After that we moved back inside the house, and I lay Will down on Michael’s bed, where he always liked to fall asleep. I did the dishes while the men sat in the living room and talked. At one point, Michael came into the kitchen, moved close behind me, and put his arms around me. “You and Rosa,” he said quietly, and there was less irony than admiration in his voice. He put the flat of one hand to my belly, and I laid my hand over his, pressing down, so that he could feel the baby move. “Ah,” he said and kissed the back of my neck, then moved to the refrigerator for beer. “Heineken?” he yelled, and Dennis yelled back, “Great.”
When I finished the dishes, I came into the living room and waited for the evening’s entertainment: Michael had finally broken down and gotten a phone and had left a message on a more forward-thinking friend’s message machine to call him when she got home so that he could hear it ring. We waited, idly chatting, until it did ring, and then we all stared in wonder at the thing—we had slipped into Michael mode, as people often did when they visited there. You walked onto his land, and within a few minutes, the rest of the world fell away. So when Michael’s new phone rang, it was as though a Martian had landed, and I suppose in some respects it had—Michael had by then gone a very long time without a phone—for years he’d had to walk half a mile down the road to his neighbor’s if he needed to make or receive a call. But he hardly ever did need to. He wrote letters, is what he did. He wrote, You’ll forgive my silence. Winter is knocking at the door and I’m far away from completing fall’s chores. Firewood in these parts is not a luxury. In deepest summer, he wrote: A picnic lunch on the newly erected breezeway of Anne and Peter Sullivan. Rhubarb crisp took first place here, followed closely by the sweet corn, then by the honey wheat-berry bread, served still warm from the oven. No offense to the tomatoes, which also deserved a high place in the running, but which are too often and easily praised. Often, he wrote about his inability to stay with women: Disheartening to see how soon the straw begins to suck air. I suppose I admire your willingness to hang tough in your marriage, despite your complaints. I never could argue for trying to force a relationship. Once my mind has decided there’s no future, I’d rather read a book. Still, it’s awfully humiliating to find oneself masturbating his way through his forties and into his fifties. Especially on those nights I beg off to my own self, pleading the proverbial headache. I’m afraid that the state of my love life might best be summed up by the state of my refrigerator: I have plenty of margarine, but I’m low on the high-priced spread.
Once, sadly, he wrote, I came home to find little Sophie dead at the side of the road. She had gotten out of the house somehow and engaged in her bad habit of car chasing. She was a pretty dog, with a pleasantly blocky face and silken ears, and she was full of life and good humor, as Rosa’s puppies always are. Her dance card turned out far shorter than I’d anticipated, and I buried her this morning with a regret that seemed barely able to be contained. I put her next to Mona, who lived a far longer time but less happily, I think. (You might remember Mona as the Lab mix I got at the shelter who never would lay off licking her forepaw. On a hot afternoon, it could get on your nerves.) Sophie lies not far from the brook she loved to swim in. I expect it will take a while before I can visit her there. But you know one of her virtues was patience. That and licking the grease off the hamburger wrapper without ripping it up, allowing for a much appreciated ease of disposal.
His stationery moved from blue fountain pen on brown Eaton pages to pulpy lined paper he found at the dump (Reams! he said. If you like, you can have some, too. It makes you feel young to write on this) to the back of flyers and of solicitations that came in the mail. Then he began reusing envelopes from those solicitors, ironically highlighting their gaudy call outs in one way or another before he taped the envelopes shut. When he visited, he gently chided me for the paper cup dispenser I had in the children’s bathroom. Dennis suggested at one point that Michael was going round the bend; I hotly defended him.
The fall after we’d moved to yet another, bigger, house (the last one! Dennis and I promised each other), we invited Michael and several others of our friends for Thanksgiving dinner, and Michael didn’t show. Finally, we all sat down to eat without him, and the phone rang. “It’s Michael,” I said. “Go ahead and start.” I had been fearful that we had fatally offended Michael with this last acquisition—it was a really big house—and that he was calling to say he’d decided he’d rather not be faced with yet another evening of values clashing. I figured he’d say, as he often had before, that it worked best when I came up to see him, and why didn’t I do that, soon. But it was not Michael on the phone. Rather it was his brother, Sam, whom I’d never met. He told me that Michael had asked him to call and explain that he’d not be able to come to dinner. He was in the hospital. He’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor. And what did I do? I laughed. I said, “What?” Then I burst into tears, and then I immediately stopped crying and apologized. I said, “What can we do to help?” Dennis came into the room and put his hand to the small of my back, a question, and I grabbed on to it and squeezed. Michael’s brother said it might be nice if we visited him at the hospital, but not that night, as he’d had a lot of visitors already. I said we’d go tomorrow, and his brother said maybe in a few days would be best: his surgery was tomorrow.
I hung up the phone and said to Dennis, “Let’s just eat. I’ll tell you later.”
After we got into bed, I told Dennis what Michael’s brother had told me. We said the usual things: How could this be, what did this mean, what if he dies. We talked about the last time we saw him, how he had seemed fine. And then Dennis said, “I always wondered. Did you ever sleep with him?” I said no. He said, “Maybe you should.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Yeah.”
“Well, which is it? ‘I don’t know’ or ‘Yeah’?”
“I guess it’s ‘Do you want to?’”
“No, Dennis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that.” He turned out the light and rubbed my arm. “I don’t know why I said that. I guess I always thought you two were attracted to each other. And now that he’s…Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”
We lay awake, silent, for a long time. Another episode of off-the-mark communication, a problem in our marriage, as I supposed it was in countless others. So many of us dream of complete honesty in our love relationships, believing it to be the way to achieve true intimacy. Then we discover that the truth can be dangerous, even cruel, and we struggle with what to offer and what to withhold.
It wasn’t true that I didn’t want to sleep with Michael. I’d always wanted to sleep with him, and all these years later, I still did, and I thought I understood the confused generosity of my husband. He was making an offering of his wife against sorrow and fear, and in deepest friendship. He had assumed, for a moment, at least, the wide perspective that the prospect of death can bring.
And so the cards. The phone calls. The visits to the hospital bearing homemade soup, books, funny slippers. The hope that the tests would come back one way, and they came back another. The hope again, that maybe he would defy the odds. Then, finally, the end of the road. Everything tried; nothing successful. What was left was for him to go home and try to keep comfortable for as long as possible.
We visited often at first, Dennis and I. All Michael’s friends did. But our visits fell off: the distance, the necessity of living our own lives, the way one becomes used to anything, even a good friend dying.
In mid-July, I got a call from Michael’s brother asking if I could drive Michael to the hospital the next day; he couldn’t stay at home any longer, even with all of his friends and neighbors checking in on him, it wasn’t safe. His doctor had called Sam that morning and told him it was time. Sam asked if I could deliver Michael to Mass General tomorrow by four; Sam couldn’t, because he himself was hospitalized for a hernia repair. He could ask one of Micha
el’s other friends, but they’d already done so much, and they were all so busy at this time of year. Could I do it? Yes, I said, yes, of course.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Sam asked.
I confessed, guiltily, that it had been a few weeks.
“Be prepared. He’s pretty bad off now. He might need help with…He might need help. He’s not walking too well.”
“I’ll take care of everything,” I said and hung up the phone as though it were made of thinnest glass.
I arrived the next day much later than I’d intended; there’d been a bad accident on the turnpike that had stopped traffic, then slowed it for miles. I pulled up to the house and saw Michael on the front porch, in the rocker. I stepped out of the car, and he watched me walk over to him. His hair was cut wildly unevenly; shocks of it stuck up here and there amid areas that had been shaved close to his head. “Hey,” I said.
“Come for the gipper, huh?” He lit a cigarette.
I sat on the steps beside him and stared out into the woods. This view. This land. This house.
“I’m not going,” he said.
I turned to face him, and he leaned in closer to me. “Do you blame me?”
“Michael,” I said.
He held out his pack of Camels. “Cigarette?”
I had never smoked. “No, thanks,” I told him. “I’ll wait for you to finish. But then I have to take you to the hospital. I’m sorry I got here late; we’ll have to leave right away, I’m afraid.”
He squinted up at the sky, a cloudless blue.
“I have to pee,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I cut through the house to get to the privy, and saw Michael’s calendar on his desk. He’d written things on there, but it was not his usual penmanship, and things were grossly misspelled: Simfhoany with M.! he’d written on one of the days. I put my hand over my mouth and looked at other entries, all misspelled and some completely unintelligible. Then I moved to the window and looked out at the back of Michael’s head, those tufts of hair. He moved the rocker gently back and forth. He was wearing untied sneakers, a pair of gray corduroy pants, and a pink dress shirt, the sleeves unbuttoned. There was a plastic bottle beside him with what looked like sediment from apple juice coating the bottom. I wondered if he’d eaten. I wondered if he could answer accurately if I asked him. I wouldn’t ask him. I’d just make him something and offer it to him, and then we’d have to go.
When I went back into the house, I opened the refrigerator. A terrible stench came from there—it seemed as though every single thing in it was rancid. I closed it quickly and moved over to the shelves, looking for crackers. There were some wheat crackers, and I brought the box outside. I held it out to Michael, and he said, “What’s this?” in a way that made me wonder if he was asking literally. “I thought maybe you might want to eat something,” I said. “Got some crackers here. Are you hungry?”
He pooched his lips out, as though he were considering, then said, “When was the last time you were flossed?”
I half laughed. “What—?”
He reached out and grabbed my crotch.
“Michael.” I pushed his hand away.
He turned from me and stared straight ahead. He lit another cigarette, though one already burned in the ashtray. “You know, you’ve got one going,” I told him.
A car came down the road, pulled into the driveway, and a man stepped out, slammed the door, and looked up with a big smile on his face. It quickly disappeared. “Michael?”
Michael stood, and I saw that his pants were barely hanging on. He’d lost so much weight. He hiked them up, then stood there with his hands on his hips. “I know you.”
The man nodded. “I was your summer helper a few years ago.”
“Don.”
“Well, it’s Bradley, actually.”
“Bradley,” Michael said. “I remember.”
I introduced myself. I was trying to think of a way to tell the man what was happening here. But then Michael said, “I’ve been sick. Had a little brain surgery.”
Bradley nodded vigorously.
Michael put his arm around me. “This is a friend who’s come up to visit.” He stumbled and sat back down heavily in the rocker. “Christ.”
“Well,” Bradley said, “I won’t keep you, then.”
Michael rocked in his chair. “No.”
“I just was out here in the area and remembered you, and thought I’d stop by.”
Michael rocked and rocked.
“It was a nice summer,” Bradley said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who knew so much about so many things. I still miter corners the exact way you showed me. I still play the Mozart tape you gave me, play it most every morning while I shave.”
Michael stopped rocking and stared sadly ahead.
“So anyway. Just wanted to stop by…. I’ll come back another day, I know this isn’t a good time.”
“Another day,” Michael said. “Yes.”
“Okay, then, take care, Michael.” Bradley got back in his car and drove off. I had seen a wedding ring on his finger, and I imagined the conversation he’d have with his spouse later on. “Jesus, can you imagine? I didn’t know what to do.”
A great tenderness arose in me, and I embraced Michael from behind, put my arm loosely around his neck and kissed the top of his head. “Yup,” he said.
“We have to go, sweetheart.”
“Where?” he whispered.
“I have to take you to the hospital. Sam was going to do it, but he can’t.”
“Hernia repair,” Michael said.
“Yes.” I closed my eyes. “Yes, that’s right.”
Michael stood and started for the house. “Be right back,” he said. I waited on the porch for a while, wondering where Sally the pig had gone. Michael’s friends who lived in the area had done a lot to help, and one of the things they’d done was to find homes for the animals. Not a single one was left, not even a dog. The grass grew high in the pens; the gates were all open. The potter down the road had told me they’d left the oldest cocker with him for a while, Lilly was her name, but he hadn’t been able to care for her—forgot to feed her, to let her in and out. “I bring her by to visit,” the woman had said. “Lately, though, he doesn’t really seem to care.”
From inside, I heard a crash, and I ran into the house. Michael was by the refrigerator, loading things into a box. A bottle had broken, and the contents were spreading out over the floor. I grabbed some of the newspaper he used for paper towels and began mopping up what looked like it might have been salad dressing. Michael continued packing the reeking contents of the refrigerator. I sat back on my heels. “Michael.”
“Yeah.” A cigarette dangled from his mouth, the ash long.
“What are you doing?”
“No point in everything going to waste.”
“It’s rotten.”
He ignored me, continued packing. I stood and put my hand on his arm. “Michael, it’s rotten.”
He kept on putting things into the box: limp vegetables, greenish bacon. His hands were shaking. “Let me,” I said, gently. “I’ll do it for you. Wait for me outside in the rocker, okay?” He shuffled away, and I continued mopping up the floor. I was hoping that he’d forget about this—that when I was done cleaning up, we could just get in the car and go. I felt terrible that I was doing such a bad job at the relatively simple task I’d been assigned. I gave the floor one last swipe, put the food back into the refrigerator, and went outside. No sign of Michael. I came back in, climbed the ladder to the loft, and saw him lying on his bed, smoking.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.” He didn’t move except to tap ashes off his cigarette and onto the covers of the un-made bed.
I stepped closer. “Might not want to do that.”
He took in another drag, exhaled upward.
“Michael?”
He looked over at me.
“Do you want me to pack anything?”
“For what?”
&nbs
p; “To bring to the hospital?”
He lay his cigarette down on the bed and pulled the half-full pack from his pocket to shake out another one.
I leaned over and grabbed the cigarette he’d put down. It had burned a small black hole into the spread.
Michael flicked his lighter and tried to light the other cigarette. I took it and the lighter from him. He stared at me as though he were contemplating what he might do next. But then he just shut his eyes and turned onto his side.
He was a big man. I couldn’t haul him out of there. And I couldn’t leave him. I sat on the bed beside him. “Michael, will you please come with me? Please.”
He sat up but raised a finger, wait. He turned toward the open window. Outside, you could hear the whistle of a cardinal. The leaves shifting in the wind made for kaleidoscopic patterns of light and shade against the side of Michael’s face. Then I heard the thrilling buzz of a hummingbird. It appeared at the feeder in its tiny, jewel-like splendor, drank, then flew quickly away. Just when I was going to say again that we had to go, Michael stood up.
He went down the ladder first, and I followed. He stopped at a mirror he had stationed on a wall above the kitchen sink and regarded himself. He licked one hand and smoothed down his hair, then went over to the refrigerator, opened it, and stood there, blankly staring.
“Please leave that,” I said.
He reached in and pulled out a softened and lopsided orange, then faced me. He rubbed his hands gently over the fruit, kissed it, and began peeling it.
“You can bring it in the car, okay?” I pulled the keys from my purse.
He leaned against the open door of the refrigerator and continued peeling. Then he split the orange almost in half and began licking at the center in a way so specific it made me blush. He moved his face in closer to the orange, closed his eyes, and worked his mouth slowly, rhythmically. And then he fell down.
I rushed forward and asked him if he was all right; it was a hard fall. He looked up at me, one eye closed. “Ow.” He blinked, rose slowly, refusing my assistance, then stood tall to say, “Well, anyway. Et cetera.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”