Ask for Me Tomorrow

“It wasn’t one of your more popular nights, apparently.”

“Oh, I forgave her. I knew she was just scared like everybody else who won’t accept Jesus. Scared of the old man dying and leaving her alone, and scared of dying herself. I’m used to her bad language, anyway. She’s not a true-born lady like the first Mrs. Lockwood. Mrs. Decker was the second Mrs. Lockwood.”

“You’re acquainted with the first?”

“I see her at church twice a week. We often share the same hymn book. She’s a soprano but not one of those screechy ones, just soft and ladylike as befits her birth.”

“Is she aware that you work for Mrs. Decker?”

“Sure. At our regular evening meetings we’re encouraged to stand up and talk out our predicaments and troubles. Then afterwards we all sit around and help each other.”

“Or not.”

“Or not,” Violet Smith agreed crisply. “We aren’t geniuses, you know. It’s the feeling that counts, the realizing you’re not alone, someone else cares and wants to help.”

“Your church meetings sound very interesting.”

“Oh, they are. They’re what really converted me. I didn’t mind giving up carnality, jewelry and red meat in return for comradeship and an afterlife.”

“I think you made the right decision.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not being sarcastic like Reed or Mrs. Decker?”

“No.”

“I’m glad. You know, when you’re stuck in a place like this most of the time, you’ve got to have something lively, something hopeful, going on outside. The death house — that’s what some of the employees call it. All the pretty flowers and trees, the sun shining, the pool, the birds singing, none of it makes any difference when you’re waiting for someone to die. You want to tell the birds to shut up and the sun to drop down and the flowers to fold their petals and blow away. Imagine telling a bird to shut up. But I did one day. There was this little red-headed creature singing on top of the T. V. antenna and I screamed at him, ‘Stop it, shut up, don’t you know someone’s dying down here?’ ”

“Did you ever express these feelings at any of your church meetings?”

“No. They’d think I was a loony... Listen, I hear Mrs. Decker coming back. She’s suspicious. Pretend I never said a word, not one word, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Gilly re-entered the room through the inside door that connected it with the main part of the house. She looked flushed, as though she’d been engaged in some strenuous physical or emotional exertion. She said, “I suppose Violet Smith has talked your ear off.”

“No.”

“That’s peculiar. She does it to everyone else.”

“Oh, I do not,” Violet Smith said coldly and went outside, pushing the screen door shut behind her as hard as she could.

Gilly waited for her to disappear around the side of the house. “My husband’s all right. He sometimes reacts badly when Reed goes off duty or when something unusual happens.”

“And I’m an unusual happening?”

“To Marco, yes. I’d like you to meet him. He sees the same people day after day and I’m sure he’d enjoy some different company for a change. No matter what impression Violet Smith gave you, Marco can hear and often understand as well — or almost as well — as you and I can.”

“It might be better for me to see him some other time.”

“This is the time I want you to see him, right now. I have my reasons.”

“Very well, Mrs. Decker. You’re the boss.”

Gilly spoke his name softly. “Marco?”

Nothing happened for a minute. Then the wheelchair, which had been facing the patio, suddenly and noiselessly turned and Aragon had his first glimpse of Marco Decker. He seemed a little smaller than life. His face was pale and shriveled, and around his head there was a fringe of sparse silky hair like a baby’s. Under the lap robe his knees showed almost as thin and sharp as elbows. A mohair shawl was wrapped around his shoulders and fastened at the front with a safety pin, the extra-large size used for diapers. It heightened the image of an old man returning through the maze of years to his infancy.

This was Aragon’s first time in the presence of a terminally ill person and he understood more clearly what Violet Smith had been talking about. The imminence of death altered the meaning of things. The plants outside the window looked too grotesquely healthy, the hummingbirds among the fuchsia blossoms were too lively and brilliant, the warmth of the sun useless, even offensive. Aragon felt the reaction of his own body, the increased flow of adrenaline that increased his heartbeat and signaled his muscles to fight or flight. Run away, man. Drop down, sun. Shut up, bird.

“Marco dear, this is Tom Aragon, the young man from the lawyer’s office.”

“How do you do, Mr. Decker,” Aragon said.

The fingers of one of Marco’s hands twitched slightly in acknowledgment of the greeting.