The Crime Writer

I turned, and there he was, holding a tray loaded with dirty teacups, bowls filled with uneaten food, and a crusted washcloth. His back was slightly stooped, as though the tray were pulling him downward, and his eyes looked sunken and weary.

I released the doorknob, took the tray from him, and set it by the sink.

"I don't mean it in a creepy way," he said. "The colors, if you detach yourself. Burnt oranges and greens and deep blues. Like an autumn bouquet. It's beautiful, death." He looked up, his expression blank, dazed. "But not dying. No, dying's quite awful."

"She okay?"

"Her line worked its way out. Blood spray on the sheets, her clothes, the floor. It happens."

He shuffled over a half step and slid into the kitchen chair.

I said, "Do you want me to go? Maybe you want to be alone?"

Lloyd picked at the edge of his place mat. "And the clothes that are comfortable. That provide… access." He blew out his cheeks. "Terry cloth. Polyester. I should design elegant deathwear. I'd make a fortune."

I eased into the chair next to him. He stared at his place, me at mine. We were like two dinner companions with nothing to eat.

"She's wrapped up in the awful business of dying. Moving her car registration into my name. Signing off on the pension. I keep begging her to stop. She needed some bridgework done last month, four grand. She looked at the dentist with this… this resigned expression and asked, 'Can it hold?' " He shook his head and covered his eyes. His face contorted into a sob, but no sound came out, and when he removed his hand, there were no tears. "'Can it hold?' " He shook his head. "She said it's because she doesn't want to go through the pain in the ass of it who wouldn't avoid the dentist? but she's from New England stock way back, spends money like she's opening a vein. I'll be fine, money, but she's worried. And I just… I just want her to have a new dental bridge, Drew. That's all I want. This woman deserves that. She's forty-two. Forty-two. Nineteen when she married me. You'd think twenty-three years was a long time, but it feels like…" He made a whisking sound through his teeth, as if shooing a cat, then shuddered off a thought. "I'm rambling. I'm rambling."

With a shaking hand, he poured himself another rum, upending the empty bottle into one of the trash bags, and added a splash of Coke. He pinched crumbs on the table into a stray napkin. Why? What did it matter? How did any of it matter to him? Rising when his alarm clock bleated. Picking out clothes. Filling up his gas tank. The mundane business of life. And yet he endured, he and Janice, staring into the face of it day after crushing day. What choice did he have? What choice did she?

He noticed me watching him and crumpled up the napkin nervously, as if he'd been caught doing something shameful. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that he could poke all he wanted at those crumbs, left behind like the ghost footprint in the Birkenstock.

At some age it occurs to you that this aging thing is for real. That you've done both loop-da-loops and there's only the corkscrew left before you have to disembark. The ride doesn't last forever no shit but there's one definable moment when the cold, hard fact of it hits you in the gut. Mine was the summer when I was thirty-three, a Sunday night after another lost weekend. I was the age of Jesus and had accomplished relatively little by comparison. Through a haze of shower steam, I'd stared at myself in the mirror and noticed a new web of wrinkles suspending each eye. I'd sat on the brim of the tub, head thick with last night's booze and the crushing weight of the obvious. The reality had been there all along, like the key to a well-crafted mystery, but I'd averted my eyes, tuned out, drunk myself into mind-numbing stillness.

Now's the slot for the painful confession, though mine is as banal as those crumbs I deployed to such grand literary effect. After my mother's third stroke, when she was teetering at the cliff edge, ravaged in mind, her face caved in on itself like that of someone two decades her elder, when the nurse gave me that final solemn nod, Now is the time, Drew, I froze outside her door. I couldn't go into her room. The thought suddenly, powerfully, terrified me. She likely wouldn't have recognized me anyway it'd been weeks since she had but that proved scant consolation. My father, bless him, never judged me. Not a flicker of disapproval in his eyes then or in the year and a half he lived after. That day, outside my dying mother's room, he kissed me on the forehead and left me in the corridor, gripping the silver-lever door handle as if I were going to get it together and enter the room at any instant, though I knew I wouldn't. With my head pressed to the door, shamed beyond description by my cowardice, I heard that blipping monitor smooth out into a flatline.

"Lloyd," I said, "I am so goddamned sorry for what you two are going through."