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Lost in Dogtown CB Anderson Amidst quarry and berry, Dogtown offers much to many, yet withholds a great deal to most. The deserted viUage is the thrill of desolation. —Charles Mann, 1896 J une 2000. Inventory of liquids found in my father's motel room: one gaUon of Coleman camping fuel a case of the nutritional supplement Ensure a dozen bottles of gin, aU but one empty several quarts of lemon-lime Gatorade three beer bottles fiUed with urine an open container of hydrogen peroxide II On the day after my father's second surgery in August 2000, during which his left foot, ankle, and shin were removed, he phones at six a.m. I am not myself, he says. When are you coming? He asks for his Red Sox cap, the newspaper , and a cup of Dunkin' Donuts dark roast—extra cream, extra sugar. His voice is plaintive. The hospital coffee is the worst he's ever tasted. When I arrive at eight o'clock he's propped in bed watching a nature program about lions. Accompanied by Dvorak, the cats are chasing prey. My father seems intent on the action, reading glasses sliding off the end of his nose. His red hair is combed straight back in a style I've not seen on him. What remains ofhis leg is casted and elevated on pillows. The plaster is pristine , adorned by a single signature, his own. 26 CB Anderson27 "Thank God you're here." He taps his tray table. I set down the coffee and the paper, plus his cap, which he pushes aside. He has always been a fastidious eater; preparations to drink take minutes —lid openedjust so, napkins spread to catch the drips. FinaUy ready, he attempts to hoist himself straight, grimaces. "Damn." "Is it bad?" He nods. "Use your morphine." An IV drip hangs from a pole. He stabs at buttons on the side rad. The TV blinks out, the bottom ofthe bed folds upward. His bad leg tips precariously. When I move to help he waves me off, "no." It's hot outside, at least 90 in the lowlands of central Maine. It's hot in here too. Perspiration trickles down my sides. A nurse appears. "Did you need something, Mr. Abbott?" "Not reaUy," my father says. "I just can't find the button." He attempts to smile. Yesterday when they were transferring him from recovery to this room he took a shine to her as she and another nurse hoisted him from his gurney. Careful ofmy hemline, ladies. "You buzzed the nurses' station." She taps a device attached to the side of the bed, depresses a thumb click. "Here, remember? Like this." Liquid flows through the Une. Within seconds my father's eyes are closing . "Thank you," he says. He exhales, his mouth opening with a pop. This morning for the first time in weeks, there is no spoüed-meat odor in his room. Instead I smeU disinfectant, also the congealed eggs sitting in a tray on his dresser. My dad won't eat the food they serve, insists on snacks from the vending machine: Cheez-its, peanut butter crackers, bottles of juice. Sometimes he eats instant oatmeal my sisterJiU or I mix in the bathroom with hot water and Ensure. We don't yet know how far they wiU have to go to rid his leg of sickness . Three weeks ago, when it became clear surgery to amputate his gangrenous toes and the baU of his foot had failed, JiU asked the surgeon, what if it doesn't stop? The doctor, a middle-aged woman with a smoker's paUor, shrugged. Peripheral vascular disease was sneaky. It would take months, maybe years, to know for sure. What about his mental state? JiU asked. When would the confusion end? The surgeon did not hesitate. "Alcohol-induced encephalopathy," she said. With Mainer frankness she added, "In laymen's terms, your father has pickled his brain." My mother, who happened to be visiting that day—who divorced my father 20 years ago but intersects with him for christenings, 28Fourth Genre graduations and occasions of illness—shook her head. "What do you expect?" Jill jotted...

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