The Death Bed

  he stacked meat and cheeses

  between two condiment-soaked slices of bread,

  and then added more meat and cheese,

  and another mayo stained slab of rye on top for good measures.

  Long days were the best diet plan, and,

  while the sandwich sat

  on the small plate on the end table next to the recliner,

  his mind continued to replay the day’s events

  much like the worn out reruns that he had watched earlier that night.

  Tomorrow would be just as predictable as that episode of M*A*S*H*,

  though not nearly as humorous.

  His thumb pressed down on the channel button rapidly,

  flipping through programming

  that the revealing sunlight would drive away at daybreak,

  programming that he would have enjoyed on most nights.

  He had never been a religious man but stopped on the Catholic channel.

  An overweight nun raved about the evils of contraceptives

  and his sandwich sat, uneaten on the end table.

  By morning it would be too stale to be eaten

  and escape to the trash can; then it would be replaced

  by a toasted bagel and Good Morning America.

  It was nighttime when Thomas walked up to the Small Talk Coffee shop. The sky was dark, so it must have been night, but maybe it was simply overcast. Thomas only noted the absence of light as he walked up the terrace.

  “So I see you haven’t gotten around to killing yourself yet!” the stranger exclaimed standing up to greet him. “Ye of little faith.”

  Thomas sat down at the table with the stranger, although he didn’t want to sit there. He didn’t want to talk to the stranger, but it was as if something were compelling him to sit down. He felt like he was hypnotized, but at the same time he knew that the compulsion only had power over him because something inside of him wanted to sit. He hadn’t been there for more than a few seconds when an exceptionally beautiful waitress brought him a cappuccino. Thomas couldn’t quite see what she looked like, but he was certain that she was beautiful. He blew steam from the drink and took a sip.

  “If you’re so certain that suicide is the answer to it all, then why don’t you kill yourself?” Thomas asked with contented triumph, though he felt a bit immature. Nevertheless, he waited with glee to see how the stranger would react to such a direct question.

  “Oh, I would, if I thought that it would put an end to all this. But death wouldn’t end anything; if it would I’d kill myself right now just out of spite. I’d do it to prove that I had power to determine my own fate. I’ve wished to be able to end my existence on thousands of occasions, though it would be out of pure spite mind you, but even if I could kill myself it wouldn’t accomplish anything, not for me at least, but why all this talk about me? What about you? Suicide would have a great impact on your life; it would mean that you really believed.”

  “You’re not actually suggesting that there is existence after death?” Thomas said, ignoring the stranger’s last remark. “The whole premise is based on visions from near death experiences, which we now know are caused by chemical reactions in the temporal lobe of the brain, or is it the occipital lobe, I can’t remember but the point is,” Thomas began to explain but the stranger cut him off.

  “But I don’t believe as you do,” he said. “I think you’re ideas are very—how should I say it so as to be tactful—progressive, and in the end they will bring about much change, change for the better I dare say. Don’t get me wrong; I can hardly wait to see the change that your ideas bring about, but in the end they’re folly, mere superstition and wishful thinking. And frankly, I don’t have enough faith to believe in them.”

  “Faith! That’s the second time you’ve mentioned faith. What does faith have to do with any of this? My point is that faith is what’s based on superstitions. That’s why hope is for the ignorant and love for the idealists. There can be no change for the better because there is no better. And besides, if you’re so eager for the change that my ideas will bring about, why are you trying to dissuade me by saying they’re folly and mere superstitions?”

  “Dissuade you,” the stranger set his coffee down, leaned back and threw his hands into the air, making a show of his sarcastic exasperation, “I meant to spur you on, and it’s exactly what I’ve done. When a horse is spurred it doesn’t change course but gallops headlong in the direction in which it has already been pointed. Dissuade you, don’t you remember that the last time we met I told you that emotion is needed to really convince someone of anything? If you’d been wavering, wondering if you really believed all this nonsense of yours—which you are wavering, I know because you haven’t shot yourself yet—my belligerent comments about your beliefs would have only helped to convince you that you’re right. Even now you spoke more adamantly about your progressive philosophy than you did when you first explained it to me.”

  “So you don’t really believe that my ideas are nonsense?” Thomas replied. His mind raced trying to process this new development in the conversation and he wondered if the stranger somehow knew what he was thinking. “I’m transparent; he can see right through me.” The thought flashed through Thomas’s mind before he dismissed it as nonsense, the real kind of superstition—the sort of belief that makes no rational sense, but is based solely on feelings and intuition. “No, I should be offended that he would talk to me like this.” Thomas told himself.

  “I wouldn’t call your thoughts nonsense or superstition,” said the stranger, I would call them necessary.”

  Thomas felt all the more certain that the stranger had read his mind and plucked from it the words “nonsense” and “superstition”, but told himself that his belief in the stranger’s omniscience only made him too eager to prove it. “Necessary, necessary for what?” Thomas finally replied regaining his composure and retracing the conversation.

  “For change of course. Isn’t change what we’ve been talking about, ideas changing the world? You’re right about that much. Ideas are the only thing that will ever be able to change the world, for better or worse.”

  “No, you’ve missed the point entirely; change is pointless. If you’ve understood any of what I’m saying then you would have known that. It’s all pointless. If there’s no absolute then what’s the point of change—nothing is better or worse, so why change anything. There is no meaning, only interpretations.”

  “You’re right, of course, assuming I believe your superstitions, but I’m very interested in change. But back to the original question of why not kill yourself; I was wondering why not kill others too? Surely you’re not still clinging to moral reasons—you know that goodness is a social construct; and we’re both above such temporal conventions, at least I am. I don’t know about you. If you did kill others, or even just yourself, the act would at least provide you with a thrill, a sensation, pulling the trigger and watching them die, you would feel sorrow and guilt; although these would, of course, only be a result of your society—guilt is a social construct too, as I’m sure you could have told me, useful for controlling the masses, an opium in its own right.”

  Thomas shook his head. “But the sensation, the thrill, it would be meaningless too,” he pointed out. “How can you say that a thrill is better than boredom? You’re arguing based on absolutes again.”

  “But not killing others would be equally meaningless. And you’re still assuming that I don’t believe in absolutes. Listen; I wish there were no absolutes; I wish it more than you, because I know what comes with absolutes. How could you call anything I’d ever done ‘wrong’ without an absolute standard to judge me by? You couldn’t. Nobody could say I was bad or wicked, and nobody could say that the one who punishes me was good or just.” At this the stranger glanced over both shoulders and lowered his voice, “I’ve done many bad things you see. I would be free of all this guilt if I could just buy into your progressive thinking; I want you to convince me.
Do you know how liberated I would feel if you could just convince me. But in the end it’s still wishful thinking, mere superstition. And deep down you believe that it’s superstition too.”

  “How presumptuous; you hardly know me!” Thomas objected

  “But you don’t believe in these ideas. Do you want to know how I know?”

  Thomas didn’t say anything but crossed his arms and waited.

  “I’ll tell you next time. The sun is coming up and I really prefer the darkness—it obscures everything.”

  Thomas looked up and the sun really was beginning to shine. It flooded through the window and then into his eyes and then he cursed himself for not having gotten around to buying blinds for his bedroom as he looked at his clock to see how late he’d slept.

  * * *

  Lewis sat quietly at his desk working on his math test. Summer Wallburn had lost the power to distract him. He finished early and checked his work. He still had time so he checked his work again. The clock showed that recess should have started three minutes ago. He had almost made up his mind to erase some of the answers and rework the problems when Mrs. Puckett announced that time was up and had them pass their papers forward. Once the papers where in her hands she had the class line up for recess.

  Lewis and Tommy ran to the basketball court, but the teams had already been chosen. Lewis sighed as they turned to walk away. He knew that after everything he’d done he didn’t deserve to get to play basketball, but he’d been hoping to nonetheless. Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t seem fazed by their secret; he walked off the basketball court with his head high, as if he’d forgotten that he had also been there in the kitchen. But Tommy hadn’t been the one who put the skillet under the paper towels.

  “I dare you to ask out Jaime Mitchell,” Tommy said as they walked off the court to the swing set.

  “Why don’t you ask her out?” Lewis asked.

  “I’ve never asked anyone out before,” Tommy said emphatically.

  “But I don’t like Jaime Mitchell.”

  “Who do you like now?”

  Lewis mumbled something under his breath.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t know,” Lewis repeated.

  “Do you still like Summer?” Tommy asked when they started swinging.

  “I guess.”

  “You should ask her out again.”

  “She’s not going to ever give me an answer.”

  “She probably forgot. It’s been like a year. You have to ask her again. She’ll say yes this time. I know she will.”

  “No she won’t. Nothing good ever happens to me.”

  Tommy jumped out of the swing and before Lewis realized what was happening he was halfway to the monkey bars, where Summer and Jaime were talking with the other girls. Lewis watched in horror as Tommy said something. Some of the girls started to giggle and then stopped abruptly. Tommy said something else and Summer’s mouth moved a little.

  “What’d you say?” Lewis didn’t wait for Tommy to get back to the swings before he blurted out the question.

  “I told her she should go out with you because your parents aren’t together anymore.”

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Then Lewis’s anxiety turned to hope. “Did she say yes?”

  “She has to ask her mom.”

  “That means no.”

  Lewis sat back on the swing set and dragged his feet in the gravel as his body swung back and forth.

  * * *

  “Hey Peter,” Stanly poked his head in the office door. “Sam’s coming to see you and he’s not happy about something.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t think you understand. He’s really steamed.”

  “I know,” Peter said without looking up from his computer screen.

  Sam appeared in the doorway and Stanly vanished.

  “Can you explain these to me?” Sam asked, tossing some rolled up papers on Peter’s desk. Peter took his time unrolling the papers and looked at them pensively for a few seconds before addressing his boss.

  “They’re blank,” he said. “I would think that blank pages wouldn’t be all that difficult to decipher. What is it exactly you need explained?” He’d planned out the speech ahead of time, specifically that word “decipher.” He felt clever, having, for the first time, gained the upper hand. It made Sam furious. He knew it and loved it, because for the first time in his life he didn’t have to care. He even forced a smile, a smug smile, the icing on the cake.

  “Can you tell me why they’re blank,” Sam continued.

  “Because I didn’t do any work on them.” Peter matched Sam’s condescension.

  “And why, pray tell, did you not do any work on them?”

  “I didn’t feel like it.”

  “Is it that you don’t want to work here anymore? Because if that’s the case you’re on the right track.”

  “Actually that’s exactly the case. You see I won’t be coming into the office tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “You know that if you don’t give us two weeks’ notice then we’re not obligated to . . .”

  “I really don’t care,” Peter said, cutting him off.

  “Get out!”

  “Pleased to oblige.”

  As Peter Manchell left the office that day, he felt like the entire world was at his command, as if the weight of the last several months had stayed behind him in that stuffy office building.

  “What was that about?” Stanly asked, catching up to Peter on the sidewalk.

  “I just quit.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Never felt better.”

  “Look, Peter, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress with the court cases about the insurance and custody and all that, but you can’t just quit your job.”

  “How are you going to get the judge to award you joint custody if it looks like your life’s in shambles, and you just throw out all semblance of responsibility? You’ve got to go back in there and apologize to Sam. What’s it going to be like for me in the office if you leave? You’re the only one who takes time to remember my name.”

  “You should quit too,” Peter answered.

  “You’re going to wake up tomorrow and you’re going to regret this.”

  “I’m going to wake up tomorrow and wander into the living room in my boxers and turn on the television, and I’m going to regret not doing this a long time ago.”

  “What about money?”

  “I’ll get another job eventually. Not to mention the money that’ll come in from the insurance company once everything is settled. And I’ll have some more coming to me before I can spend all of that. I’ll have quite a bit more coming to me by then. Why don’t you do what friends are supposed to do and meet me at the bar tonight so I can forget about all this and not have to worry about driving myself home. Meet me at the bar and I’ll come in a cab.”

  Peter didn’t let on, but the thought about income began to worry him. He knew that after walking out on his job it might be hard for him to just walk into a new one, and there was no way of knowing how long it would be before the insurance money or the other money would come in.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Peter said as he stepped into his car and closed the door between him and Stanly. Thinking about the other money didn’t damper Peter’s spirits in the least. But he did take the interstate past his apartment building, and all the way to Grace Assisted Living Center. He noted how little traffic there was at that time of day, and walked through the double doors with a spring in his step that obviously surprised the blonde woman behind the counter.

  “Hello Mr. Manchell,” she said, not concealing her astonishment at his chipper demeanor.

  “Hello Susie.” He tried not to make it obvious that he needed to glance at her nametag.

  “You can call me Susan.”

  “Of course I can.”

  The feeling of freedom was more intoxicating than anythin
g Peter had experienced. He walked into Abraham’s room and pulled up the chair. Abraham seemed more than a little surprised.

  “How are you feeling?” Peter spoke as if he were simply having a natural conversation with an old friend.

  “What day, what time is it?” Abraham asked.

  “I know it’s a little early for my weekly visit, but to answer your question, today is Friday, March 14th and it is 3:12 in the afternoon.”

  “So what’re you doin’ here?”

  “Just thought I’d come by to chat.”

  “You took off work ta come an’ chat?”

  “No. I just quit my job.”

  “How are you goin’ ta support the kids? You’ll have two in college an’ there’s still Lewis.”

  “I’ve got the money coming from the insurance claim. I told you about that a few weeks ago, remember. And I’ve got quite a bit set aside.”

  “I’m not really up fer talkin’ so much now. Why don’t you come back some other time?” Abraham said in reply.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon, around six.”

  “Hmph.”

  Peter got up to leave.

  “Could you turn the TV off fer me,” Abraham asked.

  “I didn’t even notice that it was on,” Peter said, and walked over to the monitor and pushed the power button before gliding out of the room.

  * * *

  Julia cringed at the thought of going to rehearsal.

  “I just can’t face her,” she told herself. She pushed the thought from her mind as she stopped by Mr. Mason’s classroom to tell him that she wasn’t feeling well enough to go to rehearsal, then hurried out of the building, not sure of where she would go until she got into her car and started driving.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Abraham noted as Julia slipped through the door.

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “Life’s got a tendency ta get that way.”

  “The drive’s a little further too,” Julia confessed. “I brought your book back. I finished it.” She set the book on the edge of the bed and pulled up the chair from the back corner of the room.

  “It’s not really mine. It’s Peter’s.”

  “He doesn’t even know about,” Julia began.

  “Not your father, the other Peter,” Abraham said.

  Julia looked at the gold engraved on the black leather cover and really took notice of the name “Peter J. Thompson” for the first time.