Dr. McNeil and a nurse came into Henry’s room next day. The nurse carried a tray of boiled hardware—gleaming Inquisition tools. McNeil explained the purpose of a liver biopsy; against his better judgment Henry consented. The doctor injected a local anesthetic and slipped a needle between the sick man’s lower ribs. Henry heard the puncture, felt the brief sting of pain, nothing more. Grinning, McNeil showed Henry a fragment of raw pink-and-blue flesh in the tip of the forceps. Looks good enough to eat, he said; but we’ll check it under a microscope. Henry shrugged. He felt weary of it all. The smell of his own breath frightened him. My breath stinketh, he thought. There’s a creature dying inside of me. When the doctor and nurse departed he turned his face to the window, seeing silver clouds towering without movement in a cobalt sky, and he wept for a while, quietly, privately, furtively, feeling sorry for himself.
There were other tests, less mechanical, more chemical, or sonic, like the ultrasonograph, then a twenty-four-hour pause in the proceedings. After the pause the X ray and CAT scan examinations were repeated. Exactly as before. With method, precision and no variation.
Why the hell do I have to go through this garbage again? Henry grumbled, feeling fear. Why twice?
I don’t know, the technician said, a pretty girl in tight white uniform who switched her hips adroitly aside when Henry’s wandering hands came groping close. Sometimes they do that. The radiologist wants another look, I guess.
What?
Take a deep breath…hold it….
After the second set of tests there was a second pause in the proceedings. On the following day, in the morning, McNeil entered Henry’s room. Worried but calm, Henry sat on the edge of his bed clipping fingernails with a toenail clipper. He was bathed, dressed, ready to go home. Or somewhere. Wherever. The doctor, a friend by this time, smiled at him, a smile even more shy, more timid, than before. His eyes looked furtive, wet, hurt. Henry felt a chill numbness rise—like hemlock—from groin through heart to his throat. I knew it, he thought. I knew it.
Well, Henry.
Well, Hugh.
We’re in trouble, Henry.
We?
Mostly you.
Okay. What is it?
Follow me. McNeil walked out of the room and down the hall, entering a small office where oversize X-ray photographs hung before a fluorescent panel. Henry shuffled after. He felt weak in the knees. Like a cigar? the doctor said, opening a cedarwood box on his desk.
Not really.
Me neither. McNeil closed the box and snapped a toggle switch on the side of the light panel. He pulled a silver pencil from his coat pocket and indicated something on the X-ray picture. Notice that?
Henry saw a vague darkish blob, like dust in a star cloud, among a medley of incomprehensible shapes in the ghostly cage of somebody’s ribs. He noted a name—Lightcap, Henry H.—on the margin of the photo. I see a dark blur, he said. What is it?
It appears to be a tumorous mass on the pancreas gland. An advanced cancer, in other words.
No kidding? Henry sat back on the edge of the doctor’s desk. Well I’ll be doggoned. He paused, swallowed, and said, What should I do about it, Hugh?
McNeil stared at the picture, then out his window, then at Henry, licked his lips and stared out the window again. Same old blue Arizona sky. Same vapor trails. Same dark mountains bristling on the horizon. If I were you, he said. Pause. There’s nothing to be done, Henry. If it’s really a pancreatic cancer—and that’s what it looks like—your chances of survival are zero. Oh, we could operate, take heroic measures, remove the pancreas, maybe the biliary duct as well, implant a stent. But you wouldn’t live any longer and you’d be spending your remaining months in a hospital bed.
No kidding. Months. Henry felt like laughing. But he didn’t. His nerves seemed frozen. So it’s a matter of months. How many would you say?
Six to nine. A year if you’re lucky.
Six months to a year. That’s no misdemeanor, Doc, that’s a felony. That’s a goddamned bloody felony, Dr. McNeil.
It is indeed. McNeil continued to stare out the window.
Henry thought of a joke. At least I won’t have to floss my teeth anymore.
No you won’t.
What about radiation? Chemotherapy? Aspirin? Wholesome natural raw fruits and cereals? Sit-ups?
Not applicable in this case. We don’t know what to do about this kind of cancer, Henry.
What do the other doctors say?
I’ve consulted two radiologists, two oncologists and another gastroenterologist. They’ve seen the pictures, the results of the tests, our interpretations agree.
And all the instruments agree.
They agree. McNeil looked at Henry, trying to smile. But it’s only science, you know. An inferential chain of reasoning. Not immediately verifiable—unless we cut you open—but a high probability quotient. What we know is that we know nothing with absolute certainty.
Henry’s eyes were drawn to the window. To the outside, the free air, the open sky. After a moment he said, I suppose it’s going to hurt some.
Yes it will. But there’s one thing I can do for you. I’m going to prescribe the entire cabinet of analgesics. You’re going to get them all, Henry. I’m going to give you Demerol, Percodan, Diluadid, Dolophine and methadone—all good oral pain-killers. And you’ll get relief for nausea, diarrhea, insomnia, depression, vertigo.
But what about fear? thought Henry. What about terror? What about despair?
McNeil was already busy scribbling on a pad. Don’t you sell this stuff on the street. Use it. This will keep you going for the next few months. And when things get extreme—well, there’s always morphine.
When things get extreme, Henry said, I’ll take care of things myself.
I understand. We’ll see. You might change your mind later. They usually do.
What about a Bromley cocktail?
Brompton cocktail? Sorry, not legal here. Heroin. Morphine’s just as powerful.
Again Henry gazed out the window. A swirl of little pale birds, like confetti, like a net of lace, exfoliated from the sky and draped themselves upon an Aleppo pine. Water sprinklers jetted in explosive circles, drenching the hospital lawns. Just plain folks walked about. The world continued, bland and blasé, while catastrophe opened beneath the one who cared.
One thing, Henry said, don’t tell Elaine about this. Or anyone else. I don’t want anyone to know. Not even Andy. I mean Harrington. Let them think I had pancreatitis.
McNeil folded the sheaf of prescriptions and tucked them into Henry’s shirt pocket. You still have pancreatitis. No more alcohol. And you should tell your wife. You’re going to need all the love and support you can get.
I don’t want it on these terms.
McNeil lifted his shoulders in a provisional shrug, embarrassed, and wrote a number on a card. Secret home phone number, he said. Call whenever you wish. If my wife says I’m not in give her your name.
Thank you, Hugh. Guess I’ll go now.
McNeil put his hand on the telephone. Need a taxi?
No thanks. Elaine’s meeting me outside.
That was a lie. Henry planned to walk home. It was only five miles from the hospital to his house. He planned to do his weeping on the way, in the desert. He held out a hand to the doctor. Thanks for everything. McNeil’s eyes were brimming with tears. Oh hell, Hugh, I can manage this business. I know what has to be done. I’ve been planning on this kind of thing all my life. I guess I did about everything I ever wanted to do. I’ll go make a large deposit in a bank, a sperm bank I mean, for the girls, Elaine too when she wants it, and that’s really—damn it, Hugh, it’s all right—that’s really about all I have to do. Visit old Will again, shoot the dog, that about wraps it up. No problem. No sweat. No big deal, McNeil. What the fuck—I’m fifty-three years old, that’s plenty, that’s more than Jack London or Chekhov had or Henry Thoreau not to mention a whole herd of poets and Mahler and Mozart and Schubert and almost as much as Beethoven and all of the
m other old buddies of mine so what the hell, Hugh, blow your nose and shake hands and let me get the hell out of here.
McNeil blew his nose as suggested. But holding Henry’s right hand, he gently pushed him back down on the edge of the desk. I want to look at your eyes one more time, he explained. Hold still. He parted the lids of Henry’s small squinty eyes—left eye, right eye—peering intently into each for what seemed to Henry like a full minute. Then he backed off. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out the window.
What’s wrong? said Henry. What’d you see?
The doctor smiled a crooked little smile. I think I see hope in your eyes. Not much but some.
Pause. What’s wrong with a little hope? Henry paused again. For Christ’s sake, he added for emphasis.
Wrong attitude.
Wrong attitude? What do you mean, wrong attitude? First you tell me I’ve got a cancer in my fucking pancreas gland, now you tell me I’ve got the wrong attitude in my fucking eyes? Is that fair? I ask you. Stop staring out the window and talk to me.
Silence. Jesus, thought Henry, talk to me, where’d that phrase come from? I sound like my wife. Like every wife I ever had. Say something, he said aloud to Dr. McNeil. And I don’t want any bedpan manners, please.
Henry had risen from the desk, thumbs hooked in pockets, and now stood leaning over the doctor, glaring down at him. Condemned, he had the doomed man’s freedom to cast aside all deference, to bully his betters if he wished.
McNeil, eyes still a bit red and moist, smiled up at Henry. He reached out his hands, squeezing Henry’s sloped narrow bony shoulders. What I want to see in your eyes, he explained, is not hope but—something else.
Something else?
Like faith. Faith, Henry. You follow me?
Faith in what?
The doctor paused. The doctor smiled. His turn for a joke. Skepticism, he said. He repeated the word, whispering: Skepticism.
Henry stared at McNeil. Henry bit on his lower lip, trying to understand. His brain felt numb like his limbs and nerves. He managed to come up with a weak warped grin—a twist of the upper lip to one side, exposing yellowish fangs, that more resembled a snarl than a grin. I’ll work on it, he said; I will, Hugh. You’re a big help. Goodbye, Doc.
They hugged each other, grinning through their tears. Henry walked away.
25
Ocian in View
I
The rain drips on my tarpaulin all night long. Twice I am forced to crawl from my sack, once to defecate on the innocent soaked leaves outside the shelter, once to vomit. I’d have preferred to do both jobs at once but the timing could not be properly arranged. Solstice the dog merely watches, not moving, no help at all. Or is she even watching? That glaze on the eyeballs—maybe she’s already defunct.
No sun appears with the hangover dawn but that’s all right, you can’t expect everything all the time. Not in the misty hills of West Virginia in the early spring of April. Ice crackles on my sleeping bag as I creep, like a worm from its sac, out into the pseudolight of another quasi day. A stiff frost glows on the rigid panicles of grass. Yes indeed it’s true—April is the coolest month.
The first thing I think of is fire, hot forbidden coffee and the wet matches in my damp shirt pocket. I verify: yes, matches still damp. Could make a fire drill—if I could find any dry wood. But I’ve got neither coffee nor pot anyhow. Or to phrase it positively, if we had a pot we could make some coffee if we had any coffee.
I rise to my knees and stay there awhile, not so much in prayer as in self-analysis. The head aches, of course, and my hollow stomach feels like it’s been strip-mined by a Mitsubishi bulldozer. Then salted with arsenic. The bite, the secret little bite, remains, though it seems a shade easier at the moment. The upper abdomen is bloated with serous fluid—ascites, no doubt, as McNeil had promised. Swollen spleen, necrotic pancreas, rotten attitude, that’s my condition and to hell with it. What I need are some pills, capsules, horse spansules, spiritual suppositories. The hell with it.
But I can’t refrain from rising, staggering to the bank of the creek and looking downstream for my truck. The water level has gone down a foot or two and there it is, the old Dodge, on its side and coated with mud, half submerged at a point fifty feet beyond where I’d last seen it.
I look at that wreck like Robinson Crusoe at his ruined ship. Perhaps there’s something out there I can salvage. The pills, maybe, in the waterproof first-aid kit. My wallet with my last ten bucks, I.D. and pictures. Sollie’s Nizoral and crunchy granola. My signal flares, ammo cans, loading kit, grub box with its canned goods, sprouting potatoes, dried noodles, a warm coat, books, record albums, tow chain, Come-Along, Hi-Lift jack. Absurd. Everything is soaked, saturated with silt, worthless. Forget your things. Life is too short for things. I remember an old song, never more fitting than now:
Oh if I had the wings of an angel
High over these prison walls I’d fly;
I would fly to the arms of my sweetheart
And there I’d be willing to die…
Yes, Nevertheless, I derig the rainfly, take rope and bushwhack through the brush on the bank to a muskrat slide about ten feet upstream from the truck. Although the flood is receding, the swollen creek looks much too big and violent for swimming. And me lacking the strength to crawl from a bathtub. I hitch one end of the line to a stout tree, tie the other in a bowline knot around my chest and slip into the water. The current sweeps me toward the truck. I clutch at the doorframe on the passenger’s side of the cab—the door itself hanging by one hinge—and grope beneath the muddy water for the glove compartment. Bad news: it’s open, my wallet is gone and everything else that was in there. But jammed in the wiring under the dashboard I find the metal box containing my precious analgesics. Our God is a just God and being just he may even just exist, who can say. I set the box on the upturned side of the truck and feel around in the slime for other treasures. I find a few sodden rags, a rusted wrench, my channel-lock pliers, nothing more. No billfold, no paper money, no sealed matches, not even my ax. The back door of the truck, like the side door, is open to the flood. God is just? Well now, he saved my medicine but carried off everything else. He is not so much just as a comedian, a joker, a wise guy. And nobody loves a wise guy.
Back on shore I take stock of my assets, my situation, my prospect. Desperate but not serious. My good old reliable .444 Marlin lies in its sheepskin case, presumably okay. I’m afraid to look. The two-shot Derringer, of course, the shotgun, the .32 special lie under the muck somewhere inside my sunken truck. Did I really bring so many firearms all the way from Tucson? And if so why? Not to mention the .357 Magnum, safe in its holster inside my bedroll. What was I doing with all that iron? Plus the old carbine I sold to Don Williams back in Gallup. I’m no gun nut. If I support the National Rifle Association it’s only because I favor the second amendment. Not because I like guns. I don’t like guns. Guns frighten me.
I pack the remaining two—the revolver and the rifle—inside the heavy canvas tarpaulin. Where to stow it? Up in a tree? Some kid will spot it or some black bear climb up and tear my package apart. Bury it under the leaves or in the dirt? The varmints—smelling salt—will dig it up. Finally I hang the roll to a bent-over sapling in the densest part of the thicket, out of reach of bear. That should keep till me and Will get back here, in a day or two. At the last minute, overcome by sentiment, I pull the .357 from the bundle and stash it in my belt. Dangerous to carry a concealed weapon; even more dangerous, even provocative, to carry it openly and legally; but most dangerous, in a modern civilized nation, to carry no weapon at all. Any fool knows that and if I ain’t a fool what am I doing here?
Now what? I stuff rope, sleeping bag and medical kit inside the duffel bag—all that I hope to carry—and stumble through the wet woods to the road. I mean the dirt road, the parallel tire tracks with a centerline of grass and skunk cabbage, that leads up the hill on my right.
The hill is difficult for me, gravity dragging at my heels
, but I trudge along, upward onward homeward, only sixty miles or thereabouts to go. One mourning dove croons from a distance, as they always do, calling through the rain.
Hey hoo…hoo hoo….
My dog follows close, eyes dull, head hanging, tail drooping. Would be an act of mercy, I suppose, to end her misery at once, quick and simply, with this heavy metal head-blaster in my belt. But is that what Solstice herself would choose?
Let her come as far as she can. We pass a tumbledown barn, a fallingdown cabin, a rickety board fence that once enclosed a hog pasture. Nobody’s been home for years. Apple trees unpruned for a decade hang ragged limbs to the ground. A bunch of Black Angus beef cattle range on the hillside below the encroaching forest. Somebody’s homestead, abandoned or sold for taxes, has become a part of some urban syndicate’s tax shelter.
We pass a living farm. White clapboard house with smoking chimney, barking dog chained to a kennel, car in the driveway, woman and children staring from the kitchen door. I see a telephone line linking this house with Sutton, Stump Creek, Morgantown, London, Tokyo, and am tempted to stop, ask for permission to use the household phone, call Will.
But I walk on. I know that I must be a fearsome sight with my red eyes and sunken cheeks, whiskery jaws and mud-coated outfit. The duffel bag slung on my shoulder makes me look like a bum and the fat revolver in my belt, barely concealed by shirt and jacket, gives me away for sure as a dangerous criminal.
That’s my excuse. It’s a good one. But something deeper in my soul prefers to keep on walking. To keep Will waiting. To see if I can make it a few miles farther on my own. Why? Why is always a good question. Why not? is my inward answer. A foolish answer but it’s mine.
Now I have to worry about police, sheriff’s deputies and state troopers. That woman back there in the farmhouse may be the paranoid type, like me. And with equally good reason. Got to keep the eyes skinned for approaching metal, the ears open for sound of tires and motor. I feel eyes watching my back.