Stoner

"Look, Gordon, I'm very busy just now. Can't you just put a stop to it somehow?"

"I tried to, but he's doing it through the department. If you want me to call him in I will; but you'll have to be here too. When he's like this I can't talk to him."

"All right. When is this foolishness supposed to come off?"

There was a pause. "A week from Friday. The last day of classes, just before exam week."

"All right," Stoner said wearily. "I should have things cleared up by then, and it'll be easier than arguing it now. Just let it ride."

"You ought to know this too; he wants me to announce your retirement as professor emeritus, though it can't be really official until next year."

Stoner felt a laugh come up in his throat. "What the hell," he said. "That's all right too."

All that week he worked without consciousness of time. He worked straight through Friday, from eight o'clock in the morning until ten that night. He read a last page and made a last note, and leaned back in his chair; the light on his desk filled his eyes, and for a moment he did not know where he was. He looked around him and saw that he was in his office. The bookshelves were bulging with books haphazardly placed; there were stacks of papers in the corners; and his filing cabinets were open and disarranged. I ought to straighten things up, he thought; I ought to get my things in order.

"Next week," he said to himself. "Next week."

He wondered if he could make it home. It seemed an effort to breathe. He narrowed his mind, forced it upon his arms and legs, made them respond. He got to his feet, and would not let himself sway. He turned the desk light off and stood until his eyes could see by the moonlight that came through his windows. Then he put one foot before the other and walked through the dark halls to the out-of-doors and through the quiet streets to his home.

The lights were on; Edith was still up. He gathered the last of his strength and made it up the front steps and into the living room. Then he knew he could go no farther; he was able to reach the couch and to sit down. After a moment he found the strength to reach into his vest pocket and take out his tube of pills. He put one in his mouth and swallowed it without water; then he took another. They were bitter, but the bitterness seemed almost pleasant.

He became aware that Edith had been walking about the room, going from one place to another; he hoped that she had not spoken to him. As the pain eased and as some of his strength returned, he realized that she had not; her face was set, her nostrils and mouth pinched, and she walked stiffly, angrily. He started to speak to her, but he decided that he could not trust his voice. He let himself wonder why she was angry; she had not been angry for a long time.

Finally she stopped moving about and faced him; her hands were fists and they hung at her sides. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

He cleared his throat and made his eyes focus. "I'm sorry, Edith." He heard his voice quiet but steady. "I'm a little tired, I guess."

"You weren't going to say anything at all, were you? Thoughtless. Didn't you think I had a right to know?"

For a moment he was puzzled. Then he nodded. If he had had more strength he would have been angry. "How did you find out?"

"Never mind that. I suppose everyone knows except me. Oh, Willy, honestly."

"I'm sorry, Edith, really, I am. I didn't want to worry you. I was going to tell you next week, just before I went in. It's nothing; you aren't to trouble yourself."

"Nothing!" She laughed bitterly. "They say it might be cancer. Don't you know what that means?"

He felt suddenly weightless, and he had to force himself not to clutch at something. "Edith," he said in a distant voice, 'let's talk about it tomorrow. Please. I'm tired now."

She looked at him for a moment. "Do you want me to help you to your room?" she asked crossly. "You don't look like you'll make it by yourself."

"I'm all right," he said.

But before he got to his room he wished he had let her help him--and not only because he found himself weaker than he had expected.

He rested Saturday and Sunday, and Monday he was able to meet his classes. He went home early, and he was lying on the living-room couch gazing interestedly at the ceiling when the doorbell rang. He sat upright and started to rise, but the door opened. It was Gordon Finch. His face was pale, and his hands were unsteady.

"Come in, Gordon," Stoner said.

"My God, Bill," Finch said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Stoner laughed shortly. "I might as well have advertised it in the newspapers," he said. "I thought I could do it quietly, without upsetting anyone."

"I know, but--Jesus, if I had known."

"There's nothing to get upset about. There's nothing definite yet--it's just an operation. Exploratory, I believe they call it. How did you find out anyway?"

"Jamison," Finch said. "He's my doctor too. He said he knew it wasn't ethical, but that I ought to know. He was right, Bill."