Other Plans (27 page)

That was as good a word as any to sum it all up, he figured. He got up and said in an almost normal voice, “Get off the can so I can clean it, will you?”

“Christ, John, I'm sorry.” Keith looked as it he were about to bust out crying. “I can't tell you how sorry I am. Here I am, shooting off my mouth as usual, laying my troubles on you, and you've got the big trouble. What can I do?”

“Nothing.” He poured more soap powder into his bucket and filled it at the sink. “You got a toilet brush? Something to wash it out with? I can't very well use my hands, can I. The place smells like a cat latrine, for God's sake.”

Keith fumbled behind the toilet. “Is this all right?”

“It's sort of bald,” he said, “but if it's all you've got, it'll have to do.”

He washed out the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, contemplated his work with a critical eye. “If you have any Windex, ammonia, anything like that, I can clean off the mirror, too, in case you want to look at yourself.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Keith said, producing an almost empty bottle of sudsy ammonia.

“My mother. She thinks boys should know how to clean the bathroom.” He lifted his shoulders so they almost touched his earlobes. “She's some hot ticket, my mother.”

Keith was looking at him. “Is it the big C?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The docs figure six months is the max.” Now that he'd told Keith, he found he could talk about it dispassionately.

“That's terrible, John. I'm sorry as hell,” Keith said.

“Thanks. I'm doing the best I can, but it's hard. My father's not the easiest guy in the world to talk to. He clams up. He doesn't let me in on what he's thinking or feeling. It must be awful for him. I'd like to help him, but he won't let me.”

“If that happened to my father,” Keith said slowly, “I guess I'd feel bad. Even if I don't see him very often. I'd feel bad, sure, but it wouldn't be like you and your father. He's there when you need him. He's not selfish, like mine. My old man operates on the theory that he's the most important man in his life. He's in love with only one person, and that's himself. Your father loves you, all of you.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“You know he does. If ever I saw a father who loves his family, it's yours.”

Poor Keith. “How do you know your father doesn't love you? In his own way?” he said.

“Maybe in his own way, he does.” Keith's voice was sarcastic. “But his own way is pretty shitty.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“If it's that little lizard coming for the rent again,” Keith said savagely, sticking out his jaw pugnaciously, “I'll blow him away. He'll never know what hit him.”

“That suit will stop him from going anywhere,” he said.

“Hello, darling!” he heard Keith's mother cry. He went out to the living room. “Hello, John. How nice to see you.” Mrs. Madigan put down her small bag and turned to Keith. “Can you pay the taxi driver, darling? I haven't a sou to my name.”

“Neither do I,” Keith said evenly. “I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow.”

“I wasn't. But it was such a beautiful day and I felt so good, I packed my things, called a cab, and here I am.” She clasped her hands in front of her and said, “Aren't you glad to see me?”

A horn bleated below, sounding like an angry sheep.

“Ask him to wait, will you, darling? Call down, tell him the money is on its way.” She went into her bedroom and returned waving a twenty-dollar bill triumphantly. “I just remembered I put this in my jewel box. Isn't that fortuitous! Will you pay the driver, darling, and tell him to keep the change.”

When the door had closed on Keith, John said, “We were cleaning up the joint so you wouldn't be grossed out when you got home.”

“Oh, you are darlings!” she exclaimed, taking off her shoes and running her fingers through her hair. “It's marvelous to be out of there. You have no idea, John.”

He smiled foolishly. “Well, I better split. Sure glad you're home, Mrs. Madigan. Keith's been worried about you.” He wanted her to know Keith worried about her. She followed him out to the kitchen as he put his cleaning stuff back under the sink. “Stay for dinner, John, why don't you? I'll whip up something exotic.”

“No, thanks. I really have to go. Thanks anyway.”

She laid her hands on his shoulders and said, “I feel so much better about Keith knowing you're his friend. He really loves you, John.” Her eyes glittered ominously and he backed off so her hands fell away from him. If she started getting emotional, things wouldn't be good.

“Right. So long,” and he fled.

Outside, he met Keith coming toward him, counting a handful of bills.

“I tipped the guy fifty cents,” Keith told him, pocketing the money. “He gave me some flak, but I told him I needed it more than he did. ‘Keep the change,' she says.” Keith snorted in disgust.

“Listen,” John said, “if you feel like talking, I'm your man.” Keith put out his hand and they shook on it.

He jogged all the way home. By the time he got to his own street, he had a painful stitch in his side. I'm out of shape, he thought. Sixteen years old and already I'm out of shape. What's this country coming to. He could picture the headline in tomorrow's papers:
TEENAGER COLLAPSES, DIES, WHILE JOGGING
. Up ahead, he could make out lights in his house.

They were home, waiting.

23

Everywhere he went, the news was not good. Friends, neighbors, children, the young as well as the susceptible old were being pulled into the vortex of terminal illness.

His body had betrayed him. His genes had let him down. His luck had run out. Somehow, he'd never thought this would happen to him. Others, yes. But not him. Or any member of his family. Spare them, Lord, keep them safe. I'll make a deal with you. Anything you want, anything. Only keep them safe.

Maybe this was the deal: his life for their safety. If he could hang on to that thought, it might make things easier.

He still couldn't believe it. Even after listening to Ben's carefully worded sentences, seeing the pain in Ben's face at having to impart the news, it didn't seem real. There must be some mistake.

The nights were the worst. He had taken to waking on the stroke of three, as if an alarm had gone off inside his head. At first, he was fool enough to think he might tug on the ragged edges of sleep, pull them around himself once more. Then he came to grips with the knowledge that sleep had flown. Music soothed him. He went downstairs and turned on the stereo, very low so that no one would be disturbed. After several such nights, John said, “You can use my headphones, Dad, if you want.” He had always made fun of John and those idiotic headphones.

“Thank you,” he managed to say with difficulty, “that might be a good idea.” John must have heard him, late at night, listening to his golden oldies. What a good, tactful boy he was.

All things considered, his life had been rewarding. A beautiful, loving wife, good children, a good marriage. A job he liked, one that made him feel he was contributing something. Enough money. Not a plenitude, but enough. The respect of those he respected. Friends.

But he needed more time. He had thought he was good for another twenty, maybe even twenty-five years. Actuarial tables had practically promised him that much time. A minimum of that much time. It had just showed you couldn't count on anything.

Once or twice the thought had sneaked into his consciousness that Ceil might die before he did. He did not think he could bear up under that. Now he wouldn't have to. Ceil would prevail over her grief, would probably marry again. He had the financial thing worked out pretty well. There was enough for the children's education. Ceil might want to sell the house, buy something smaller. John would help with the lawn, the garden. The thought of his garden calmed him. The minute the frost was out of the ground, he would start digging. No matter what.

But there must be some mistake.

Leslie came back, pulled by Grandy's visit.

“Why didn't you come last week when I was here?” she cried, embracing her grandfather.

“You're grown up, Les,” Grandy said, holding her at arm's length. “When I wasn't looking, you turned from a little girl into a big one.”

“Not girl, Grandy,” she said. “Woman.”

She went to her room to settle in. John was home. He made the mistake of following her. He should've known better.

“If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being treated like a child,” she said, turning on him. It could've been him talking. “What is it, John?” She brought her nose up to his.

“Will you tell me what's going on?”

He backed off and said, “What's with lover-boy Varney?”

“Is it Mother or Daddy?” she pursued. “Is something wrong with them?”

“I have to go now,” he said. She grabbed him and hung on. He always forgot how strong she was.

“Tell me,” she commanded. He broke away. He was strong, too. Pretty soon she would no longer be able to deck him and sit on his stomach, bouncing up and down while she farted and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a trick she had perfected in the ninth grade.

He attempted to escape, but Les tripped him and sent him sprawling. It was as if they were children again and he had taken one of her prized possessions and was making off with it.

“I've a right to know, John.” She stood over him. “It's my family as much as it is yours.”

He lay where he was, looking up at her. “It's Dad,” he said. “He wants to tell you, Les, but he's scared.”

She ran. He could hear her footsteps pounding down the stairs.

He put on his parka and went outside. The sky was pale lemon and apricot. A few sparse clouds scuttled to make it behind the horizon before the dark closed in. He went down to the pond to investigate any changes since the last time. There was still a skin of ice on the water. With his heel he pushed at it to break the coating. Water welled up, covering his boot. He thought again of the three little brothers who fell through the ice in New Hampshire. So long ago that seemed, yet it had happened only last month. So much had happened. He wondered if it would be safe to go back inside. It will never be safe again.

His mother was at the stove, tasting something on the end of a long-handled wooden spoon. She liked to taste, to season, taste again. She said it was part of the fun of cooking.

He shut the door noisily and she looked up, startled.

“Did he tell her yet, Ma?”

She looked at him and he thought she might be on one of those tranquilizers American women were supposedly addicted to. In fact, he had heard his mother talk disapprovingly of women who took pills in order to cope. But that was before she had all this to cope with.

“Your father is talking with Leslie now,” she said. “Would you get down the green salad plates, please, John? Our strength is as the strength of ten because our hearts are pure. We don't have much time left. We've got to use every minute wisely.”

She must have a book up in her room entitled
How to Deal With Death
.

“Don't forget the salt and pepper, John,” she said, and went out to set the table.

“The doctor says it's cancer, Les.” One down, plenty more to go.

“Oh, Daddy.” She took him in her arms, almost as if she were the parent and he the child. “Oh, darling Daddy. Cancer doesn't mean you have to die. Not anymore it doesn't. A girl I know at school told me her father had cancer of the mouth and was given a ten percent chance of recovery if he took chemotherapy instead of having an operation, which would've meant he couldn't talk anymore, and he took the chemo and he's cured. Cured, Daddy.” Leslie's eyes glistened as she told him of this miracle. “So you see. It will be all right.” She kissed him and he almost believed her. He had passed the worst hurdle. He needn't have dreaded telling her. He had left some vital parts out, but the initial hurdle had been passed.

Oh, yes, the nights were very bad. And this night, when he'd told Leslie at last, outdid all the others. Leslie, the eternal optimist. She was so sure, so positive in her beliefs, she could almost lure him into thinking she might have something.

He would continue to grapple with life. He had made up his mind. He had read of miracles and knew in his heart there would be no miracle for him. But he had weeks, days, left to live. And he had his family gathered together now. The house throbbed with their breathing, their life. All the people he held most dear were there, under his roof. He protected them still.

Death doesn't end anything, he told himself. Not believing it. Not an original thought, either. He had read it somewhere. Dying is a beginning of a kind. I am not interested in death. I reject the whole idea.

I want to see another spring.

Beside him, Ceil stirred. “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

He pulled at the corner of her pillow to make her stop. Then he put his own pillow over his head, not wanting to hear what more she might say in her sleep. And to smother the sounds he felt rising in his throat and wasn't sure he could contain.

Death is a beginning.

But I haven't reached the end yet. I'm not ready for a beginning until I've reached the end.

I'm hanging on for dear life.

Dear life. That's just what it is.

24

He woke with a start, hearing voices. There was light in the room. It must be close to dawn. Then he saw that the light was reflected from the kitchen windows, shining into his room. He got out of bed and put on the camouflage suit over his underwear. He'd taken lately to sleeping in his underwear for no good reason except he had a feeling he should be prepared. For what he didn't know. He was anxious about everything now, things he'd never given a thought to before.