The Bradbury Report (45 page)

Alan stepped back.

“Not such a good job,” she said. “Let me try again.” She was using whatever was at hand, rallying what little remained.

“No thank you,” he said. “Don't try again.”

“You look sharp,” I said again.

From this point on, I would only watch.

“Very snazzy,” Anna said.

“Did you find a way for me?” he said to Anna.

I'm sure her instinct was to feign ignorance, but, to her credit, she didn't. “I don't want to, Alan. I don't want you to do this.”

“You said when the time came you would find a way for me. The time came.”

“Please,” she said.

“I say ‘Please' to you.”

“Let's sit and talk,” she said.

I felt my heart sag.

“What is the way, Anna?” he said. “How do I die?”

Anna sat down on the couch. Alan remained standing. “Did you find a way?” he said.

“I have a way,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Give me a minute,” she said. “I need just a minute.”

“All right.”

“Sit beside me. For just a minute.”

Alan sat down. She took his hand in both of her own. “His hand was dry and cool,” she would tell me later.

“I don't want you to die,” she said.

“I want to die,” he said.

“I know you do. I know you do.”

“What is the way you have?”

“Sit here,” she said. “Stay here with Ray.” She got up and went into the bedroom that was again Alan's. She'd put the envelope of pills the Tall Man gave us in a dresser drawer, underneath her socks. She took one of the two pills out of the envelope, and put the envelope back in the drawer, not bothering to hide it. There is no other way for me to imagine this.

She came back into the kitchen and filled a glass with tap water.

“Come with me,” she said to Alan. He followed her to the bedroom. I followed him.

“Have you got the way?” he said.

“I do,” she said.

“I don't know how to do it,” he said.

“I know you don't. I'll help you. Why don't you lie down?”

“Lie down on the bed?”

“Yes.”

“In my clothes?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Is that how you do it?”

“That's how you do it,” she said.

He lay down on the bed.

“Take this,” she said.

If this were going to happen, I wanted it over with. She handed him the pill and, without looking at it, he put it in his mouth.

“Drink some water,” she said.

Alan raised himself up, and he drank.

“Is this how you do it?” he said.

“Yes.” She sat down beside him. “Put your head in my lap.”

“Okay,” he said. “Do I close my eyes?”

“You can close your eyes,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “Thank you, Anna.”

She put her hand on his head. “What a fine boy you are.” She stroked his hair. “What a good man.”

I'm not sure he heard her say these things.

I left her alone with him and went to bed.

 

The Tall Man will be here at noon.

I have just enough time to end this.

 

I had not taken my medicine, and I did not sleep.

I had not before watched anyone die. Let alone . . . I don't know how to finish that sentence. I did not watch my father die. Or my mother. I was asleep in a chair beside her bed when Sara died. I stayed with her afterwards. I never saw my son.

I was sad to see Alan die. I was also relieved. That he would not have to face what he was facing. That Anna would not have to see him
taken. That it was over for him, and for us. Above all, I confess, I found Alan's death, the manner of it, his manner in it, instructive and inviting.

 

It was three in the morning when Anna came in. I could see her by the dim light of the lamp she'd left on in Alan's room. She sat down on the other bed.

“I'm awake,” I said. “If you want to talk.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I do want to talk.”

“Then please.”

She did not respond.

“I am sorry, Anna. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she said. “Are you?”

“I'm okay,” I said.

“I didn't cry,” she said. “I haven't cried.”

“If you want to, go ahead.”

“I sat stock still,” she said. “His head was in my lap. I looked at him. His eyes were closed. I was grateful for that. I didn't move. I was afraid to move. As though I might wake him. I didn't sleep, or only minutes at a time. I don't know. After a couple of hours, he was stiff and cold. I may be wrong about how long this took. I thought about taking the second pill myself. That would have been melodramatic. It would have been perverse. I want to see my children again. I'm ashamed to say I allowed myself to feel some relief.”

“Of course you did,” I said. “How could you not?”

“No. And I took comfort—I'm ashamed to say this, too—reminding myself that I love my sons and daughter, my grandkids, more than I ever loved Alan. If I loved him. I told myself I was now free to go back to them.”

“You are,” I said. “You will.”

“I'm not free,” she said.

She stood up and began to undress. She took off her blouse. “What am I doing?” she said. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what I'm doing.”

“It's all right,” I said. “Don't worry. It doesn't matter.”

“Why doesn't it matter?” she said. “Because I'm an old woman?”

“Because I'm an old man,” I said. “And we've been through it.”

“We have,” she said. “We have been through it. We did our best. Didn't we?”

“You did,” I said. “You were great.”

“Thanks. I couldn't have done it alone. You hear people say that. But I could not have done it alone.”

“You could have,” I said. “You pretty much did.”

“Maybe I could have. But you've been a great help to me. You've been brave. And steady.”

“I've been tired,” I said. “Worn out.”

She finished undressing.

“He was a beautiful, sweet boy, Ray.”

“He was a good kid,” I said.

Then she said, “I'm coming in with you. I need to be held. I need to be close to someone.” Before I could object—I might well have objected—she got into my bed. “Not just anyone,” she said. “I need to be close to you. Do you mind?”

“No. That's fine,” I said.

It had been forty years since I'd slept with someone in the same bed. I was as unhabituated as one could be.

“I just want to be close,” she said.

“It's okay,” I said.

“Then relax.”

“I'm worried I don't smell very good.”

“You smell fine,” she said. “You smell like an old man.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm no gardenia,” she said.

“What if I snore?”

“I'll move over.”

“What if you snore?” I said.

“You're out of luck.”

We were quiet a while, then she laughed brittlely and said, “I'm a girl who'll stop at nothing.”

She didn't say another word. She began to cry. She tried to be
quiet. I closed my eyes and listened to her sob. I held her. She held me. We were like two . . . I don't know what. Like two old stagers sharing a doom. Like failed conspirators. War buddies. Not like lovers. Or family. Like two old friends, come together one last time.

 

She fell asleep in my arms. In the morning, at six, when I woke her—I didn't sleep; sleep would have been superfluous—she was on the other side of the bed.

“What's going on?” she said. She was not fully awake.

“I'm sorry to wake you like this,” I said, “but I need to talk to you. Can you get up?”

“Has something happened to Alan?”

“Nothing more.”

“I feel like I should check on him,” she said.

“I don't think you should, Anna. I don't think you should see him.”

“What's happened, Ray? What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Jesus.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No,” she said.

“I can't talk like this,” I said. “Here's what I want you to do. I want you to get out of bed and put your clothes on. Will you please do that?”

“All right,” she said.

When she was dressed she said, “Can I go pee?”

“Sure,” I said. “But come back.”

She left the room. When she came back, I was sitting on the edge of my bed. She sat down on her bed. “That poor boy,” she said.

“Listen to me,” I said. I'd spent the night planning what I would say. “I want you to get your things together, a few things, and then I want you to get out of here. Right away.”

“Whoa,” she said. “Where am I going?

“Wherever you like,” I said.

“I'll stay with you,” she said.

“That won't be necessary.”

“I want to,” she said.

“I need you to go, Anna. I want to be alone now. I want to finish my report before the Tall Man gets here.”

“And then?”

“Then I want to be alone. I'm tired. I want to rest.”

“I'll let you rest,” she said. “I'll help you.”

“No,” I said. “I won't need your help. You need to go. All right?”

“No,” she said.

“Please, Anna, do what I say. Go into my closet and take out the duffle bag. Please do this.”

She got the duffle bag.

“Put it on the bed, okay?”

She did that, too.

“Now take out my stuff,” I said. “Just dump it on the bed.”

“Tell me what I'm doing,” she said.

“You're dumping out my stuff.”

“Why?”

“I want you to leave the boot socks in the bag. That money is yours.”

“I don't want the money,” she said.

“So you've said. At the bottom of the bag there's an envelope. Do you see it?”

“Of course I see it,” she said.

“Leave that in the bag, too. It's a copy of my will. If you lose it, the lawyer has a copy. My estate goes to you.”

“I don't want it.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then give it to your children. Or put it aside for their children. Or give it to charity. You can do with it whatever you like. When you feel settled, contact the lawyer. His name and number are on the document. He's the executor. Tell him I've died. Tell him how to contact you. It'll take a year or so for the estate to
clear probate. But you'll have the money in the socks to tide you over.”

“You haven't died, Ray.”

“I want you to put a few of your things in the bag, and then I want you to get out of here. Get a cab. Go to the airport. Get on a plane. Go somewhere nice. Fly to Vancouver. Or Victoria. Go back to Montreal. You liked it there. Leave the country. Go to Europe. Scotland. Italy. Go anywhere you want. Anywhere you've wanted to go.” I admit talking to her like this, giving commands, taking charge—whether or not she was giving me, as a parting gift, the illusion of control—felt good. “When you get there,” I said, “buy yourself whatever you need. A whole new set of clothes. A new suitcase to put them in. After a while, send for your children. Or you go to them.”

“I don't know,” she said.

“
I
know,” I said. “This is what I want you to do, Anna. This is what I need you to do, right away. I don't want to discuss it. I just want you to do it.”

“What about Alan?” she said.

“The Tall Man will be here at noon. He'll take care of Alan.”

“He'll be furious,” she said.

“I won't care.”

“What if he doesn't show up?”

“We have that reader. Leave it with me. When you're gone, when I've finished the report, I'll push the button. If that doesn't bring him, I'll smash the thing. He'll get the idea.”

“What will they do with him?”

“What can they do with him?” I said. “They'll bury him. Cremate him. Whatever they do.”

“What if they use him?”

“How?” I said. “For what?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Don't think about it.”

“How can I not?” she said.

I admit, too, I was surprised that without further argument, she seemed, then, to acquiesce.

 

I've nearly done.

I'd like to think that in this report I will have accomplished something worthy.

 

It took Anna about an hour to get her things together. She was in and out of Alan's room, which must have been terrible for her. I'd gotten back into bed and begun writing the last section of my report. She came into the bedroom. She'd washed and dressed and packed. She was ready to go. She sat down beside me on the bed.

“I'll get up,” I said. “I'll see you off.”

“You don't need to do that,” she said. “I know the way.”

She put her hand on my knee. “I'll miss you, Ray. You know what? I've spent too much of my life missing you.”

“I'll miss you, too,” I said.

“It's kind of you to say that.”

“I mean it.”

“And thanks for the money. The socks and the other. I won't know what to do with all of it. You're a generous man.”