The temperature at the foot of the stairs was a few degrees cooler. I sniffed at the dank air. To the right, I recalled, was my grandfather’s train room. I entered the pitch black room, shuffling along to ensure I didn’t bump into anything hard enough to knock it over or hurt myself. The lightbulb was near where I remembered it being, and I tugged on the string to cast light all over the room. In the center of the room was a flat, rectangular table on which sat the model town, replete with houses, businesses, people, cars, trees, and a train that ran around its perimeter. I stepped closer to admire the detail as I had many years ago. As far as I could tell, the houses and businesses were handmade, which I attributed to my grandfather’s affinity for carpentry and woodworking. The people, cars, trees, and train were all made out of plastic. In order to make the town realistic, he painted areas of it green for grass, blue for a nearby pond, and black for streets with yellow and white lines. He erected street signs and traffic lights, too.

What he’d preferred, though, was the train itself. The engine was black and emitted steam every so often. Its horn would sound off now and then. There were several coal cars attached to the engine, and I rubbed my fingers over the rough, shiny plastic that had been painted to resemble a pile of coal. I walked to the starting mechanism for the train and fooled with it to no avail. It made no sound at all—not even as if it was trying to work but couldn’t—so I left it alone to examine the shelves lining the walls. Unlike the rooms on the main level, this one was free of debris other than what was supposed to be here. Either Steve hadn’t had a chance to junk it up yet, or he spent no time down here and would leave it as my grandfather left it when he died. Maybe he viewed it as a shrine, a tribute to his father. Or perhaps my grandfather never let anyone else put stuff in his 126 train room, and it was a rule Berth and Steve had always observed. I doubted these conjectures, but they were possible.

Aside from the shelves, which held all manner of model trains, cars, and town accessories, my grandfather’s workbench sat against the back wall. His small red toolbox was on the workbench, and there were tools strewn about—hammer, needle nose pliers, tape measure, sandpaper, pencil. He’d left nothing in progress. I imagine he reached a point where he knew he was finished making models, that what he’d made was enough, that it was better to leave a complete body of work than start something new only to die before it could be realized. Eventually he died in his sleep without warning or any sign of trouble.

Nothing in the room struck me as valuable to an outsider. Sure, the trains might’ve been worth something—especially those in their boxes in good condition—but the real value was in the handmade objects my grandfather crafted that, someday, my kids would play with. I pulled on the lightbulb string, extinguishing the light, and inch by inch walked into the stairwell and into the room where the water heater and upright freezer were. There was no reason to turn on the light, but I pulled out my phone and pressed its power button to activate it for a minute while I got my bearings to go to the adjoining room. I checked the floor for clutter, but it was clear, so I walked through the saloon doors into Berth’s saloon and flipped on the overhead light.

To call it Berth’s saloon was inaccurate, because the entire basement was my grandfather’s domain. According to my dad, when the family gathered here for an occasion, my grandfather and his brothers would sneak downstairs to the saloon for 127 drinks while the rest of the family remained upstairs. Though no one in my family ever called my grandfather an alcoholic, he was. Growing up I didn’t recognize the smell of alcohol on his breath or wafting from his sweat. I didn’t recognize the ever-present brown liquid in his glass. I didn’t recognize the constant smiling and laughing. The first time my friends and I got our underage hands on a bottle of whiskey, I took a big whiff and said, before thinking, “This smells like my grandfather.” My friends stared at me, unsure of what to say. He was a functioning alcoholic, I later learned, and had been most of his life.

His bar was a nice space, and I recalled being surprised the first time I saw it. The tiles were black and red. The walls were covered in wood paneling, and there were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. The counters were red, the bar itself wood. There were four wood bar stools with red cushions. Behind the bar was a sink. Above that, a large mirror with glass shelves. There was a fridge—off, empty—by the entrance to the bar, and there was a black couch with two red pillows opposite the bar. In the corner was a General Electric stand up wooden radio from the 40s or 50s. It was plugged in but didn’t work. Was there any potential for it to catch fire? I didn’t know, but I unplugged the cord to be safe. I didn’t like the bar’s color scheme, but I guessed it had to do with the nearest high school, which my grandfather attended, whose colors were black, red, and white.

I pulled one of the stools out from underneath the lip of the bar and sat down, studied myself in the mirror. I tried to imagine what it would’ve been like to join my grandfather and his brothers down here when the rest of the family was upstairs. Did it feel illicit? Like they were getting away with something even though they knew they 128 weren’t because everyone knew what they were doing? Were they celebrating the family’s success? Were they celebrating life itself? Or did they view the saloon as an escape from those who hadn’t grown up alongside them and, therefore, hadn’t earned the right to drink with them? And now I was the only one. I looked at myself, sad, suddenly, not as a feeling for them or myself, but a sadness for the room, what it once was, what it once held. Now it was empty. Abandoned. I stood and pushed the stool underneath the bar. Before I flipped the light off, I turned and looked around one more time prior to bathing the room in darkness. The hinges of the saloon doors creaked as they flapped and eventually came to a stop. Light from the kitchen lit the stairwell, where I climbed up, unlocked and opened the gate, shut it behind me, and checked on Berth.

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7. Dissenters should be eliminated before they pose danger

Of course, the totalitarian regime will always encounter resistance from subversives acting alone or as part of a group. The regime’s aim should not be to prevent the subversive from coming into existence but to quell the threat as soon as it is discovered (i.e. before danger is realized through disbursement of anti-regime propaganda, peaceful protests, or armed violence in the name of revolution). In order to practice threat elimination in an effective manner, it will be necessary to deviate from

American law customs such as innocent until proven guilty and guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Said policies will be altered to reflect the regime’s best interest: guilty until proven innocent and circumstantial evidence is sufficient to convict and extinguish the guilty party.

Likewise, reversing such laws would, in turn, bring about other changes. These changes would include holding trials and executions behind closed doors without involvement of the public in any capacity. Similarly, because perception is often reality, the odds of the accused being exonerated will be slim, which will be due in part to the regime’s intent to err on the side of caution by being proactive in responding to potential threats. The regime can never be too careful.

In light of these policies, citizens should be aware of the outcome awaiting them and their family members if they choose to practice subversion. Those relatives, friends, and acquaintances who disappear without word should be treated as “missing” until further notice. There will be no further notice. Still, the regime should admonish the 130 affected to move on with their lives and do what is right and good for themselves, each other, and the regime. Vengeance is, as one may infer, discouraged and ill-advised.

131

“How’s it going?” I said, walking into the den.

“Good,” she said. She looked at me, then back at the TV. I sat on the couch next to hers and watched the ongoing court show.

“Too early for dinner, huh?” I said and angled myself toward Berth. It’d been about three hours since we ate lunch, and I didn’t like to eat dinner until at least five.

“Too early,” she said.

“What do you want to eat when it’s time for dinner?”

She looked at me. “Anything, really.”

“OK. I was thinking of picking something up for us, but I’m not sure what to get.”

I continued to watch her to see how she’d respond. With the TV so loud, I wasn’t sure I understood her unless I read her lips while she was speaking.

“Fish,” she said.

“You want a fish sandwich for dinner?”

She looked at me again, stuck her hand out and gesticulated. “You know, fish.”

She put her arm down and resumed viewing the program.

“We can get fish,” I said, turning toward the TV. “I’ll go get us some fish here in a little while.” I rested my left arm on top of the couch and folded it in so I could let my head lie in my hand. I stuck with the TV show for several minutes but, as I watched, I had to blink more to keep my eyes open. I decided that it wasn’t worth keeping my eyes open, so I shut them and rested as best I could with the volume still high. Hard to tell whether I was tired or my eyes were dry—maybe both. Later I woke myself up by reacting to my head falling from my hand. I fought the urge to lie down, because I would’ve had to clear 132 off the newspapers and clothes from the other end of the couch, and I didn’t want to nap and possibly ruin my chance of falling asleep that night. I glanced at Berth, who, with her head lowered to her chest, had also fallen asleep. I swiped the remote from the end table and lowered the TV’s volume to a reasonable level. “It’s an exciting life we lead,” I said to Berth, but quietly so she couldn’t hear it. She had led a life. I had yet to lead mine. I resumed resting my head in my hand and, with each passing moment, became less concerned with the prospect of falling asleep. I was simply killing time before it killed me or, more accurately, made me want to kill myself.

It was close to five when I told Berth I was heading out to get us something to eat.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom before I leave?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.” She turned her attention back to the TV.

“All right, then, I’ll be back soon.” I stood and walked through the front room, shut the front door behind me and locked it, let the screen door close quietly. Outside, I felt like a weight was lifted off me—not only because I was no longer in the house, but the weather was nice. I could see how being a shut-in like Berth would get depressing and how, as Steve would tell my dad, sometimes she’d want to stay in bed all day. In my car I put on Soundgarden again and thought of where to get fish. Most fast food places would have a fish sandwich, but I thought it’d be better to get takeout from a restaurant that specializes in it, so I drove across town to Hungry Pelican, where I got us a couple meals of fried fish, French fries, and hush puppies. Not the healthiest meal, but I knew it’d taste good. 133

One surprising thing about Berth’s eating habits was that Steve, my dad, and my other uncle and aunt fed her whatever she wanted without regard for nutrition. I thought she’d be on a restricted diet of whole grains, lean meats, fresh produce, and no sweets, but she wasn’t. I suppose she would’ve been had she been in a facility, but she was on medication to regulate her blood pressure, cholesterol, and other ailments an unrestricted diet would cause or at least contribute to. Even so, I saw my family’s point—if you make it to ninety-seven, you should be able to eat what you want. And, further, she was living what you might call “bonus” years. That is, anything past the average life expectancy was a bonus. Food was one pleasure she could still enjoy.

I pulled up to the house about an hour later and felt reluctant to go back in. There was still plenty of sunlight, and there would be for a few more hours, but there was also a metaphorical black cloud hovering above the house. I wasn’t sure whether the cloud was

Berth’s condition, the clutter in the house, Steve’s presence, or a mix of all three. There was nothing to be done, however, so I steeled myself and got out of the car with the two

Styrofoam containers. Inside I detected that rotten, musty smell wafting through most of the main floor, though the food was doing its best to counteract it. I shut the door, locked it, and walked through the front room into the den. After the incident earlier that afternoon, I was relieved to see Berth where I left her. She glanced at me and lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

“It’ll be ready soon,” I said and went into the kitchen. I set the containers on the counter and opened one of them. I was going to cut her fish into small portions until I saw they gave us a bun to make a fish sandwich. There was excess fish that didn’t fit 134 under the bun, so I plucked a clean, sharp knife from the utensil drawer and cut around the bun. They’d provided us with bagged, plastic utensils, but those weren’t great. I put those in the utensil drawer with the rest of the plastic utensils already there. Back in the den I asked Berth if she wanted tartar sauce on her sandwich.

“Um,” she said, looking at me. She stared into space for a minute. Had she not recognized me, I would’ve scared her—a stranger brandishing a knife.

“I think you like it,” I said when she didn’t answer.

“OK then,” she said, turning toward the TV. I went back to the kitchen counter, opened the packets of tartar sauce, squeezed the sauce onto the top bun, spread it evenly with the knife. They gave us ketchup packets, too, but I thought Berth’s meal had the potential to be messy enough as is, so I forewent giving her ketchup for her fries. I opened my container, moved some of the fries, and made a big glob of ketchup in the corner tray. I’d always hated tartar sauce, and mayonnaise in general, so I left my sandwich plain. I’d also always hated sour cream. Come to think of it, I don’t like any white sauces. I don’t know if it’s because they remind me of semen, but I don’t even like

Alfredo sauce or whipped cream.

In the den, I gave Berth the open container. “I’ll get you a fresh tea,” I said. I picked up the nearest glass and returned to the kitchen. I got myself a glass of water while

I was at it and set them both on the end table. Grabbed my container off the counter then sat in my usual spot, lifted the sandwich, and began to eat. It wasn’t gourmet food, but it wasn’t bad for what it was. Somehow deep frying something makes it taste better no matter what it is. The TV was now tuned to the local news, and I watched it between 135 glances at Berth to see how she was doing with the meal, if she was staying clean or getting some of it on herself. She did well with it, and I noticed only a couple of fries and a hush puppy she’d dropped on her lap. She ate about half of the sandwich, a few fries, and two hush puppies before she sat there without tending to the food in any respect. I continued to eat until little was left, closed the container, and set it on the coffee table.

“Finished?” I asked Berth. She nodded, so I took her container, closed it, and set it on the end table. “In a minute I’ll put it in the fridge so it doesn’t spoil,” I said, but she was watching and listening to the news.

A while after I closed the food containers and set them aside, I smelled what I thought was urine. Not stale urine but fresh, like Berth peed her pants. I knew I had to broach the subject, but I wasn’t sure how to do it without embarrassing both of us.

“Berth,” I said, “when was the last time you used the bathroom?”

She looked at me then let her eyes roam. “I don’t know.”

“Is it possible you used the bathroom without getting up and going to the bathroom?” She looked at me but didn’t appear to comprehend what I meant. “Let me put it this way, do you feel wet?”

“Yes, I feel wet.”

“Where do you feel wet?”

“In my pants.”

“What I ought to do, then, is find out if you need to be cleaned up. We’ll need to go to the bedroom to do that. First I’ll put your food in the fridge for later.” I took her container to the fridge and stuffed it inside the fridge on top of some jars. Then I went to 136 the den and helped Berth stand and walk to the bedroom where I instructed her to lay down like she was going to sleep. I turned the overhead light on and stepped to her bedside. “Are you ready?”

“Ready,” she said. She was watching the ceiling.

“Lift your legs a little,” I said and posed them how I needed them so I could get to everything. I knew it was going to be weird and unsettling for me, but I had to do and do it quick before I could talk myself out of it. I pulled down her pajama pants revealing, thankfully, an adult diaper. I focused my eyes on a spot on the diaper so I wouldn’t see more of her body than I needed to. I undid the diaper, took it to the trash in the bathroom, and got a moist wipe from the container on the tank of the toilet. Without looking directly at the area, I rubbed and dabbed her as clean as I could, until I felt comfortable with the job I did, and threw away the moist wipe in the bathroom trash. From the bag of Depends near the bed, I removed a diaper, had her lift up while I affixed it to her, and checked the crotch of her pajama pants for wetness. There was none, so the diaper must’ve contained it or the pants had dried in the meantime. Either way, she was OK to keep those same pants on for the remainder of the day. I pulled them up to her waist and let her know we were finished.

“I’m like a baby,” she said.

“Who told you that?” I said. “You can get up now.” She slowly lifted herself to a sitting position and sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving. 137

“Steve says I’m like a baby. He says he has to do everything for me.” Though it was easy to read her wrinkled face, I couldn’t detect any sentiment behind her statement.

It was as if she was simply declaring a fact, a truth, and wasn’t making a judgment call.

“That’s how age works, I guess.” I withheld saying what I thought: We’re born babies and we die babies. I assumed Berth wouldn’t know what I meant, but even if she did, I didn’t want to depress or alarm her by implying she was close to death. Cleaning her made me wonder about her other hygiene regimens. “Who gives you showers?”

She paused. “I don’t need a shower.” She shook her head no.

“Right, but when you do need a shower, who gives you one?”

“When I need a shower…the man…the man…the man who lives here gives me one.”

“‘The man who lives here’? You mean Steve? Steve gives you showers?”

“Yes, Steve. He gives me showers sometimes.” She expended effort to stand up, so I assisted her in doing so and escorted her to the den where she sat in her usual spot on the couch, ready to absorb what the TV had to say.

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Chapter 2: Preparation

It is important to understand that implementing the ideal, totalitarian regime may take years, decades, or even generations. In other words, even the coup d’état, which happens suddenly, is not a sudden development. In the current political landscape of the

United States—no longer a democracy but an oligarchy consisting of those with enormous political and/or economic power and influence—a revolution is near impossible in the short term. This is due to the rampant, overwhelming militarization of every federal government agency that includes among its duties any form of law enforcement or civil defense and, indeed, state- and city-level police forces. This means that even individual cities have, at their disposal, an arsenal for both offense and defense that is more befitting an army at war. What this equates to for the revolutionary party is that they will be outgunned from the outset. Combine this fact with the notion of increased funding of and emphasis on government surveillance and secrecy, as well as citizen surveillance via phone cameras, and the totalitarian has what appears to be an insurmountable task ahead of him. He must remember, however, that the current leaders and political systems of all countries meet their demise either from without or, in this case, from within.

With this said, the first step of the proto-talitarian (“proto” plus “totalitarian,” because the first man to attempt to implement this form of government will not likely live to see it come to fruition) leader depends upon his age. If he is eighteen or in his early twenties, he should join any branch of the military in order to learn self-defense, survival techniques, and military jargon. If he is older, or fails his physical examination for an 139 insignificant reason, then he should begin by educating himself on the above-mentioned matters by reading relevant texts and enlisting the help of someone who is able to confer such knowledge without the context of what the proto-talitarian is preparing.

140

A few hours later it was dark and also time for Berth to take her night pills. I got off the couch and went to the kitchen, where, beside the sink, I grabbed her pill organizer and brought it into the den. I emptied the contents of WED p.m. into her palm and told her to take the pills with her half full glass of tea on the end table. She took the pills absentmindedly while she was watching TV, but I glanced at her now and then to ensure she was taking them and hadn’t dropped any. It was about ten o’clock, during some stupid reality show, that I noticed she had fallen asleep—head down, eyes closed, holding the empty glass in her lap. She’d never been a drinker, but these days she shared similarities with blackout alcoholics.

I scooted onto the edge of the couch I was on in order to gently nudge her arm.

She woke up and blinked a lot to orient herself. “Ready for bed?” I asked. She nodded that she was, so I helped her stand and ushered her to the bedroom. “First you need to brush your teeth, then you can go to bed.” I led her into the bathroom, flipped the light switch, put toothpaste on her toothbrush, and handed it to her. She brushed her teeth, not as vigorously as she used to, I assumed, but enough for a satisfactory cleaning. I doubted she’d ever forget how to do something like brushing teeth because so much of it was muscle memory. If you do the same routine for decades, your muscles should recall it even if your brain can’t. After she rinsed and set the toothbrush on the vanity, I walked her to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Goodnight,” I whispered. She didn’t respond, but I figured she was too tired or, having not talked for several hours, hadn’t the voice to do so. Quietly, I shut her door on the way out of her room. 141

An hour or two after I put Berth to bed, I heard Steve unlock and open the front door. He came in whistling some tune I’d never heard.

“That was a good time, man,” he said when he entered the den.

“Something about the Indy 500?” I said. I was bleary-eyed from getting up early.

“Yeah. How’s mother doing?” He sat on the couch adjacent to me and looked at me for an answer.

“She’s good. She took her night pills, then I put her to bed,” I said. He sniffed in a way that I thought was exaggeration.

“Smells like piss. Did she piss herself again?”

“She did, but I cleaned her and changed her diaper.”

“Shit. She’s been doing that more and more. Whenever you ask her if she has to go to the bathroom, she says no. She either gets up to go without telling you or she goes where she is and won’t admit she did it.” He shook his head. “It’s like raising a kid.”

“It is,” I said, remembering her falling down earlier. Because she was in bed, I decided not to tell him about the incident. If I were lucky, she’d heal enough overnight that he wouldn’t notice it. If I weren’t, he’d notice it but she wouldn’t be able to articulate what happened and he might interrogate me about it, thinking I was trying to hide it. I didn’t think he’d accuse me of abuse—neglect, maybe, but not abuse. He knew I wasn’t like that.

“I’m going to head on home,” I said. “I’m tired.”

“Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep on the way.” I got up, walked into the front room, locked the doorknob, and closed the door. I eased the screen door shut and 142 got in my car. I studied the place for a minute. While I was eager to leave, I also felt a sense of regret that I had to leave Berth in those conditions. No matter what happened,

Steve was never going to vote to move Berth to a facility, which was where she needed to be. She needed full-time care and supervision and the opportunity to socialize with other people her age. Here she was either sleeping or watching TV. If left on her own, she probably would’ve slept all day, and I wasn’t sure if Steve hadn’t let her do that sometimes, whereas in a facility they’d force her to keep a schedule and routine. That had to be beneficial for her health and well-being—her psyche especially. But Steve lived in the house without having to pay bills, and he was the only sibling who wasn’t well off enough to not need the inheritance she stood to bestow on her children. He planned to live off that the rest of his life, and he’d never relinquish control of that situation.

In the dark, with the car still off, I imagined a great fire consuming the house, swallowing it all. I felt the indentation in the pocket of my shorts where I had the Zippo lighter. I removed it and opened it. Nothing happened, of course, because I hadn’t put any lighter fluid in it. But I could. It was good to have immediate access to fire. You never knew when you’d need a spark.

When I pulled into our cul-de-sac and neared my home, I thought more lights were on than usual that time of night. Usually my mom or dad left on a lamp in the living room, but I could tell other lights were on, too. I activated the garage door and parked in the driveway. Inside the garage I let the door shut before I entered the house so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. I walked through the dark hallway toward the kitchen, where light was emanating from, and turned the corner into the kitchen. My mom was sitting at 143 the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in her hand while she examined a page of the newspaper.

“Hey, Joey,” she said, not diverting her attention from the paper.

“What’s going on?” I said and sat next to her at the table. She folded the paper in half and laid it aside. She looked tired. The wrinkles near her eyes were prominent, and her eyelids drooped.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said and brought the mug to her lips. She sipped slowly, and

I saw the steam rising from the cup.

“So you’re drinking coffee near midnight?” I stole the paper beside her and flipped it open to ascertain what she’d been reading—nothing I was interested in as far as

I could tell.

“It’s decaf,” she said and tilted the cup toward me as if she were making a toast.

“So how’d your day and night with Berth go?”

“It was fine,” I said. I put the paper back in the same spot and scratched at the placemat. “Don’t tell anybody, but she fell.”

“Is she OK?” she asked, brief alarm in her voice.

“She’s fine. She scraped her palm and wrist, but otherwise she’s all right.”

“What happened?”

“We were on the bench on the front porch, and I went in to use the bathroom when she must’ve thought she was alone or that I wasn’t coming back. She got up but couldn’t support herself and fell. I checked her for injuries. She was good other than the scrapes, which weren’t bad.” 144

“What’d you do?”

“I cleaned the wounds with soap and hot water.”

“That’s good.” She sipped her coffee again. Reached for my hand, the one picking at the placemat, and held it still. I looked at her.

“She also peed herself. I cleaned that up, too.” She scrunched her face, but it wasn’t true disgust—disgust on my behalf yet acknowledgement that Berth required care like that.

“She can’t help it anymore,” she said. I nodded in agreement. “It’s gross, I know, but that’s how we get when we get old. She’s almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“That’s the argument for not getting that old,” I said. “Or not getting past the stage when you lose your mental and physical abilities. Once I lose either, I’m out.”

“We just don’t know,” she said. She finished her coffee, then we said our goodnights to each other before I got ready for bed and slept.

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Once the proto-talitarian is sufficiently prepared for engaging with potential subversives both mentally and physically, he should begin the recruiting stage. This stage will consist of seeking commitments from those whom this manifesto convinces to join together to establish an ideal form of government to create the ideal human form. To do this, the proto-talitarian should print the seven assumptions listed above and personally distribute them to people and organizations that may be interested in these tenets such as high school students, veterans, militias, neo-Nazi groups, and the Ku Klux Klan.

Commitment to the regime must be solidified in blood in a manner decided by the proto- talitarian.

After he welcomes a new member to the regime, he must explain that secrecy is of the utmost importance. Anyone involved with the movement should swear an oath of secrecy that, if broken, is punishable by death. To prevent the authorities from discovering the regime and its intent, the proto-talitarian should conduct its business in secret as much as possible. This means the regime should refrain from using real names, addresses, and phone numbers when communicating in any fashion except face-to-face in a secure area swept for bugs. Likewise, when discussing official, incriminating business, code words must be used on all lines of communication to keep the regime intact as one body. Soon after inducting a new member, the proto-talitarian should make available this manifesto for perusal. If the new member cannot read, another member should read the document to him. The proto-talitarian should be on hand to answer any questions the new member has. The new member must understand, finally, that he may be called on to 146 perform certain services for the regime, and such orders are mandatory and non- negotiable. Refusal to act on behalf of the regime’s best interest is punishable by death.

Once the proto-talitarian has inducted several members into the regime (the exact number of “several” being at his discretion), he will establish a council on which important members of the regime must serve, and this council will be the primary method through which decisions are made and the methods for carrying out those decisions are decided upon. It is necessary, however, for the proto-talitarian to remind others that he is in control and, thus, he is permitted to act in whichever way he chooses. It is also his right to declare how many serve on the council, who serves, and for how long. While the proto-talitarian is encouraged to heed the advice of the council, he is free to do as he pleases without complaint from his comrades. It is in this way the regime should govern.

After the proto-talitarian has inducted a fair amount of members (again, “fair amount” is open to his interpretation), he should designate certain members as recruiters to be sent throughout the country to visit select hate group chapters and solicit membership. The proto-talitarian should grant these recruiters the privilege of inducting new members into the regime as long as the recruiters record on paper the real names and addresses of the new members to be stored in a master log book and on an Internet-free computer housed in the proto-talitarian’s residence. The log book and computer document should be updated on a weekly basis to reflect, accurately, the number of members, their location, and relevant assets.

147

The next day I didn’t know for sure that Steve was going to call me about watching Berth over the weekend, but I figured he would before the day ended. At eight o’clock, when I was in the basement watching Netflix, my phone rang—”Steve” on the screen.

“Hello?” I said.

“Joe. I’ll be gone tomorrow, Friday, the whole damn day. You’ll have to come over and watch Berth then. I’ll be up in Terre Haute.”

“OK,” I said. Evidently I had no choice in the matter anymore. I was at his behest.

Sooner or later, I’d make plans in advance and have to tell him I couldn’t watch her.

What would he do then? “What’s going on in Terre Haute?”

“Every year for the past thirty-some-odd years they have the Wabash Festival.

Music, food, you know. It’s about three hours northwest from us. It’s southwest of

Indianapolis. You know what Terre Haute’s known for?”

“I know the name for some reason, but I can’t remember what’s there.”

“That’s where Indiana State University is. Indiana State University.”

“Huh, I forgot about that.” I’d muted the movie but kept it running. “What time should I get over there?”

“It don’t matter,” he said. There was an urgency to his voice different from how he would usually converse with me. Maybe he felt like he was planning his escape, and there was a certain amount of anticipation at being free from the responsibility of caregiving for Berth. Even though I’d only watched her for two full days, I already knew what it was like to set foot outside her house, after feeling trapped in it, and feel the sun 148 on my face and the car keys in my hand giving me the means to drive anywhere I wanted.

Sometimes I’d had that feeling where I told myself I should drive south until I hit the coast, stand in the sand overlooking the gulf or the ocean. Responsibilities and bills be damned. But then I’d turn toward the town or city I was in and reality would hit me— need for money, shelter, food, water—and I’d know I made a mistake. “She won’t get her ass up till noon, and sometimes you’ll have to get her up yourself or she’ll sleep all damn day. I won’t be home till late, but you can leave anytime you want after she’s in bed.

She’ll just sleep the rest of the night.”

“What if there’s a fire?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, but if you want to stay with her till I get back, that’s your business. I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “Just lock up.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll be over there.” We hung up and a slight feeling of dread shot through me. It wasn’t dread in the foreboding sense of the word, but dread insofar as

I just didn’t want to go over there again. Was it worth “working” at Berth’s as opposed to finding a real job, any job, as early as I could so I didn’t have to care give? It was good to see Berth, but sometimes it wasn’t Berth but some other old woman who didn’t know anything or anybody.

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While certain members will be recruiters, others should be solely responsible for procuring and storing arms. These arms dealers must create underground bunkers in areas where members are especially concentrated, and all members must learn how to access the bunker and operate any and all procured weapons. Through legal or illegal means, arms dealers will acquire desirable knives, handguns, automatic rifles, and explosives.

Weekly arms practice must occur and be overseen by senior members of the particular compound. Practice must take place in a rural area in which no neighbors or passersby will hear reports and explosions and contact authorities. Even so, bunkers must be able to be quickly and easily concealed, and all weapons must be able to be returned to the bunker in a timely manner. If the site is investigated, it is up to the senior members to handle the situation in a manner, whether violent or non-violent, that conceals the regime’s existence and intent. Prison time for murder is superior to being executed for revealing the secrets of the regime. When those who protected the regime’s identity are released from prison, they will be welcomed back without penalty.

Technologically-inclined members of the regime will be referred to as techs and will serve as researchers and, potentially, hackers. They may assist arms dealers in procuring weapons by gathering intel about possible business partners, or they may assist the proto-talitarian by researching anything in which he is interested, must know, or must acquire online in order to carry out orders that are beneficial to the regime. Hacking may be required of the techs, and inferior techs are encouraged to study and learn from the superior techs. Similar to arms, computer equipment necessary for tech operations may be obtained through legal or illegal means. It is essential for any communication via 150 computer to be encrypted to prevent authorities from ascertaining the location of compounds and headquarters. Failure to abide by these policies will be punishable by death.

Needless to say, certain members should also be treasurers, whose tasks will include collecting, storing, and disbursing money. There should be multiple, rotating treasurers to ensure that each is accountable to the next, and a master log book and a backup, stored in different locations, should be used as well so there is a record of every transaction, able to be viewed at any time by every treasurer, council member, the proto- talitarian, and his successors. Stealing from the regime or intentionally falsifying transactions is punishable by death.

151

Early Friday morning, after I ate breakfast and assumed it was late enough that

Steve had already left, I drove over to Berth’s. Similar to Wednesday, I wasn’t going to wake her up until noon; first I was going to explore. It was sunny, and the natural light was bright enough for me to sift through the detached, two-car garage at the end of the driveway at the very back of the lot. I parked my car in the driveway, in front of Steve’s trash pile, and walked down the other lane of the driveway toward the garage. If it got too dark in there, I’d pull out my phone and use its flashlight.

The huge oak tree in the backyard canopied most of the yard. The uncovered back porch, concrete with wrought iron table and chairs, was littered with trash and recycling, aluminum garbage cans, empty boxes, and potted plants. The fact that there was no awning was good for the plants, because they absorbed rain that fell through the gaps in the leaves of the oak tree, and didn’t rely on Steve to water them, which he wouldn’t do.

Other than the small garden, in which Steve grew vegetables, there was no telling how long it’d been since he, or anyone, cut the grass. The grass was so tall that it seeded and looked like wheat. There was a warped, maroon picnic table amid the grass as well. Ivy covered most of the garage. Steve’s broken down white van was in the driveway with four flats. There was a ladder rack on the left side of it with ladders still on it.

One entrance to the garage was a side door on the left side, which was now covered in ivy so thick that no one could tell it was there unless they had prior knowledge of its existence. There were two big garage doors, of course, but I didn’t think they’d open. Whoever was in there last had probably locked them. Still, it was worth a try, so I walked up to the first one, bent over, and tugged upward on the metal handle with about 152 half my strength. No give whatsoever. I stepped over to the other door and tugged on it too, but nothing happened. No movement at all. There was a door around back, so I walked through the overgrowth, conscientious about ticks and snakes, to the backdoor.

The door had no windows and was padlocked, which meant I’d have to either forget about the garage or find something to break the lock. The lock was rusty steel with horizontal grooves. There was a keyhole on the bottom. I couldn’t find a brand name.

I walked back onto the driveway and glanced at the yard and porch, looking for anything that could be used to jam down on the lock to break it. Anything I saw was either too big or too awkward for the job, so I trotted to my car, unlocked it, and popped the trunk. First I thought about using my jack, but I noticed the small fire extinguisher I kept on hand in case my car ever caught fire. I grabbed the extinguisher with both hands and tucked it under my left arm like a football. Closed the trunk, locked up, and set off toward the garage. In three hours it was going to be noon, and I wanted at least two hours inside the garage to give it a thorough onceover.

At the backdoor, I examined the lock one more time before I settled on where I would hit it and with how much force. Before I raised the fire extinguisher, I looked all around me, checking for anyone outside doing yardwork, walking around, or just sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette. I didn’t see anybody and, due to the trees, bushes, and tall grass, they probably wouldn’t have been able to see me either. I raised the extinguisher and slammed it down onto the lock, then I looked around again to see if anyone had noticed the noise. People couldn’t see me, but they’d know which direction the sound came from. I raised the extinguisher again and brought it down on the lock. 153

Checked my surroundings. It was possible someone nearby would’ve shrugged it off as the sound of hammering. I hit the lock a few more times, and it finally broke free. I set the extinguisher against the wall of the garage and opened the door.

Upon entering I smelled wood and dust. I shut the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Some light came through the windows in the garage doors, but it wasn’t direct sunlight. What I noticed first were the two cars in the bay. One was black and the other a rusted brown. The black one looked in decent shape, judging by its paint job, and its curves made me think it was from the 1930s. The other was similar but had less of a box top and would’ve looked sleeker, overall, if it had good paint. I couldn’t tell what the headlights and grilles looked like, because both cars were facing the front of the garage. They were so close to the doors, it appeared, that I didn’t think I’d be able to squeeze in front of them—my only other view would be from the side.

I looked up at the ceiling to find there wasn’t one. There was, per se, if you counted crisscrossed boards on which they could’ve built a proper ceiling and, above that, the roof, but the floor above apparently served as a place to store lumber because loose boards littered the entire surface with no particular organization. On the right wall of the garage was a set of stairs leading upstairs, but it was too dangerous to go up there and probably wasn’t worth it. A work bench lined the back wall. The bench had two levels—the top for work, the bottom for storage. My relatives had filled both the top and bottom with an assortment of tools, pipes, nails, and various other machine parts I couldn’t identify or explain what purpose they served. I walked where I could, around boxes, toward the far wall. In the corner were the old, red lawnmowers my grandfather 154 used. One was a riding lawnmower, the other a push. Who knows how long it had been since they had run. I noticed a red gas can with a yellow nozzle nearby, picked it up, and inhaled. I couldn’t detect even a hint of gas.

Next to the lawnmowers was an old motorcycle, and I was shocked I didn’t remember it. For its age, the motorcycle appeared in good condition. The frame was black, but the paint was red with gold trim. On the gas tank was a Native American, with a headdress, looking up and ahead toward the road with the word “Indian” in the foreground. I ran a hand over the black leather seat, which was cracked but mostly intact.

To see better I got out my phone and turned the flashlight on. There didn’t seem to be any major damage—no rust, no obviously missing parts—but I could tell it had been ridden and would need minor restoration to retain full value. There was no telling if it’d actually run, either.

All I knew about motorcycles was that Indian, Harley-Davidson, and Honda made them. I turned the flashlight off and accessed my Wikipedia app. In the search field, I typed “indian mo” and autofill brought up “Indian Motocycle Manufacturing Company.”

I tapped on that and the entry came up. “Indian is an American brand of motorcycles originally produced from 1901 to 1953 in Springfield, Massachusetts,” the first line read.

So the bike had to be from that era. It looked too advanced to be from the early 1900s, though. I scrolled down the page to look at pictures of some, and the one that resembled this bike the most was the “1939 Indian 4.” I figured it was a safe bet to assume the motorcycle was manufactured in the late ‘30s or early ‘40s. I leaned toward the late ‘30s, however, because I wasn’t sure what Indian did during the World War II years, if they 155 devoted their work to the war effort or what. In any event, I decided to document it in case I’d do more research or find someone who knew something about it, so I took a few pictures of it with the flash on and kept my phone out to guide me through the rest of the garage.

There were several racks of clothes by the car and motorcycle, and I thought they were from the days when Berth used to have yard sales in the summer. When she was still able, she’d have a yard sale once a year, and her kids would help set it up and even make money themselves by selling their own stuff. She never recouped any money, my dad said, because she used the yard sale money to go to other yard sales and flea markets and buy stuff there. She was always bringing in goods from somewhere. Steve followed suit. Between the racks and car were stacks of boxes that contained old toys and, next to the boxes, a stack of board games. There was Battleship, Candy Land, Chutes and

Ladders, The Game of Life, Monopoly, Risk, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, and others I’d never heard of. The boxed toys didn’t seem to be anything special. There were some old action figures that looked like they were from the ‘70s or ‘80s—an Andre the Giant figure, for instance, or a wrestler who resembled him—and little toy cars. Except for the cars and motorcycle, nothing in the garage I’d encountered thus far was valuable.

Following my hunt through the boxes, I checked the time on my phone. I still had another hour and a half if I was going to wake Berth by noon. Among the clutter between the cars was a fire hydrant, a stoplight, some road signs, and a couple of engines that I couldn’t place. On the other side of the garage, near where I entered, were boxes of old decorations for Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. A layer of dust had 156 settled over everything and, perhaps more importantly, nothing looked recent or new.

Who knows how long the garage had been locked. Maybe it was one of the last things my grandfather ever did once he knew he wasn’t going to frequent it anymore. What was worth preserving were the big items, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that.

When I was confident I’d searched everything I should have, I exited the garage. The padlock body was on the ground, so I picked it up and removed the shackle from the door and set them on the work bench inside. I closed the door, then, and picked up the fire extinguisher.

Walked back to my car and put the extinguisher in the trunk. After I shut the trunk, it occurred to me that I forgot to bring food. I’d been going to get us a meal once a day, but it was nice to have edible food on hand. Berth had likely eaten her Hungry

Pelican leftovers or, more likely, Steve had. Berth probably didn’t know she even had leftovers, and maybe she didn’t even remember she ate food from Hungry Pelican on

Wednesday in the first place. Having considered all that and with an hour to spare before

I’d check on Berth for the first time that day, I got in my car and drove to the nearest

Kroger, where I bought a half-loaf of whole wheat bread and a jar of natural peanut butter. Peanut butter sandwiches were always hearty enough.

157

When the regime has enough members to fill each position several times over, the goal, then, will be recruitment. It is crucial that the regime continues to grow, because tens of thousands of members will be needed if the current government is to be usurped.

This is when patience becomes key. As long as steady growth occurs, the regime will continue to prosper as it is currently run. During the time of growth, the proto-talitarian should appoint a successor of his choosing, in the event he meets a premature end, and relay his choice to the council. If the successor does not already serve on the council, he should be instated into the inner circle where he will become accustomed to the procedures involved in the decision-making process. Once the successor understands his role within the regime, he should then appoint his own successor, inform the council of his choice, and continue day-to-day duties. The successor’s successor should never be in the same vicinity as the successor, for it is the former who will lead the regime if the proto-talitarian and his successor meet an untimely end. There should never be an opportunity for authorities or subversives to assassinate the regime’s leaders in one fell swoop, which is why it is of paramount importance to keep the successor’s successor apart from the leadership in case he must rebuild the regime.

As the regime gains in numbers and strength, it is also likely that some people may attempt to infiltrate the regime as moles. This is the precise reason why the recruitment process should span months. Regime members should constantly question prospective members, assign them illegal tasks, and randomly tail them in order to gauge whether the prospect is seriously committed to the regime and its ideals. Prospective members should be willing to sever ties with anyone who is not a member of the regime, 158 except for immediate family members and those whom they cannot help but associate with at certain times such as co-workers and those who provide necessary goods or services. If someone is thought to be a mole, this offense is punishable by death. The execution must happen by surprise, however, so the prospect or member does not have the opportunity to inform the authorities, thereby saving himself from retribution.

When the regime begins growing, the chances for seditious behavior will also increase. Such behavior may include but is not limited to informing others of the regime and its plans (except in order to recruit new members), confessing anything to law enforcement, repeated task incompetence, disobeying direct orders from the proto- talitarian and/or the council, planning or carrying out assassination attempts against another member or other members of the regime, and leaving the regime. These infractions are punishable by death.

Now, the proto-talitarian must prepare himself for the prospect of failing to see himself assume leadership of the United States within his lifetime. While it would be optimal for the proto-talitarian to indeed dethrone the president, it is essential to refrain from overthrowing the government until the regime is actually ready to do so. The proto- talitarian must be willing and able to sacrifice his own ambitions for the glory of the regime. When the regime is organized, large, and has formulated a plan for domination, only then will the leader possibly see himself rise to power. Additionally, once the leader’s mental and physical faculties begin to diminish, he should bequeath his power to his successor, who is to reign until he, too, is no longer fit. Power within the regime must 159 pass from successor to successor—never through violent upheaval—for violent upheaval is only permissible against the regime’s enemies.

160

At Berth’s, I unlocked the front door and went inside. By that point I was used to the stench, so it didn’t affect me other than causing slight discomfort. I had to admit it caused resentment to well up in me—resentment toward Steve for letting the house get that way and letting it stay that way, resentment toward the aging process for wreaking havoc on Berth’s mind and body, and resentment toward myself for being powerless to do anything about any of it. I could’ve cleaned it, but Steve would complain about me getting rid of his stuff. I knew what he’d say: “You have no right!” And that was true in a manner of speaking. The house was Berth’s but, as the whole family knew, she would leave it to her children for them to split. What should’ve happened at that point would be for Steve, who’d want to continue living there, to buy everyone else’s share, but he wouldn’t have the money to do it, even with the money Berth would leave him, and would instead stake his claim and force his siblings to do something about it, which they wouldn’t, he knew, because they didn’t want to deal with him. It was easier to let him do what he wanted. Since Steve began living there, the house was in no condition to rent or sell, nor would it be as long as he stayed.

Maybe there was someone I could call, someone with the ability to do something about the conditions in which Berth had to live.

In the kitchen I prepared lunch for both of us. Out of curiosity I checked the fridge for the container of Berth’s leftovers, but it was gone. I glanced at the pile of garbage on top of the trash compactor and saw the open container on top with a few fries left. I stepped on the compactor to open it, an empty white bag inside. “Huh,” I said, surprised that Steve took out the trash and put in a new bag. I could’ve dumped the pile 161 of trash on top of the compactor into the new bag, but I refrained, reasoning that I was going to alter as little as possible in the house, for the time being, until I felt I had to do something.

At Berth’s bedroom door I knocked lightly and opened it just enough to see into the room. Her bed was empty, which sent a flash of panic through me, and I opened the door all the way. “Berth?” I said, not a yell but above my normal talking volume, and listened. If she didn’t respond, I was going to check her bathroom.

“Yes?” she said. The direction of her voice and the echo told me she was in the bathroom with the door open.

“It’s Joe. I just wanted to check on you. I’ll sit on your bed and wait for you. I’ve got lunch ready.” I sat on her bed and waited for her to emerge. She didn’t respond, but I assumed she understood or else she would’ve protested or asked me a question. “I have peanut butter sandwiches made for us,” I said. “It’s not fine dining, I know, but it’s the best I could do.”

“That’s all right,” she said. I heard the faucet running longer than I thought it needed to run for her to wash her hands or brush her teeth, but just when I was about to get up to check on her, she turned it off. I’d forgotten until I’d started watching her that she was from the generation that left the faucet running while brushing their teeth. Or maybe that was just a family quirk. Occasionally I’d catch my dad brushing his teeth with the faucet on. I grew up in a day and age in which people were more environmentally conscious than ever, which rubbed off on my parents, who instructed me to turn off the faucet when I brushed my teeth. Don’t leave water running. Don’t waste water. Don’t 162 waste. I wasn’t sure there was a water crisis until I saw on the news that people were leaving states like Arizona, California, and New Mexico due to the fresh water shortage.

There wasn’t a mass exodus like the Israelites leaving Egypt, but there were enough people leaving that the national news covered it.

Berth tip-toed out of the bathroom and said, “Hello.” She held onto the door frame to steady herself.

“Hello,” I said and stood to help her get to the kitchen and sit down. We went through the same routine: we ate together, I instructed her to take her pills, and I ushered her into the den where she could sit on the couch and watch TV. I was in my usual spot on the couch adjacent to hers when I recalled that there were a few places in the house I hadn’t yet inspected. One was Monica’s old room, which was in the corner of the house bordering the front room and Steve’s room. It was Jef’s room first but, once Monica was old enough, he shared it with her until he moved out to go to college. Another space I hadn’t searched was the attic. It was accessible via a pulldown ladder in the hallway leading to Berth’s bedroom. The last place I hadn’t looked was under Steve’s bed. I wasn’t sure there was anything there, but, knowing his capacity for hoarding, I suspected there was.

Without saying anything, I got off the couch and walked through the den into the hall leading to Monica’s room. The door was open, and the room was full of clothes. The bed was covered in them—men’s clothes, it looked like, and I assumed they were Steve’s old clothes or clothes he’d bought, never worn, and stored there. I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. The curtains were closed, but the light made it dim enough 163 for me to see without having to resort to a flashlight. A full rack of dresses was in the far corner, while dressers and storage containers lined the walls. I stepped on sweaters and pants on the floor to reach the dresser drawers, which I opened to find nothing but more clothes. Underwear, socks, shirts, shorts. All looked dated. I’d heard that when Monica moved out she bought an entirely new wardrobe, which irked Berth and Steve when there were so many clothes she could still wear. There were trinkets on top of the dressers.

Some were angels that resembled those in the glass case in the front room, and others were small exotic animals made of glass—an alligator, giraffe, lion, elephant. I liked the animals. No one saw them in her old room, but rather than take them all, I pocketed the elephant.

Elsewhere there was a box of Barbies, some of which were probably valuable but

I didn’t care enough about them to check, and a box of old crayon drawings, schoolwork, and mementos from that era of Monica’s life. There was a diary in there, too. Unless some of the clothes were Jef’s, I didn’t find anything of his in there. He must’ve taken everything with him when he moved out and, aside from Steve, all the siblings stayed gone once they moved out. I considered exploring the attic, but lowering the ladder would cause too much noise for Berth not to question it, and I didn’t want her to know I was snooping. I wasn’t convinced she would realize what I was up to, and my reasons weren’t nefarious, but what I really didn’t want was her, in a rare moment of lucidity, to mention to Steve that I’d been in the attic.

“Joseph was in the attic today,” I imagined her telling Steve that night, when they were on the couch and I was on the other couch about to leave. 164

“What the hell’s she talking about?” Steve would say, looking at me.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I’d say. I’d feign ignorance because that was the only explanation I could give. Maybe ham it up by making the gesture for crazy to signal that Berth was being loopy again. She wouldn’t have told Steve that to get me in trouble, because she wouldn’t understand what I was doing could get me in trouble, but she’d mention it merely as a conversation piece, something she could contribute when, too often, she couldn’t hear the conversation or follow it to contribute anything worthwhile. These days she was a listener unless asked a direct question.

I flipped the light switch off, even though it didn’t work, and exited the room. In

Steve’s room, I stuck to the aisle and maneuvered around the cot in the middle so I could kneel next to the bed. Underneath were a few plastic containers holding what looked like old clothes. Next to the containers were stacks of magazines that each reached from the floor to the bedframe, meaning that though I had a hunch as to what they were, I couldn’t tell for sure unless I dragged some out. I clamped a few issues between my thumb and forefinger and pulled them toward me. Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs. I’d hit the motherload of porno mags. I didn’t recognize any of the women on the covers, so I removed several more issues from the stack and flipped through them until I did. The first woman I knew was Cindy Crawford. The issue was July 1988, featuring a black and white cover photo of her from the chest up. You couldn’t see anything, but you could tell she wasn’t wearing a top. My immediate thought was: How do I smuggle some of these out of here? My next thought was: How do I take them without Steve noticing? The best plan, I figured, was to go ahead and take them to my car and hide them. 165

For Steve to remain oblivious to my theft, I took about the same number of magazines from each stack so each stack was even, and I didn’t take so many that it was obvious some were missing. The stacks were lower, but I didn’t think he was observant enough to notice the discrepancy. Once I had a stack of my own, I walked into the hall, into the front room, and out the front door to my car, where I unlocked it, popped the trunk, and hid the magazines in a box I covered with a blanket. At home that night I’d sneak them in and hide them somewhere in my closet. Sure there was free porn all over the Internet, but the old mags were still fun to look at. And a lot of the women were celebrities.

“Where have you been?” Berth said when I entered the den.

“Oh, uh, I was making sure everything was in order around here,” I said. I couldn’t believe she’d asked me such a probing question.

“That’s good,” she said, returning her attention to the TV. I sat in my usual spot, crossed my arms, and watched along with her. My attention waned, though, as I anticipated getting home and rifling through the issues I’d stolen, the women I’d find among the stack. Steve told me I could leave after I put Berth to bed, so, while I’d originally planned to stay until he got home, I reconsidered and decided I’d leave after I got her in bed and waited about half an hour for her to fall asleep. The upside to that plan was that I’d get home earlier and wouldn’t see Steve. The downside was no one being there if she got up to use the bathroom during the night and fell or if the house caught fire, accidentally or otherwise. 166

While we watched daytime TV, I stayed on my phone, playing games and checking Twitter and Instagram. Eventually I grew tired of my phone, plus I was draining its battery by using it so much. What I needed to start doing was to bring something to entertain myself for hours. Reading was difficult when the TV was loud. I learned I couldn’t even concentrate on light magazine reading when the TV blared. I thought of bringing a jigsaw puzzle, but there wasn’t a flat surface to put it on unless I cleared off a section of the big table in the kitchen, which, of course, would piss off Steve. Because of the smart phone, I hadn’t played handheld video games for years, though I did have a

Nintendo DS and a few games somewhere in my room. I supposed what I’d have to do would be to bring books of crossword puzzles, seek and finds, and Sudoku. The lamp on the end table would provide plenty of light, and all I’d need would be a pencil with a good eraser to have hours of entertainment or, at least, a way to kill time. Before I watched Berth next time, I told myself, I’d stop by the grocery and see what kind of puzzle books they carried.

During the court show marathon we watched, Berth got up and walked into the kitchen and through the hallway leading to her bedroom. I didn’t ask, but I assumed she was going to the bathroom. As far back as I could remember, she’d never used the hall bathroom. It was too close to other people when other people were in the house, I guessed, and since Steve had moved back in, it was also too dirty for anyone but him.

Unless I heard a thud or her call out, I allotted Berth quite a bit of time before I checked on her, because she performed every action slowly. A normal trip to the bathroom would take the average person a couple of minutes, whereas it’d take Berth ten. She wasn’t so 167 bad off yet that she’d always forget where she was going or what she was going to do, but I figured that would come in time. After all, staving off dementia was a war of attrition, wasn’t it? There wasn’t a way to counteract it—only do what you could and hope it was glacially slow.

By dinnertime, I was itching to get out of the house for a little while. “What do you want for supper, Berth?” She glanced at me then her eyes darted to the right of me and stayed there for a moment.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“There’s a lot I could go get us. We had fish last time, on Wednesday. I could get spaghetti, sub sandwiches, fried chicken.” She stared at me. I wasn’t sure whether she was deciding among those options or wanted more. “Roast beef sandwiches, breakfast food, fast food. I can go get anything.” Maybe it was better to give her fewer options. Or, perhaps it was best to present her with no options and just show up with food. “We could do seafood again. What sounds good to you?”

“What do you want?”

“I could go for Italian. You want spaghetti with meat sauce?”

“Yeah,” she said. She took a drink of the tea I’d gotten her earlier and continued watching the news at five.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said. I walked through the den and front room, where I opened the front door and screen door. The fresh air revitalized me for a second and, though I’d become accustomed to the sour smell of the house, it was always pleasant to remind myself that it smelled good outside, that to escape the house all I had to do was 168 step outside. I could see why people took up smoking and vaping. If you did either outside, it provided a nice, short break from confinement. In inclement weather, however, it was more curse than blessing. I fought the urge to peek at another magazine before I left to get food, and I drove across town to the Spaghetti Zone. I wasn’t crazy about their food, because it was just above fast food quality, but it was good enough if you wanted cheap, fast Italian. For Berth I ordered a small meal of spaghetti with meat sauce, and for myself I ordered lasagna. Garlic bread included.

At the house I prepared our meals on the kitchen counter so we could eat in the den. The Spaghetti Zone packaged our meals in black, plastic containers sturdy enough to serve as bowls with clear, plastic lids. They’d given us black, plastic utensils, several packets of parmesan cheese, and a few slices of garlic bread. To fix Berth’s meal, I removed the lid from the container, opened a pack of utensils, opened a packet of parmesan cheese and spread it over the spaghetti, and cut up the spaghetti into manageable portions. I placed a slice of garlic bread on the edge of the container, like it was a ramp leading from the spaghetti up and over the edge of the bowl, stuck a fork in the spaghetti, and got my own meal ready in a similar manner. It was a hassle to have to do anything on the couch, so I cut my lasagna while it was easy to do so. Before I brought them into the den, I refilled Berth’s tea and fixed myself a glass of ice water.

Once I set those on the end table, I picked up the containers and took them into the den. I extended Berth’s meal toward her. She reached to grab it with her right hand, but I told her to use both hands to steady the container as she brought it toward herself. Then I sat and began to eat. 169

I’d been practicing observing Berth while she was eating so she wouldn’t notice me doing it. I didn’t want her to notice me, because I didn’t want her to think she was doing something wrong or looked weird. Berth lifted forkful after forkful of spaghetti to her mouth, sometimes consuming most of it, sometimes some of it, sometimes none. She didn’t appear to become annoyed when, after a streak of dropping a couple of forkfuls in a row back into the container, she wasn’t getting much into her mouth. Sauce coated her mouth, though, and she’d dropped small strands of spaghetti on her lap. She picked up the bread and gnawed on it, chewing slowly. Instead of facing the TV, I faced ahead, toward the kitchen, so I could keep tabs on her. If she caught me looking, I was going to shift my eyes immediately downward as if I was looking at my food. I figured I’d be quick enough to do that.

As we ate, I recalled that Berth still had her own teeth, which, considering her age, was amazing and, in all likelihood, somewhat attributable to genetics. Most of the older people I’d ever met looked like they had fake teeth—too white, too straight, too even—because they probably did. Berth had always taken care of hers, and once she was no longer able to drive, other family members took her to the dentist. Due to her absentmindedness, she hadn’t scheduled her own appointments in years. Steve or my dad would do it and inform her the day they were going. They tried to give her advance notice—say, a few days before the appointment—but she’d never remember the day or time, acting surprised she had to be somewhere. 170

Berth had eaten most of her food when she dropped the container, spilling the spaghetti and half-eaten garlic bread on her lap. “Uh oh,” she said and looked at me. I felt myself getting mad, but I suppressed that feeling and set my container on the end table.

“Hang on,” I said. I picked up the container off her lap and, with my free hand, scooped the spaghetti and what I could of the sauce into the container. I set the bread in there, too, and placed the container on the end table. “Let me get a wet paper towel to wipe you off.” I walked into the kitchen, tore a paper towel off the roll and set it aside, tore another two sheets off the roll and wet them. I wrung out the sheets in the sink, took the wet and dry sheets into the den, and scrubbed Berth’s pajama pants until I didn’t think they’d come any cleaner unless I washed them. “You were finished eating anyway, weren’t you?” I said, hoping as much as questioning.

“I guess so,” she said. She watched me while I worked. The sauce was going to stain her pants unless I treated them with Stain Stick and put them in the hamper to wash within the week. If I did that, Berth would’ve had to take them off, and I would’ve had to dig out a new pair for her to wear the rest of the evening and night. Because they were pajamas, I thought it didn’t matter if they were stained, so I let her stay in them. They weren’t too wet to be uncomfortable, or at least I didn’t think so. When I stopped wiping the stains, I carted her food to the kitchen. I considered throwing it away, but it hadn’t fallen on the floor, and that’s why I put the lid back on the container and set it in the fridge for later.

In the den, I finished my own meal and threw the container in the compactor, which, for once, had room in the garbage bag. I dropped the parmesan cheese packets 171 where some others were on a shelf in the door of the fridge, put the utensil wrappers in the paper bag that held the food, wadded it up, tossed it in the compactor, and left the remaining bread in its bag on the counter. I’d eat another slice before I left, and Berth could have the rest tomorrow for lunch. I knew what would happen, though: Steve would eat it when he got home.

About nine o’clock, Berth started drifting off. I picked up the TV remote and lowered the volume and set it down on the end table. I’d been resting, too, in that I propped my elbow on the arm of the couch so I could rest my head on the palm of my right hand. I closed my eyes, knowing I wouldn’t fall asleep but enjoying the restfulness anyway. I knew I had to get up and assist Berth in getting to bed, and I wanted to postpone that for a while. The thought of what I had in the trunk of my car perked me up for a second and ultimately caused me to get on with the proceedings. I lightly shook

Berth’s left arm until she roused enough to understand what I wanted her to do. She got off the couch, and I led her from the den to her bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and, at my instruction, used the toilet with me just outside the room. I knew she was tired and wouldn’t have any trouble falling asleep for the night. I helped her get in bed, then I pulled the covers up to her neck and left the room. I shut the door to her bedroom on the way out, walked into the den, turned the TV off.

Now that the TV was off, I heard what sounded like rustling paper emanating from the kitchen. I went into the kitchen and flipped the light switch: an opossum on the sink. I studied the scene while the ugly creature stared at me. The cabinet under the sink was open, which I hadn’t left opened, and the opossum held the bag of garlic bread in its 172 mouth. It looked fully grown, with white and black hair standing on its body like it’d been electrocuted, long whiskers, pink nose, and pinkish tail. Small, round ears. Dark eyes watching me. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned off the light and slowly backed out of the room. I waited, listening to the animal rummage through things, until the noise stopped. After the noise dissipated, I stood in the den for a minute until I was sure the opossum was gone. I returned to the kitchen and turned the light on. The cabinet door was still open but, as I moved closer to the sink, there was nothing out of the ordinary. I shut the cabinet, turned the light off, and left the room. Either the opossum was living in the house or it had found a way in and was using Berth’s kitchen as a food source. She was safe, I figured, so I turned the light out in the den and drove home.

While I drove past my house, I saw there were too many lights on for my parents to be in bed, so I left the magazines in the trunk. I had the elephant in my pocket, along with the lighter, and I planned to stow everything in my closet later that night, once my parents had gone to sleep. They were both on the couch in casual wear. My mom was watching TV, and my dad was reading the paper.

“Joe,” my mom said, “how’s Berth?” She looked at me, but my dad continued to read. I took a seat in the nearby recliner.

“She’s good,” I said, “but you know what I saw over there?”

My dad put down the paper and said, “What’d you see?”

“An opossum.”

“In the yard?” she said.

“No, in the house. On the kitchen sink.” 173

“Really?” my dad said. He looked at me.

“Really,” I said. “I got Berth in bed, went to the den and turned the TV off, which was when I heard something going on in the kitchen, so I went to the kitchen and turned the overhead light on.”

“And the opossum was in the sink,” he said.

“No, not in the sink but on the sink. It was balancing on the sink.”

“What’d you do?” my mom said.

“I didn’t know what to do. The thing just stared at me. I ended up turning off the light and going back to the den. I waited there until I didn’t hear anything else, then I went to the kitchen again and closed the cabinet under the sink, which was where it must’ve come in.” I looked at the TV—I didn’t know what show it was, but it seemed to be some reality show with only thin, beautiful people.

“I’ll call Steve in the morning and let him know,” my dad said.

“Thanks,” I said, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I don’t think there was anything you could’ve done,” my mom said. “You wouldn’t want one of those things to bite you, or else you’d have to get a rabies shot.

They’ll have to trap or poison it, get rid of it somehow.” She let her attention drift back to the TV.

“I assumed Berth would be safe even if the opossum were to return,” I said. “It’d only want food, plus I closed her bedroom door before I left.”

“She’ll be fine,” my dad, resuming his reading. “Steve’ll know what to do about it.” 174

“Sounds good,” I said and walked downstairs. A couple hours later, after not hearing my parents walk around upstairs for some time, I assumed they’d gone to bed and were asleep. I unlocked the back door and walked around to the stairs leading up to the driveway, unlocked my car, popped its trunk, took the magazines out, shut the trunk, locked the car, and made my way back down. In my room, I shut and locked the door, sat on the bed, and began perusing the mags. Most of them had cover models I didn’t recognize, but I found a few issues of Playboy with Pamela Anderson on the cover—the

October 1989 “Bold Back to Campus Issue,” the February 1991 “Our Sexiest Lingerie

Pictorial Ever,” and the July 1992 “TV Tool Girl: Home Improvement’s Pamela

Anderson.” The women in the magazines were beautiful, needless to say, but I found myself disappointed with the experience. I’d been anticipating my chance to look at them all day, but there was little payoff.

What my magazine hoard became, then, was a slight to Steve instead of something gratifying to me. He didn’t know I had them, and that was their appeal.

Holding the stack of mags, I got off the bed and walked to my closet, pulled out a blanket from the top shelf. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the back of the shelf, so I grabbed the office chair by my desk and stood on it in order to reach the very back of the shelf. I put the magazines in the corner against the wall as well as the little elephant and the Zippo.

The blanket covered them, and no one else would use it, so there was almost no chance of the stuff being discovered. I shut the closet door and returned the chair to my desk.

175

Chapter 3: Implementation

At the point the regime contains tens of thousands of members, if not hundreds of thousands, the leader and council should decide on a date on which it makes sense strategically to overthrow the powers that be. Once the date is set, the regime should inform its members, except active-duty military, that they are to converge on Washington

D.C. in a timely manner. Due to airline regulations, most members will be required to drive to the capital, and their cargo should contain a cache of firearms and explosives to be used, if necessary, during the coup. On the day the regime is to seize power, members will be organized into groups with specific objectives involving the Senate, House of

Representatives, Pentagon, White House, and the capture of the vice president and president. Powerful members of the current government are to be held as hostages while the regime leaders negotiate terms of surrender. The coup is to be organized and orderly to show people that the regime has their best interest at heart. Still, certain people— especially those who resist the occupation—will be done away with so the regime can rightly and justifiably assume power.

Active-duty military are to stand by at their respective posts in the event that the military attempts to move on Washington to prevent the regime from succeeding. Regime members in the position to assassinate military leaders or thwart the plans for mobilization should carry out these actions at their discretion. Sacrificing one’s life for the regime is the noblest act one can perform, however, and for such bravery one will be posthumously awarded with the regime’s highest honor and forever be heralded as a hero. 176

Once the regime has assumed power, for the plan will be successful if the regime has done what it should to prepare for the coup, the leader should urge the populace to go about their lives normally while the transition from oligarchy to dictatorship begins. The leader should also inform the populace that they are what fuels the regime’s intent to rule until ultimate prosperity is within reach. Everyone should be careful, the leader should admonish, not to act or speak against the regime lest the outspoken find themselves facing dire consequences. After the smoke has cleared, those in the government performing jobs now deemed unnecessary should be released and told to start new lives as citizens of the regime. Members of the regime should not celebrate the takeover until it is clear the threat of an uprising has been neutralized to the extent that it is impossible for the patriots among the plebeians to strike out in any threatening capacity—i.e. following a thorough, nationwide weapons search and seizure.

177

It was Sunday afternoon when Berth suffered her first stroke. We’d grilled out for lunch on our deck when my dad got the call.

“That’s Steve,” he said, looking at the screen. “Hello?” My mom and I continued to talk as my dad walked to the railing and leaned over. “Is she doing all right now?”

That line got our attention, so we watched my dad, trying to figure out what had happened. He was silent for a minute. “Yeah, we’ll stop by. See you soon.” He hung up.

“What happened?” my mom said.

He looked down at the deck and then at us. “Berth had a mini-stroke, what they call a TIA. She’s at the hospital. She’s stable.”

“How’d Steve know?” she said.

“Steve said she was in the den when he asked her what she wanted for lunch, but she couldn’t respond. She’d just make noises like she was trying to answer his question but couldn’t vocalize anything. She couldn’t move much either, he said, so he called the ambulance and they took her to the hospital. Luckily, a mini-stroke is known as a warning stroke, the doctor told him, so even though the symptoms occur, they’re temporary. They point to something worse happening down the line, though,” my dad said. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and leaned against the railing.

“It’s a good thing Steve was there,” I said.

“Someone needs to be with her all the time,” he said, intimating what we already knew. He looked at us. “I told Steve I’d go down there, so I guess I’ll get these dishes in the sink then head that way. You both don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” 178

Mom and I glanced at each other. “I’ll go,” I said. She agreed to go, too. I’d always cared about Berth, of course, but now I felt I had a vested interest in her, like I held a certain responsibility for watching over her even if she were with Steve, even if she were hooked to various machines that would alert nurses if any of her vitals dipped below or spiked above what they were supposed to be.

At the hospital, the doors whooshed open, inviting us into the place that smelled sterile and of old people. Steve had told Dad the floor and room number, so we located the directory near the elevator, took the elevator to the right floor, and navigated the labyrinth until we reached Berth’s room. I didn’t expect to find her conscious, but she was. When we entered the room, she raised a hand to acknowledge us, the hand the IV was hooked into and the device on one of her fingers that monitored her temperature, or at least that’s what I thought it did. She looked haggard, worn-out. Occasionally we’d hear beeps, but I couldn’t tell what the interval was or what purpose the sound served.

Dad and Steve shook hands.

“Thanks for coming,” Steve said. He nodded at Mom and me.

“Sure,” my dad said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Berth, who’d closed her eyes since waving at us.

Steve said, in a much quieter tone than his usual booming voice, “They said she’s dehydrated and has a urinary tract infection. How am I supposed to know she has a urinary tract infection when she won’t tell me shit? She just clams up about this stuff.”

He returned to his seat and sat, leaned forward in the chair. The rest of us stood together, though there were two empty chairs behind us. 179

“Maybe she forgets it hurts to use the bathroom until she’s actually using the bathroom,” I said and looked at Steve. His eyes met mine, then looked away. I kept looking at him.

“What’ve you been feeding her?” Steve asked. He stared at Berth, but I knew the question was for me.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Hamburgers, fish, spaghetti, peanut butter sandwiches.”

I crossed my arms and spread my legs a little to balance my weight evenly. I glanced at

Berth then returned my vision to Steve.

“You been making sure she drinks?”

“I get her water and tea regularly,” I said. “I guess I should ensure she finishes the drinks I give her.”

“I guess you should,” he said. He folded his hands and gazed at the floor.

“They’re going to adjust her medicines so this shouldn’t happen anymore.”

“How long’s she going to be in here?” I said.

“Few days, till they get her levels where they should be. Either way, you’re off the hook for now,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether he intended the comment to be offensive, but I took it badly because he made it sound like I didn’t care about her, like

I’d be glad she had medical problems so I’d have an excuse not to watch her. Still, I thought about what I’d stolen from their house and held my tongue.

“Will the rehab center take her after this?” my dad asked.

“No,” Steve said. “If you remember, they said she’s too far gone. She wasn’t making any progress, so they said she couldn’t come back.” 180

“That’s too bad,” my dad said.

“That’s what happens when you get old,” I said. I remembered visiting Berth at the rehab center years ago. She’d been doing things that were uncharacteristic of her, which prompted the siblings to seek a diagnosis and treatment. For instance, Berth was always conscious of her money and spending habits. Within the span of a few months, she left her purse unattended in a cart at the grocery, and it was stolen; she gave away her credit card info to a solicitor, who promised her two hundred dollars of free gas if she signed up for some scam; and she lost her billfold, which contained about a hundred dollars in cash, later found elsewhere in the house. Her doctor determined she was displaying symptoms of dementia, and he concluded she was somewhere between Stage

2: Questionable Impairment and Stage 3: Mild Impairment. Along with medicine, he prescribed rehab to slow the progress of the affliction.

The rehab center was unique insofar as it had models of several real-world places and activities. There was a tiny grocery, for example, that Berth pushed a shopping cart in. The nurse asked, “What liquid do you pour on cereal?” Berth picked up a white, plastic bottle with the word MILK on the front. “That’s right,” she said. Berth offered the milk to the nurse, but the nurse told Berth to put it in her cart. The nurse picked up a plastic banana from the shelf and asked Berth, “What fruit is this?”

“A banana,” Berth said. The center also had half of a car set up in front of a large screen. No one was using it when I was there, but they probably projected the road on the screen and had patients practice driving. What I found odd about the place was its resemblance to a preschool or kindergarten. I recalled doing these sorts of activities when 181

I was very young, and that was perhaps the first time it dawned on me that the aging process wasn’t a straight line from birth to childhood to adolescence to adulthood to middle age to old age to death. It was circular: childhood to adolescence to adulthood to middle age to old age to childhood. That is, if you lived long enough.

Part of the routine at rehab was questioning Berth to see what she could remember both in the long-term and in the short-term. The nurse had a worksheet for Berth to complete every weekday. My dad and I watched Berth answer questions the nurse posed to her. “Name three things that are orange,” the nurse said.

“An orange, a basketball, and fire,” Berth said.

“Good,” the nurse said. “Now, I’m going to list three colors I want you to remember for later. Pink, green, and blue. Remember those colors. Pink, green, blue.”

“OK,” Berth said and smiled at us. This was still when Berth found the whole process comical instead of confusing. Before “pink, green, blue” became “pink, red, black” became “pink” became “I don’t know.”

“Now, can you name five animals?”

“A dog, a cat, a snake, a bear, and a chicken,” Berth said.

“Good,” the nurse said. “What about three types of fish?”

“Trout, salmon, and carp.”

“What might you eat for breakfast?”

“Eggs, bacon, and toast.”

“What color is a stop sign?”

“Red.” 182

“How many sides does a triangle have?”

“Three.”

“Name three types of nuts.”

“Peanuts, walnuts, pistachios.”

“Where does the president live?”

“The White House.”

“Who is the president?”

“Bush.”

“What does a police officer do?”

“Arrest criminals.”

“Name three types of trees.”

“Oak, maple, magnolia.”

“Which country is just south of the United States?”

“Mexico.”

“Remember those colors I told you at the beginning? What were those?”

“Pink, green, blue.”

Dad and Mom sat down while I leaned against the wall. Steve leaned back in his chair and sighed, crossed his arms and bounced his right leg up and down. Berth was still resting with her eyes closed. The monitors and machines let us know she hadn’t slipped away, but it was what I envisioned she’d look like on her deathbed. Again, I knew it was possible she could live another twenty years if she caught up to the oldest living person nowadays, and in twenty years who knows what life-sustaining technological 183 advancements would’ve been invented. Though it wasn’t likely she’d live that long, I also hoped she wouldn’t if it meant she’d be in the last stage of dementia—Stage 5:

Severe Impairment—in which she couldn’t remember much, couldn’t take care of herself in any regard, and would need constant supervision and assistance. She’d get there eventually, I knew, but maybe fate would be merciful and keep it at bay or end her life before she reached the final stage. We, on the other hand, were powerless to do anything other than provide financial and emotional support.

The sun was setting, a couple hours later, when my dad told Steve we were going home. “Why don’t you head out, too? There’s nothing more you can do here.” He stood, so my mom and I followed suit.

“Someone’s got to be with her,” Steve said. He leaned forward in his chair, clasped his hands, and stared at the floor.

“She has doctors and nurses to watch her.”

“I want someone to be here when she wakes up,” he said, unmoving. She wasn’t in a coma, but I understood his point. Even so, would she know where she was when she woke up? Why she was there? Who Steve was? That’d be the most difficult part for those observing her descent into confusion: realizing she didn’t recognize you. At a certain point, she’d remember you for the last time, never to say your name again with familiarity and affection.

“We’ll see you, Steve,” my dad said and walked past us toward the door. I thought he’d say something to Berth or hold her hand for a minute before leaving, but he did neither. Mom and I looked at each other and followed him. We caught up to him at 184 the elevator after he’d already pushed the down button. He turned and looked at us.

“There was a fight brewing,” he said, “so I decided to get out of there.” The elevator dinged and opened, no passengers. We stepped in and faced the front.

“About what?” I said. I looked at Dad. He glanced at me then back toward the front of the elevator as it lowered us to the ground floor, where we exited and walked through the automatic doors into the parking lot. Warm, but not hot. I inhaled the fresh air, thinking that he wasn’t going to answer my question. He unlocked the car and we got in.

“Steve thinks he’s the most loyal and blames everyone for not being as loyal as he is,” he said. He started the car and swiveled to see out the back.

“That’s easy for him to say,” I said, “because he lives with her.”

“Right,” my mom said. “Steve’s the only one without a job. Taking care of Berth is his job, as far as I’m concerned. With the rest of his siblings working, they wouldn’t have the time to devote to taking care of Berth. They’d have to hire it done.”

“Maybe that’s what you should do,” I said. My dad pulled away from the space and drove through the lot toward the exit. “Have Berth stay in a facility where she can get around-the-clock care.”

“Steve would never agree to that,” my dad said. “He wants to save as much money as he can so he never has to work again and can live off it for the rest of his life.”

“How much does a facility like that cost?” I asked.

“A few thousand dollars a month. She’d have enough money to get her through a few years, but that’d be it,” he said. We were sitting at a traffic light. 185

“What happens when you run out of money?”

“The state will take care of you, but that’s only if you’re broke. Berth would have to get rid of all her assets and money. If I remember correctly, she would’ve had to have done it years ago so that it doesn’t look like she’s getting rid of everything just so she has an excuse for the state to take care of her. There’s a five-year look back.”

“So it’s too late to do anything.”

“Seems that way,” my dad said. The light turned green and we continued down the road. “Some of the fault rests with Berth. What she should’ve done was stipulate in her will how we were to handle elder care if it came to that. Now we’re stuck with the unanimous voting system we instituted. We wanted to be democratic about it.”

“Democracy doesn’t work,” I said and smiled. I caught him smiling in the rearview mirror. “Why not just majority rules?”

“With four siblings, there’d be too much potential for ties. Then someone would have to change their vote. Considering how stubborn this family can be, we thought majority rules was a bad idea.”

“What do we do now?” I said.

“About Berth?” my dad said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. I nodded. “What we’ve been doing. She’ll be in the hospital for two or three days, probably, then Steve will be with her.”

“And I’ll be with her when he’s not,” I said.

“Looks that way,” he said. 186

“There’s no reason she wouldn’t return to normal,” my mom said. “Not ‘normal’ as in her pre-dementia days, but ‘normal’ as in where she was before she had the mini- stroke. You know what I mean.”

“If they get her medicine adjusted, she should be fine,” he said. “I don’t see where it’d be that different for you.” No one had mentioned the scrapes she had, which meant they didn’t notice them or thought they were from her latest fall.

There wasn’t much traffic on Sunday evening, so we had a leisurely drive home.

Dad pulled the car into the garage and we all got out, subdued from the experience, no doubt, but glad we weren’t (yet) Berth. I thought I could read that sentiment into my parents’ feelings. We were sorry something bad happened to her, but we were relieved it didn’t happen to us. Better you than me, I’d heard before, from Full Metal Jacket. As I entered the house, I wondered what the next few days would consist of, whether I’d be needed for anything or if I had them to myself. I’d be able to visit Berth, but was it worth putting up with Steve to do so?

187

While it goes without saying that the regime will be eager to begin weeding out value-free humans through execution, euthanasia, eugenics, among other means, it will be necessary to wait until those who are able to remember the coup die off naturally. To restrict the new generations from learning about the coup and developing subversive ideas, the regime should cut off Internet access to the populace and prevent details of the coup from being written or spoken about. History textbooks, for example, will refer to the coup using vague terms and intimate that the current powers voluntarily surrendered their authority to the regime once the regime made it clear how the ideal society was within reach if the regime’s policies were to be installed. Children will ask questions about the coup that should not be answered. Responding to questions with inadvisable answers is punishable by death.

To prevent unrest in the populace, the goings-on of the leader and council should never be made public. Likewise, while U.S. media used to be invited to report on international events during which the president participated or was simply in attendance, the U.S. media should no longer have access to the leader during events of any kind unless permission is granted beforehand. Reports of the leader and his activities should be vetted before they are printed or broadcast. Disregarding these rules is punishable by death.

Finally, after the regime has built up the military to unforeseen proportions, the regime should invade and conquer nearby countries until it controls all of the Western

Hemisphere. Then, the regime should invade and conquer Europe, Asia, Australia, and

Africa in that order. To prevent the widespread loss of ground troops, the regime should 188 threaten to utilize nuclear weapons against major international cities until every country, and each continent as a whole, surrenders to the regime’s rule. Following the worldwide surrender, the regime should then infiltrate the everyday lives of the citizens, discontinuing Internet use, non-regime-approved teaching, and traveling. All weapons should be confiscated and held by the regime. Resistance is punishable by death.

When the regime has achieved world domination, the regime should then begin thinning its ranks until only valuable humans remain. Value-free humans, who are also upstanding citizens of the regime, should view their fate as a contribution to the betterment of the regime, and they should be thankful they are able to provide the regime an opportunity for improvement at such low cost to themselves.

189

After the hospital visit, I didn’t see Berth for a few days. I should’ve visited her more than once, especially because she would’ve been more cognizant as her health improved, but I couldn’t motivate myself to go with the prospect of Steve being there.

Had I known he wasn’t there, I would’ve gone. I could’ve driven by their house to see if the car was there, but I didn’t want to waste the trip if I drove by and didn’t see it. I didn’t want him to see me drive by either, because he would’ve known I was driving by to check out the house; their house wasn’t in a spot one could pass by coincidentally. In the meantime, I spent my days exercising, watching Netflix, and twiddling my thumbs. I was bored. Though I viewed Berth’s caregiving as a chore, an obligation that I didn’t want to do, I had to admit it killed time. Was it better than having a regular job? Probably not, but

I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up my freedom yet, and there was always the possibility for me to tell Steve I was unavailable to watch her if I couldn’t bring myself to do it one day. He’d either have to forego his plans for that evening or find someone else to take over.

On the following Thursday, they cleared Berth for release. I knew because Steve called me that evening, when I was on the couch watching TV, to tell me he was going down to the riverfront to listen to music tomorrow, Friday, and I’d need to be at the house by noon. He said he was getting stir crazy from “living at the hospital the past few days.”

“Did you do anything about that opossum?”

“Sure did,” he said. “I bought a trap and trapped the fucker. I filled a garbage can with water and put the whole trap in. Drowned the son of a bitch,” he said and laughed.

“So much for the humane route,” I said. 190

“It was a damn pest,” he said, the amusement absent from his voice.

“You couldn’t have released it somewhere? Drove a few miles and let it go?”

“Hell no. It’d only come back. What are you? Some sort of bleeding-heart liberal?

If you cared so much about it, you should’ve caught it,” he said.

“Maybe I should’ve.”

“Too late now.”

“It is too late now,” I said. For that, but not other things. We said our goodbyes and hung up. I turned the volume back up. I was watching American Pickers on The

History Channel when the show, which features two guys sifting through people’s junk for stuff to buy, and Steve’s cruelty prompted me to turn the TV off and get my laptop to conduct some research. My parents had gone out to eat and wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours.

I wondered if the condition of their house could be considered abuse, because

Berth wasn’t able to clean it, leaving Steve with that responsibility—a responsibility he completely ignored. In the address bar of Google Chrome I typed “elder abuse indiana.”

The first hit was the IN.gov site, with a link to a page about Adult Protective Services. I scrolled down to the most relevant part of the page, where I saw they defined “abuse” as

“Any touching (battery) of a person in a rude and insolent matter.” So it couldn’t be that.

Had Steve physically abused her, one of us would’ve noticed her injuries and, who knows, Berth may have told us what happened if we asked her. Steve would say mean things—verbal abuse, if you will—but that was the extent of it. I never saw him get into physical altercations with family members. 191

The site defined “neglect” as “The intentional withholding of essential care or service. Abandonment of an individual is also considered neglect.” That was closer, but still too vague. I knew how Steve would defend himself if accused of neglecting Berth according to that definition: I give her medicine, feed her, bathe her, assist her in getting to the bathroom, take her to the doctor, etc. If there wasn’t a clause in there about cleanliness of the living environment, the government wouldn’t be able to charge Steve with anything. The site also listed “exploitation” as “The intentional misuse of a person’s property, person or services for financial gain.” That’d be even harder to prove. While the hoarding could be construed as “intentional misuse” of Berth’s “property,” he definitely wasn’t doing it for “financial gain.” I guess, if one were hard-pressed to make an argument supporting that statement, I’d say he gained financially by bringing in and storing valuable items for free. That was a stretch, though, because most of the things in the house were of little value, if any, and the hoarding actually decreased the value of

Berth’s house because it’d need to be overhauled for him to rent or sell it in the future.

Near the top of the page was a hotline number. For a second I entertained calling it, but I knew I wouldn’t. I’d want the call to be anonymous, which meant I’d have to find a pay phone or use a phone at a business, and I couldn’t be sure they’d investigate without a clear-cut reason. I hatched a plan, though. Tomorrow, after I drove by Berth’s to ensure the car was gone, I’d go to a local business and ask to use their phone. If they wouldn’t let me right off, I’d claim it was an emergency so they’d relent. I’d call the hotline and tell them an elderly person had been abandoned at such and such address, then I’d hang up. But what was the price of doing that? If they were slow-moving, how 192 long would Berth go without having anyone else there to help her? Would it terrify her if strangers came into her house without anyone she knew being there? What would the fallout be when Steve learned I’d never showed up? Would he successfully prod them to tell him who called them? Would he put it together that my absence and their arrival wasn’t a coincidence? There were too many variables with too many stakes for me to be comfortable acting on such a scheme.

And, anyway, what would they do with Berth? Would she be transported to someone else’s house? Ours? Would the state take her to a nursing home where she could get care? Or would they let her stay home once Steve returned from the riverfront? Act like nothing happened? Steve had me, all of us, cornered. It wasn’t like he was the winner, however. There were no winners in this situation. Without putting the hotline number in my phone, I exited the browser. I knew then why someone would resort to violence.

The next morning, I got up and fixed myself breakfast, then watched TV for two hours. During that time I also nursed a cup of coffee. I considered heading to Berth’s early like I’d been doing, but the only place I’d left unexplored was the attic, which was a pain to access and would be hot and dirty. I didn’t know how structurally sound it was either, and no excuse would get me out of a predicament like falling through the floor into Berth’s bedroom or whichever part of the house I’d be above. There’d be nothing I could say to make it seem as if my intentions were innocent, that I wasn’t up to no good.

Thus, I decided to hold off on the attic for the time being. 193

Berth was her normal self, and we settled into a routine that more or less mirrored the first week I was there. I’d come over every other day or sometimes every third day, get Berth up at noon, give her the a.m. pills, feed her lunch, feed her dinner, give her the p.m. pills, put her to bed, and leave soon after. The condition of the house didn’t improve; if anything, it got worse. More newspapers than ever—Courier-Journal, New

York Times, News and Tribune, USA Today, Wall Street Journal. I wasn’t sure if Steve subscribed to several papers or went out and bought them every morning, but there were so many that I was skeptical he even read them. Maybe that was what he did with his time when he was at home.

Summer arrived and brought with it thunderstorms, oppressive heat, and the festival season. It seemed like a storm rolled in every day. Most passed through in a matter of minutes. The day would be sunny and the humidity so thick you’d swear you could touch it before gray clouds replaced the white ones and rain tumbled from the sky.

More often than not, the storms would consist of only torrential downpours but, occasionally, lightning and thunder would sound off like someone was angry at us. The night of the worst storm I was at Berth’s. It was dark out, though the lightning was so bright and frequent that it didn’t feel entirely like nighttime, and the thunder boomed to the point that it drowned out the blaring TV. We were in the den when the electric went out. I told Berth to sit tight while I used my phone’s flashlight to search for candles and matches. After looking around, I realized how unprepared I was for the situation if the electric were off for the rest of the night or longer. I wished I’d filled the Zippo, but I couldn’t let Berth see me with it. My phone chimed to signal that I’d received a text. 194

“Stay put 4 now,” my mom said.

“Electrics out. We will,” I wrote back. We rarely had tornados where we lived, but I still checked The Weather Channel app to learn it was merely a severe thunderstorm. I was glad not to have to usher Berth to the basement with only my phone flashlight as guide. There wasn’t anything I could do about the situation, so I returned to the den and read a magazine by holding it with one hand and my phone in the other.

Berth nodded off. The storm ended shortly thereafter, and about two hours later the house surged to life and the electric stayed on.

July in the Ohio Valley is a contender for month with the worst weather, because if it’s not storming, it’s hot, and if it’s not hot, it’s storming. Combined with the sunlight, the humidity routinely keeps the heat index above one hundred degrees. The heat becomes so oppressive it takes your breath away when you step into it from an air- conditioned place, and you feel, for a moment, like you’re suffocating. You can also feel your energy depleting if you stand outside for any amount of time. Sometimes I stepped outside only to turn around and walk back in. The news aired the usual glut of heat- related stories: dogs left in cars, kids left in cars, people cooking eggs or baking cookies on their car’s dashboard, football players suffering heat strokes during practice, sunburns at the local pools, how to donate box fans to those in need of them, and heat records for the day, month, and year. Similar to lobsters, we were being boiled alive.

And yet the heat didn’t affect Steve’s festival-going whatsoever. In fact, he was gone more than usual during July. He braved the sun, heat, and sweat to attend Sheridan

Bluegrass Fever, South Lake County Agricultural Historical Society Antique Tractor and 195

Farm Show, Three Rivers Festival, 43rd Vintage Motor Bike Show, “On the Banks of the

Wabash” Community Band Festival, E. W. C. C. Woodcarving Festival, Frankfort Hot

Dog Festival, Pierogi Fest, Jasper Strassenfest, and a random assortment of baseball games ranging from high school level to the pro’s. There were even a couple of weekends

Steve called me from wherever he was to say he wanted to attend the festival the following day, too, and rather than make another roundtrip, he was going to sleep in his car in the parking lot. I was trapped into staying with Berth.

“You can leave after she goes to bed, if you want, and come back in the morning,” he said. I heard carnival music in the background.

“I couldn’t do that,” I said. “If there’s a fire, she wouldn’t be able to get out.”

“What is it with you and fire? You’re paranoid.”

“I’m just thinking ahead.”

“You suit yourself,” he said and hung up. I toyed with the idea of leaving for the night, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was different when I left most nights, because I knew Steve would come home within a few hours. Leaving her alone the whole night—for twelve hours, possibly—seemed to be inviting trouble. So, after I put Berth to bed, I drove to the nearest gas station and bought a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. I also picked up a lighter in case the electric went out again. Back at the house, I entertained the idea of brushing my teeth in Steve’s bathroom, which I’d taken to calling The Swamp due to the dirty, standing water in the sink and there always being urine, excrement, and toilet paper in the toilet. I ended up wetting the toothbrush under the kitchen sink, which was full of dirty dishes, and closed my eyes when I spit into it. 196

Berth’s sink was the only one that wasn’t gross. Next time I’d take a glass of water outside and brush my teeth there.

When I yawned so much my eyes filled with tears, I texted my mom to let her know I was staying at Berth’s, so in the morning she wouldn’t freak out when she noticed my car gone. “Stayin @ berths 2nite,” I wrote. “C U 2morrow.” I assumed my parents were already asleep, but that she’d read the text in the morning during her daily cup of coffee. I stayed in my clothes and stretched out on the sofa I always sat on. Half of it remained submerged under clothes and newspapers, but I put my feet on top of the pile, turned off the lamp on the end table, and tried to sleep. Maybe I would’ve been too tired to drive home anyway, or maybe I was too tired to attempt it without endangering myself and others. Either way, despite not being used to sleeping anywhere but my own bed, I was tired enough that I fell asleep.

I don’t know what changed in Berth’s brain chemistry after her mini-stroke, or if something else took place, but in July she began questioning me about Steve’s whereabouts. We’d be watching TV and, with no trigger, she’d say, “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s up in ______at the ______,” I’d tell her. The first blank a town, the second the festival title.

“Oh,” she’d say and continue watching TV. Other times it was “Where’d Steve go?” or “What time will Steve be home?” or “What time’s Steve coming home?” Though

I could’ve made something up—”He’s on Mars at the Martian Convention”—I always told her the honest truth to the best of my knowledge. I didn’t mind it at first, but it got on my nerves when she’d ask me that question or a version of it every hour, sometimes 197 twice. She couldn’t remember much in the short-term, I knew, but I wondered if she could understand what I was telling her, that Steve was a few hours away and wouldn’t return until late that night or late tomorrow night. Sometimes, after I felt myself becoming exasperated with her questions, I’d leave the den and sit on the bench on the front porch for a few minutes. Anger would well up in me, and I’d want to lash out at her even though I knew it was wrong. She couldn’t help it, and it wasn’t her fault her mind had deteriorated. On the bench I’d watch the road, the occasional beat-up car pass by, and

I’d sigh, knowing the barrage of questions I’d face again once I returned to my seat in the den. It was almost as if Berth had reverted to the days when Steve was an adolescent, who, when he was outside playing with the neighborhood kids, Berth couldn’t help but worry about until he came home safe and sound to her watchful eye.

One evening in early August, when I was home scrolling through want ads online,

I received a text from my dad that read: “Berth had another mini stroke. More info soon.”

He told me later, after he came home and settled in, that he’d been talking to her on his way home from work when she couldn’t respond to his questions. “She just made sounds, actually,” he said. Steve was evidently out getting them supper when it happened, which my dad didn’t find out until later, so he called the ambulance and drove to her house. He told me the hospital name and room number and said she’d be there a few days.

“What’re they going to do?” I said, leaning against the doorframe of my parents’ closet while he changed into casual clothes. 198

“There’s not much they can do,” he said. He put on sweatpants and left his white undershirt on. Hung up the suit and tie. “They’ll reassess her medications: drop some, add some, change doses. That’s about it.”

“Do they think a big stroke’s on its way?” I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right and crossed my arms. Leaned my head against the doorframe, too.

“That’s always a danger, but part of it’s just old age. You live long enough, your body starts to shut down.”

“Sure,” I said. He walked past me into the hallway. I turned off the closet light and followed him.

“One thing we need to do,” he said, expecting me to have followed him, “is visit her more often this time. She might not have much time left.” He opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a highball glass, opened the freezer and palmed a few ice cubes, walked to the bar, and poured whiskey in the glass. Sipped. Said “Ahhh.”

I thought but didn’t say, That could be a good thing. Once my mom got home from work, we were all in for the night, but we planned to visit Berth the following day no matter what Steve’s plans were. He could maintain a bedside vigil at the hospital in an attempt to fool everyone into thinking he was that devoted at home, but he was gone just as much as he was home, if not more, and I was there in his stead. Yet Steve was the only one she ever asked about. She never asked, “Where’s Doug?” or “What’s Jef doing?” or

“When’s Monica coming home?” It was always Steve, Steve, Steve. There was no way to know if she asked about me, because I thought I’d have to be gone for her to do that.

There was one time, however, she asked me “Where’d Joe go?” and I told her “I’m Joe, 199 and I’m right here.” Did she pester Steve with a volley of “Where’s Joe?” questions? I doubted it, but it amused me to think how much she’d get on his nerves if she did.

At the hospital, while Steve was out of the room, I studied Berth while my parents were talking. I looked at her hands and arms—the veins so prominent it was as if her skin was withering away. What was left of her hair was in disarray, and it was easy for me to picture what she’d look like bald, because her hairline had been receding for some time.

Her mouth was open. I watched the sheet rise and fall with each breath. If she were pale, this was probably what she’d look like if she died in her sleep. I gently put my right hand under her left hand, and this stirred her. She blinked a few times and angled herself to face me to find out who touched her.

She licked her lips, swallowed, and whispered, “Joseph.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said. I didn’t whisper, but I did keep my voice low for privacy.

“Maybe I should just die,” she said.

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. It wasn’t what I wanted to say, but it was the first thing to come to mind. An acceptable, if cliché, thing to say in that moment.

“OK,” she said. She turned away from me, closed her eyes, and began resting. I released her hand, patted it, and joined my parents at the foot of the bed near the wall.

They were talking, but I wasn’t listening until my mom touched my arm.

“What’d she say?” my mom said.

“Not much,” I said. “Just my name.” My mom resumed talking to my dad until

Steve entered the room and sat down. They exchanged pleasantries and, for a silent 200 moment, we all stared at Berth. I couldn’t have guessed what any of them were thinking.

It turned out, I wouldn’t have to.

“Steve,” my dad said, “maybe it’s time to start looking for a place for her to live, a place she can get medical care any time.”

“No,” Steve said. He clasped his hands and leaned forward in the chair. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, but if they were, he was watching the floor.

“It’s too much work. It’s unfair to you, and it’s unfair to her. We don’t expect you to wait on her like a nurse.” My dad had crossed his arms and was looking at Steve, who didn’t change his posture.

“I can handle it,” he said.

“That’s exactly it—you don’t have to. You can still live there, but you can visit her at a facility where she’ll get around-the-clock care and be supervised by medical professionals.”

“I said I can handle it.” This time he raised his head and looked my dad in the face.

“Be stubborn about it,” my dad said, “and see what happens.”

“You want to settle this shit like old times?” Steve said and stood. He walked a couple feet closer to my dad and crossed his arms, too. My mom put her hand on my dad’s forearm.

“Let’s go,” she said, turned, and walked toward the door. My dad lingered, but then he turned around, placed his hand on my shoulder to prompt me to turn around, and went toward the door. 201

“I’d knock your head off in the street,” my uncle said, but none of us turned to entertain the idea. “In the street.” My dad waited for me to exit the room before he gently closed the door behind him. We walked to the elevator and paused while we waited for it to arrive.

“He’s incorrigible,” he said.

“Crazy,” my mom said, and we all nodded.

“Greedy,” I said, “if he’s just after her money.”

“That’s it,” my mom said. “He knows she needs 24/7 care, but he doesn’t want to pay for it, because every monthly payment would be less money he’d have to live on after she passes away.”

“He’s trying not to work again for the rest of his life,” I said. The elevator opened, and we stepped onto an empty car.

“As far as I’m concerned,” my dad said, “you don’t have to go over there anymore if you don’t want to. We can forget about this rent business until you get a regular job.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I wonder if that’s the best for Berth. There are things that are hard to do for Berth—and things I’m not sure I could bring myself to do—but maybe me seeing her is best for her in the sense that he doesn’t treat her as well as I do. His patience runs out quick these days. Maybe I should continue to go over there so she doesn’t have to deal with him all the time.” The doors closed and we began our descent to the parking garage on the bottom floor. 202

“That’s up to you,” he said. “Just be careful around him. I don’t think he’d hit you, but I wouldn’t put it past him to yell at you. He’s going to take out his anger and frustration on somebody, and that somebody could be you.”

“I’ll be able to deal with it. I could always just leave.” The elevator doors opened, letting us exit into the parking garage. Once we were in the car and had buckled our seatbelts, I said, “You know, sometimes I think Berth is reaping what she sowed.”

“What do you mean?” my mom said. My dad started the car and backed out of the parking space.

“I mean that Berth raised Steve. He was always her favorite as well. So, in a sense, she’s the one who made him like he is.” I stared out the window as we passed the sea of cars in the garage.

“To a certain extent that’s true,” my dad said. “It’s ironic that her favorite is giving her the most trouble and alienating the rest of the family at the same time.”

“If she cares so much about him and he cares so much about her, let them have each other. If they complain about each other, I don’t want to hear it unless he or she plans to act on it.” We left the garage and drove onto the street.

“That’s one way to look at it,” my dad said.

“You don’t agree?” I said.

“I don’t know. Albeit frustrating, sometimes you have to save people from themselves.”

“I just wonder how long you should try.”

“I don’t know,” he said. 203

Berth recovered and was released a few days later. We only saw her that one time, but Steve kept my dad in the loop, acting like the scene at the hospital never happened.

My dad told me Steve never talked about his feelings, nor did he ever apologize for anything since Berth stopped making him in his early teenage years. The family ignored events like that, and life went on. The rifts were there, though, and they would be for the foreseeable future.

It was only a couple of days after Berth’s release that Steve called me. “Joe, you’ll need to be here tomorrow,” he said.

“I can’t be there tomorrow,” I said, “I have plans.”

“What plans?” he said.

There were none, but I said, “I’ve got to help a friend move tomorrow. It’s an all- day thing.” I was taking a stand even if he didn’t know it.

“I’ll figure it out then,” he said and hung up. I didn’t expect him to hang up on me, but I was glad I didn’t have to answer a litany of questions about my friend and the move. I wondered what he meant when he said he’d “figure it out.” Did that mean he was going to forego his plans? Was he going to take Berth with him? Or was he going to find someone else to watch her? A friend? Neighbor? I wasn’t sure. I also wondered what would result from my refusal—a refusal with a legitimate excuse, even though it was a lie. Did he know I was lying? Could he sense it? Did he think it wasn’t a coincidence that the first time I couldn’t commit to watching Berth followed the confrontation at the hospital? From now on, would he still call me to watch Berth? Based on what my dad told me at the hospital, it was no longer important that I did so, because I was off the 204 hook for rent until I got a regular job. I was free, in other words, but it didn’t feel like freedom.

Later that day, knowing I wouldn’t be at Berth’s tomorrow, I sat at the island in the kitchen thumbing through the newspaper to find something to do. There weren’t any movies I wanted to see, and there weren’t any bands playing that I liked. Most I hadn’t even heard of. Bars were OK if you were with a group, but if you weren’t, they were depressing and expensive if you let the empties pile up. Whatever I decided to do, I would probably be doing it alone, because it was a weeknight, and most of my friends weren’t around anymore. Then I saw in the paper that the Louisville Bats were playing the Columbus Clippers in Louisville the next night at 7:05 p.m. Yeah, it’d be hot—it was a humid, Indiana summer—but the game didn’t start until the evening, so it wouldn’t be too bad. Because it was Triple A ball, and thus tickets and food were much cheaper than those of the big leagues, I could afford to go. I folded the paper and set it aside, knowing that’s how I’d spend the next evening.

About six thirty the following evening, I weaved through downtown Louisville trying to find a parking spot that I wouldn’t mind walking back to alone in the dark. I should’ve left earlier if I wanted a free space close to the park, I realized in hindsight, so I had to relent and pay $10 to an attendant whose lot was a couple of streets over from the stadium. I got out of the car, and the humidity engulfed me. Any amount of movement caused me to sweat, and I knew I’d be sticky with it by the end of the game. I walked out of the lot and onto a nearby sidewalk toward the ballpark, dubbed Louisville Slugger

Field. 205

There were numerous people milling around the nearest entrance to the park by the Pee Wee Reese statue. He was in mid-air, in mid-jump, with his left arm fully extended and his right arm reared back like he’s about to throw the ball to a base. I ordered my ticket online for them to have it ready at will call, so I headed inside where it was cool. I made my way past families standing around, kids chasing each other, and a group of guys talking and laughing. A lot of people wore Bats T-shirts and jerseys, but that was no surprise as it was a home game. Sooner or later I’d see Buddy Bat—a purple bat serving as mascot for the team—up to his antics to entertain the kids. I got my ticket from will call, gave it to the older woman scanning tickets at the turnstile, and walked into the park to find my seat.

It was a nice stadium with a beautiful field. The seats were green, and there was a small amusement park with a merry-go-round beyond right field. The park didn’t face the

Louisville skyline, unfortunately, but you could see a few skyscrapers if you sat in the outfield seats, and the view from the baselines was unobstructed. My ticket informed me that my seat was to the left, somewhere on the third base line, so I began walking. I was going to find my seat and wait for the game to start before I bought food and drinks. My seat was pretty far past third base itself, but I chose the area I sat in because I knew I wouldn’t be facing the sun, unlike those who sat on the first base line. While the sun shone on the third base side, we didn’t have to look directly into it. My seat was near the aisle and, so far, the closest people were a few seats next to me as well as some in front of and behind me. I was surrounded, but I didn’t have to rub elbows with strangers, and for that I was glad. 206

Waiting for the game to start, I sat in appreciation of the pleasant evening. It was hot and I had a line of sweat on my brow, but the sun was bright, the sky was free of clouds, and there was a slight breeze blowing through the stadium that helped combat the heat just enough for me to hope it’d last the whole night. I thought about Berth too, though. I thought about how she was stuck at home with nothing to do. It was a bleak situation, and most of the time she couldn’t even go outside to enjoy herself. She could go outside if someone assisted her, but not of her own volition. Was I being fair to Berth?

Screwing Steve over by not watching her was one thing, but was I screwing her over too by not watching her? Then again, she hadn’t planned for elder care, and she was the one who raised Steve, so why shouldn’t she experience the consequences of her mistakes?

That was how it worked, right? Why should I suffer to atone for her sins?

The home team took the field to scattered applause. I glanced around to estimate how many people were at the game, and while there were some, I noticed plenty of empty seats. A lot of people showed up late to baseball games, however, and I chalked it up to that. We stood and sang the anthem, sat back down, and watched the ceremonial first pitch. The first two innings were routine. The Clippers’s batters struck out, grounded out to shortstop, and grounded out to first, while the Bats popped out to left field, popped out to right, walked, and struck out. In the second inning, the Clippers doubled, walked, hit into a double play, and struck out, while the Bats struck out, grounded out to third, and hit a line drive right to the first baseman.

After the second inning, I was hungry and decided to visit the concession stand for food and a soda. The seats around me had filled out, but there was still no one directly 207 next to me on either side, and I was able to reach the aisle without having to bother people to stand up or stay seated and risk me stepping on their toes. No annoying kids or babies to deal with, either. I wiped my brow with the palm of my hand and stood. I wiped my hand on my shorts and walked up the aisle toward the concourse. I dodged people left and right as I blazed a zigzag trail toward the bathroom. The bathroom was one large room with dozens of urinals and several stalls. I used a urinal, washed my hands, and left to go to one of the food vendors. I usually got pizza at the games, but I was in the mood for a hot dog, so I bought two and a large Pepsi. I carried the drink tray to the condiment station, removed each hot dog from its foil wrapping, slathered them in mustard, returned one of them to its wrapping to keep it warm, and picked up the tray.

The vendor was close to being behind home plate, and I thought I’d watch an at- bat from a closer vantage point. I was to the left of home, still in the concourse, when I held onto the tray with one hand and grabbed the hot dog with the other. I bit into it and reveled in the taste—juiciness of the meat, sweetness of the bun, spice and kick of the mustard. I chewed and watched the visiting player swing away. Then I noticed some big guy, who looked familiar, kneeling down in the aisle next to a seat close to home—Steve.

He was talking to somebody I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t sure why he was allowed to be where he was. He never bought tickets—he bragged that he’d stand outside the stadium asking people if they had extra tickets until he scored one for free—and that’s why I didn’t think he’d have a good seat. Unless, maybe he knew the usher from somewhere, or he was at the games so often they got to know each other enough for him to pull favors. 208

Either way, Steve was at the game, and I didn’t see Berth anywhere. If she were there, I didn’t think he would’ve left her alone for long.

I took another bite of my hot dog and walked toward my seat. Steve hadn’t seen me, and I didn’t want him to. He thought I was helping a friend move, and I didn’t want to be caught in a lie, although I suppose I could’ve told him we finished earlier in the day and decided to come to the game. In any case, avoiding him was the easier course of action, and that’s what I planned to do. Back in my seat, I tried to ignore Steve while I ate and drank, but I couldn’t do it. I kept an eye on him as he talked to whomever he was talking to until, eventually, he stood and walked up the aisle and disappeared into the concourse. There was no tracking him now.

Distracted by thinking about Steve, I knew something was up when people around me stood and raised their hands. Home run, I thought, and looked up. I saw the ball sail over our section and heard it smack onto the concrete aisle somewhere behind me. People were watching where it landed and the scramble to grab it, but I stayed seated and faced the game. I dug out my phone from my pocket and texted my dad, “Steves @ the game.

Whos watching Berth?” I’d invited him to the game, but he was tired from work. My mom hadn’t gotten home from her job yet, and I knew she wouldn’t want to go to the game after a long day at the bank.

“Not sure,” my dad replied. “Will call and find out.”

“Ok,” I typed. “Let me know what u find out.” I put my phone in my pocket and watched as the Bats trailed two to nothing. Sometime during my trip to the bathroom and concession stand, the Clippers had scored two runs. You could always tell in home 209 stadiums when the home team did something well or scored, because the crowd would erupt. When the visiting team did something well, they were silent or they booed.

Another inning elapsed before I heard from my dad.

“She’s alone,” he texted. It was possible Steve asked a neighbor to check on her, but I doubted that. In my time at Berth’s I’d never seen the neighbors out, and I never did hear Steve or Berth talk about them. I didn’t think they were in bad standing, but I did assume they ignored each other.

“That’s not good,” I replied. If I encountered Steve, I bet he would’ve blamed my unavailability for Berth being alone when he should’ve been more responsible by staying home, not going to the game.

“No,” my dad texted. The crack of the bat brought me to attention, and I watched the ball soar over the field past the bleachers in right. The Bats had tied the game at two.

It was now the fifth inning, and the sun was in its descent toward the horizon. People clapped and cheered as the player, whose name I didn’t catch, rounded the bases. Some people in my section stood as soon as the bat made contact, the crack reverberating throughout the stadium, and remained standing for the duration of the batter’s home run trot.

What was I to do about Berth? Would it be good for me to head over there so she wouldn’t be alone? When Steve showed up, could I scold him by saying that I’d stopped by to visit after I finished helping my friend move? Or would he lie about where he’d been and how long he’d been gone? He could say that he ran an errand, and I was supposed to be none the wiser. And, would he ask me any questions about my friend’s 210 new place? If so, how many? Then the rationalization for doing nothing crept into my brain: Berth raised Steve, so let her deal with the repercussions of that.

I watched the rest of the game—the Bats won 3-2 in the ninth—and stayed for the post-game fireworks to ensure I wouldn’t run into Steve exiting the stadium. I didn’t know whether he’d left the game earlier, before it ended, but I was convinced he wouldn’t have stayed for the fireworks. The only people who stayed for those were families with kids. It was a humid night, but the walk back to my car was pleasant enough in agreeable weather. By the time I got home my parents were in bed, and they hadn’t left a note to indicate they’d done anything about Berth being alone. I, for one, knew you couldn’t argue with Steve. He always thought he was right, and he’d disregard whatever you said with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head. You could only make progress by going around him—not through. That night I went to bed thinking it was time for me to take action, but what that action would be I didn’t exactly know.

It was early the next morning when Steve called me and asked, “Can you be over later today?”

“Yeah,” I said. I cleared my voice, having not spoken since the previous day.

“How’d the big move go?” he said.

“Fine. In fact, we finished early so we went to the Bats game last night,” I said, without any sort of inflection so Steve wouldn’t think I was baiting him.

“Oh yeah? Who’d they play?”

“The Columbus Clippers,” I said, “and they won 3-2.”

“The Clippers won?” 211

“No, the Bats.”

“You don’t say. Well, you can be over by noon again if it’s nothing to you.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be over there about noon.” We hung up, and I couldn’t tell by his voice if he’d seen me. Normally, if we’d seen each other and I’d told him about my other plans, he would’ve lorded over me the fact that he’d seen me when I told him I was helping a friend move. I didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary in his voice, however, and he didn’t ask me any questions that let on that he saw me there. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he hadn’t stayed for the whole game, hadn’t checked the score yet in the paper or on TV, and was genuinely curious about who won. After all, the Bats didn’t win until the bottom of the ninth.

The problem I encountered at Berth’s was that she didn’t want to get out of bed. I gently shook her awake at noon, but she said she wanted to sleep a little longer, so I let her sleep another half an hour before I roused her again. She gave me the same line about wanting more sleep. “Come on, Berth,” I said. “You have to get up. You have to take your a.m. pills and have something to eat and drink.” She didn’t respond, so I uncovered her, letting loose the stench of urine, and told her I’d change her before she got up. Once

I’d done that, I pulled her legs to the side of the bed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to pull her to a sitting position. She opened her eyes when I got her vertical and, with my help, she stood and began walking toward the hallway. Unlike before, when she could mostly navigate herself, I had to assist her from the bed to the kitchen, where, similar to days past, she took her morning pills and we ate lunch. 212

Something else I’d also noticed was that Berth had started drooling a lot. We were in the den watching TV when I’d glance at her to find her mouth open, a string of drool down the side of her mouth dripping onto her pajama top. I grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the end table, wiped her mouth, and said, “Here you go.” She looked at me and took the tissue from my hand. She didn’t realize she was drooling, though, so I had to remind her every so often to wipe her mouth. Eventually she fell asleep and drooled anyway. I went out, got us dinner, and woke her up to eat. After eating, she resumed watching TV and fell asleep again not too long after finishing her meal. I let her sleep because she didn’t have anything she had to do, and she had lived so long it didn’t matter what she did these days. If you made it to ninety-seven, you deserved to be able to do what you wanted. I figured sleeping wasn’t what she really wanted to do, but her body told her to and she had no choice but to listen and accept it. Plus, I didn’t think there was any chance her sleeping during the day would prevent her from sleeping at night.

That night, about half past nine, I woke her, had her take her night pills, helped her walk to her bathroom, squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush, supervised her brushing her teeth, and tucked her into bed. Before I left the room she grabbed my arm and said, “It’s terrible getting old.” I leaned down next to the bed, took her hand off my arm, and held it. I searched her eyes as best as I could in the dark room. Was she stating a fact, lamenting her situation, or pleading with me? Some of each?

“I know,” I said. “It’ll happen to all of us.” I put her arm back under the covers.

“Next time,” I said. I knew what I had to do. She closed her eyes, and I walked out of the room and shut the door. I returned to the den and watched TV for about half an hour then 213 decided to leave. I didn’t want to see Steve if I didn’t have to, and there was no telling what time he’d be home. I remembered I’d never asked him where he was going, what he’d be doing, or what time he expected he’d be home. It didn’t matter, really, as eleven was the same as midnight, midnight the same as three. In any case, she’d be asleep and

I’d be gone. I turned off the TV and left the house.

I didn’t think I’d hear from Steve for a day or two, but he called me the following morning and asked me if I could be over later.

“I heard some good music last night, man,” he said.

“Where’d you go?” I said. I was still in bed. I rubbed my eyes but kept them closed.

“I went down to the riverfront and listened to ‘em pick. I’ll be going down there again this afternoon. You can be here by noon. Berth don’t give a shit what time you get here.”

“That’s true. Anymore, seems like she doesn’t want to get out of bed.” I threw the sheet and comforter off me and sat up over the side of my bed.

“You just have to force her to,” he said. “She used to get up at seven. Now she sleeps till noon. She’d sleep all day if you let her. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“She is ninety-seven,” I said. I stood and stuck a finger between two blinds to check the weather.

“Ah bullshit,” he said. “She’s just lazy these days. That’s all.”

“Wait until you’re ninety-seven,” I said, “see if you feel like getting up early every day.” He ignored the rationalization and we got off the phone. Berth was waiting to 214 die. That was the most accurate way to put it. All the sleeping she’d been doing was practice. Her bed a coffin. We spent a third of our lives sleeping anyway, so why make a big deal of a few extra hours a day? Psychologically it probably wasn’t good for her to sleep a lot, but sometimes the body trumps the mind. I didn’t know how much will power had to do with it, either, if anything. And maybe she was depressed. I know I would be if

I outlived most everyone I knew and saw my body and mind deteriorate. After breakfast I packed my laptop, watched TV until about eleven thirty, and headed to Berth’s.

215

Epilogue: Continuance

It is in this way, using the rules and explanations outlined in this document, that humanity will eventually create the perfect society in which resides the ideal human.

216

I parked on Berth’s street and got out of my car. The humidity greeted me, and I felt the immediate need to escape it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to block the sun from beating down and, combined with the humidity, the heat index had to be over a hundred degrees. It was a scorcher—the kind of day during which news anchors warn people to stay inside, but if you can’t, wear sunscreen and drink plenty of water. I entered the house and let the cool air wash over me. Unfortunately the sour smell accompanied it, but I’d take a bad smell over stifling heat any day. In the den I set my laptop on the couch and walked through part of the kitchen into the hallway.

At Berth’s bedroom door, I quietly turned the doorknob and eased open the door enough to see her. She was in bed on her back, her mouth open, her chest slowly moving up and down. I released the doorknob and stepped into the room, walked to her bedside.

Shaking her arm, I told her it was noon and time to get up. She closed her mouth, licked her lips, swallowed a couple times, and opened her eyes. She blinked rapidly then turned to face me. “Time to get up, Berth,” I repeated. She freed her arms from the covers and rested them at her side.

“Let me sleep,” she said, her voice raspy. She angled away from me and closed her eyes, continued to rest.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I said. She didn’t respond. Either she was already asleep again, or she didn’t want to be bothered. I put my hands in my pockets and walked out of the room, through the hallway, through the kitchen, to the kitchen sink where her pills were and looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see—the side of the neighbor’s red-brick house, a rusted chain-link fence overgrown with vines, and the 217 neighbor’s unkempt backyard. I grabbed Berth’s pill organizer and emptied the THU a.m. and THU p.m. pills and shoved them in my pocket. I walked into the bedroom again and studied her. Her mouth was hanging open, a line of drool down the left side of her face.

Carefully I locked the thumb and forefinger of my left hand around the wrist of her right arm and moved it several inches away from her body. She was on the edge of the bed, which meant I couldn’t move her left arm unless I was fine having her arm hang over the side of the bed. I decided to push my luck, so I gripped the wrist of her left arm with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand and pulled it until her arm was hanging over the side of the bed. She didn’t stir, but I knew I didn’t have much time before her body woke her up and told her to investigate what was happening with her left arm.

Quietly I walked around the bed and picked up the pillow from the other side. I walked back around and stood next to her, cognizant of her left arm while trying not to bump into it. What I planned to do next was going to disturb her, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, so once I started the motion, I had to follow through. Otherwise,

I’d need to come up with an excuse for what I was about to do, and there probably wasn’t a good excuse—not a believable one. Before I could second-guess myself, I climbed onto the bed, straddled Berth, and covered her face with the pillow as tightly as I could. Berth raised her arms and grabbed mine. There wasn’t anything she could do, though. She was too weak to force me to release my grip, too weak to even pinch or scratch me. It wasn’t long before her arms dropped to her sides and she quit struggling. I held the pillow on her face for another minute to make sure she was gone. When she hadn’t moved and I 218 smelled excrement, I got off her and returned the pillow to its place. I tucked her arms under the covers and pulled the sheet and comforter to her neckline. She was still warm.

I looked at her. I’m not sure how long I stood there watching her. I remember thinking that she appeared less dignified in death than I hoped she would. Age had nearly destroyed her. Her mouth was open, age spots littered her face, her hair was thin and unkempt. At what point was it better to concede to Death than fight him? He was going to win no matter what, so why not go out on top? I left the room and closed the bedroom door, walked into the den and sat down. What was I to do? I was still in the clear, as far as I could tell. After all, if Steve happened to come home early and wonder what was going on with Berth, I’d tell him she didn’t want to get out of bed, which was true, so I gave her her morning pills, which was untrue, and let her go back to sleep. If he attempted to wake her, she’d be cold, and he’d know she had passed away. I didn’t want him to confront me, however, and I wasn’t sure he’d buy the coincidence of her dying while I was supposed to watch her. And, what’s more, that didn’t explain the disappearance of her night pills. Maybe I could explain I wasn’t paying attention and had her take both the a.m. and p.m. pills at the same time. I didn’t find that believable and, besides, the autopsy would reveal she didn’t have that much medicine in her system at the time of death.

The other scenario was what I’d planned for—I’d leave at the usual time, Steve would come home late that night, and he wouldn’t discover her dead until the next morning when I’d be home. I’d get rid of the pills and feign ignorance, tell him, my parents, the police, and anyone who asked that she wanted to sleep, so I let her sleep all 219 day and night, except when I gave her her pills, and left about ten. Perhaps it didn’t matter what my alibi was. Perhaps they’d find out what I did regardless of how I tried to spin it. Perhaps it was simply my lot in life to do what I did. But Berth was the means through which Steve got his way and would be able to live the rest of his life on someone else’s money without having to work ever again. For a moment I considered if it’d be worse for Steve if I did nothing to him in order to let him be the one to find his mother lifeless in the next room. Would he regret how he treated her? Talked to her? Allowed her to live in a rundown house? I doubted it. I thought he’d view himself as the noble son.

I’d be gone when Steve got home, but I knew I had to leave my car on the street all day in case anyone questioned the neighbors about it. I hoped he wouldn’t check on

Berth when he arrived, but that was an aspect of the plan I had to leave up to chance. I went to the kitchen sink, emptied my pocket of Berth’s pills, and washed them down the drain. In the den I grabbed my sleeping laptop and sat down. I had several hours in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do. There was the attic. What was up there? I dismissed the notion and opened the laptop. I ran my forefinger over the touchpad, bringing the device to life.

At ten, I imagined, I would put my laptop away and get up. I’d leave a lamp on in the den for Steve. In the front room, I’d turn on the porch light, open the front door, lock the doorknob, open the screen door, and pull the front door shut behind me. I’d gently close the screen door, so it wouldn’t slam, and walk to my car in the dark. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

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