Terminal

Cancer. Terminal cancer. Growing at an alarming rate. One month to live, probably . . . I was going to have to tell John. He would have to watch over Michelle and T. J. for me. I took another look at the school. That was where I’d met Michelle. Where we’d first started dating. How was I going to tell her? I couldn’t. There was no way. It would destroy her. Eventually, I replaced Dr. Dre with Tupac, and continued on down the road. Snubbing a cigarette out in the ashtray, I coughed, felt something loosen in my throat, caught it in my hand, and looked. My palm was slick with blood and saliva. Nothing new— that had been going on for weeks. But now I knew why. Before this, I’d figured it was just a sinus infection. Lots of guys get them from the foundry dust.

I wiped my hand on my pants as I drove by Genova’s Italian Restaurant. They had the best subs in the fucking world; fresh rolls piled high with meat and cheese and veggies. I was definitely going to miss those. I was going to miss a lot of things.

On my way out of town, I passed by the big hill that John and I used to sled down every winter when we were kids. Past the newsstand where I’d gotten my first summer job, delivering weekly newspapers (I’d toss them all in a Dumpster behind the Laundromat and collect my pay from the newsstand owner— lasted three weeks before he caught on). Past the bowling alley, where Michelle and I would go sometimes, when we could find a babysitter for Tommy Junior (I haven’t told you much about T. J. yet— but I will. It just hurts to talk about it, you know?). Past the Fire Hall, where we had our wedding reception. Past the movie theater that still showed The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight on Saturdays. Past the strip mall and the fast-food joints.

Past my whole world. My entire existence. The place I’d known for twenty-five years. It wasn’t much, but I liked it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d liked it until that moment. I mean, I hated this fucking town; the smell of the foundry hung over everything and the dirt from it coated our cars, and the people here just seemed so beaten. They looked tired and worn-out. They didn’t wish for a better life, because they didn’t know that one was possible. All they knew was taxes and late charges and shutoff notices and interest and child support payments. The town was full of churches and temples: Take your pick— Catholic, Episcopalian, Jewish, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, we even had a Mormon temple. But despite all those choices of worship, the town had no faith. No belief. The only thing the people of Hanover believed in was that no matter how bad things were, something worse was lurking around the corner. I’ve got to admit, I thought this way too. I called it my “Theory of Gravity”— no matter how high you flew, gravity was there to pull your ass back down and smash you to bits. Everything was so run-down— the buildings, the people, the cars— everything. But despite all that, right then, I loved it. I loved it all.