The Living End

by Stanley Elkin

  And forgave him. Not grudging Ladlehaus his lies as the crazy janitor had whose hypertension-they wouldn’t know this, couldn’t- was merely the obversion of his ensnarement by the real. A janitor-they wouldn’t know this-a man of nuts and bolts, of socket wrenches, oil cans, someone a plumber, someone a painter, electrician, carpenter, mechanic-trade winded, testy.

  So if they dreamed it was of dirty old men, not ghosts.

  “Where were you yesterday, Flanoy?” Ladlehaus asked.

  “Yesterday was Sunday.”

  They swarmed about his grave, lay down on the low loaf of earth as if it were a pillow. Or stretched out their legs on his marker, their heads lower than their feet. They plucked at the crowded stubble of weeds, winnowing, combing, grooming his mound.

  “Does it tickle or pinch when I do this?” a boy asked and pulled a blade of grass from its sheath in Ladlehaus’s grave.

  “When you do what?”

  For they had come through their war games, outlasted Quiz’s supervision of their play, outlasted their own self-serving enterprises of toy terror and prop fright. (For a while they had dressed up in his death, taking turns being Ladlehaus, running out from beneath the grandstands, flapping their arms as if they waved daggers, making faces, screeching, doing all the tremolo vowel sounds of what they took to be the noise of death. It hadn’t worked.

  “It’s not dark enough to be scary,” Muggins, the youngest boy said, and kicked the side of Ladlebaus’s grave.) And settled at last into a sort of intimacy-the period when they teemed about his grave, grazing it like newborn animals at some trough of breast.

  They looked up at the sky, their hands behind their heads.

  “What’s it like in your casket, Mr. Ladlehaus?”

  “Do you sleep?”

  “No.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Does it smell?”

  “No.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not now.”

  “Is it awful when it rains?”

  “What’s worse, the summer or the snow?

  “Are you scared?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are there maggots in your mouth, Mr. Ladlehaus? Are there worms in your eye sockets?”

  I don’t know. Who’s that? Ryan? You’re a morbid kid, Ryan.”

  “Shepherd.”

  “You’re morbid, Shepherd.”

  “Did you ever see God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen Jesus?”

  “Jesus is God, asshole.”

  “Don’t use that word, Miller.”

  “He’s right, Miller. Mr. Ladlehaus: has seen God. He’s an angel. Don’t say ‘asshole’ near an angel.” The boys giggled.

  “Do you know the Devil?”

  “I’ve seen the damned,” Ladlehaus said softly.

  “What? Speak up.”

  “I’ve seen the damned.” It was curious. He was embarrassed to have come from Hell. He felt shame, as if Hell were a shabby address, something wrong-side-of-the-tracks in his history. He’d been pleased when they thought him an angel.

  Quiz watched impassively from a distance.

  “Be good, boys,” Ladlebaus urged passionately.

  “Oh do be good.”

  “He’s telling them tales,” the caretaker reported to his wife.

  “You boys get away from there,” Quiz said.

  “That’s hallowed ground.”

  They play in cemeteries now, he thought, and tried to imagine a world where children had to play in cemeteries-death parks. (Not until he asked was he disabused of his notion that there had actually been a war. What disturbed him-it never occurred to him, as it had never occurred to the boys, that the war was for his benefit-were his feelings when he still thought there had actually been a battle-feelings of pride in the shared victory, of justification at the punishmeDt meted out to the invaders from Minneapolis. All these years dead, he thought, all those years in Hell, and still not burned out on his rooter’s interest, still glowing his fan’s supportive heart, still vulnerable his puny team spirit. All those years dead, he thought, and still human. Nothing learned, death wasted on him.) But a world where children could play in cemeteries and nuzzle at his little tit of death. He shuddered. He who could feel nothing, less tactile than glass, his flesh and bone and blood amputated, a spirit cap-side by a loose bundle of pencils, buttons, thread, nevertheless had somewhere somehow something in reserve with which to shudder, feel qualms, willies, jitter, tremor, the mind’s shakes, all its disinterested, volition less flinch. And at what?

  Sociology, nothing but sociology. Who had lived in Hell and seen God and who had, it was to be supposed, a mission. Who represented final things, ultimates, whose destiny it was to fetch bottom lines.

  A sentimental accomplice, an accessory gone soft. (For he’d felt nothing when the bullet sang which had dropped his pal, Ellerbee, felt nothing for the people-he’d have been a teenager then-at whose muggings he’d assisted, felt nothing presiding at the emptying of wallets, cash drawers, pockets-he had quick hands, it was his kind of work, he was good at it -and once, on a trolley commandeered by his fellows actually belly to belly with the conductor, quickly depressing the metal who sis of the terrified man’s change dispenser, lithely catching the coins in his free hand and rapidly transferring dimes to one pocket, quarters, nickels and pennies to others.) But he had not gone soft. Remorse was not his line of country, no more than sociology. A question plagued him. Not why children played in cemeteries but where the officials were who permitted it. Where, he wondered, was the man who said “Oatcakes”? Or the fellow who’d led the boys in war games? He was outraged that, exiled in earth, appearances had not been kept up. He could imagine the disorder of his grave candy wrappers, popsicle sticks, plugs of gum on his gravestone. He wanted it naked, the litter cleared. It was his fault for talking to them in the first place.

  He’d dummy up.

  “You! Ladlehaus!”

  “Hey, Ladlehaus. The kids won’t come near you. I told them some garbage about hallowed ground.”

  “Hey you, Ladlehaus, how’s your cousin?”

  “That’s better. That’s the ticket. Silence from the dead. You leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”

  “God is not mocked. He is not fooled. He is not sorrowful. He is not disappointed. He is not expectant.

  He is not worried. He doesn’t bold His breath. He does not hope or wish upon a star. He is not waiting till next year or contemplating changes in the lineup. He is not on the edge of His seat. He is complete as spider or bear. As stone or bench he is complete.

  “It is only we who are unfinished. And God is indifferent as history. He has not abandoned a world He had never embraced or set much stock in.

  ” Other preachers tell you to welcome God into your hearts as if He were some new kid in the neighborhood or a fourth for Bridge. What good is such advice? He will not come. He is complete. He has better things to do with His time. He doesn’t accept invitations. He doesn’t go out. He stays home nights. His home is Heaven. Death is His neighborhood. Life is yours.

  “He asks nothing of us, beloved. Not our lives, not our hearts. He would not know what to do with such gifts. He would be embarrassed by them. He does not write Thank You notes. He is not gracious. He is not polite or conventional. He has no thought for the thought that counts.

  “What would the thought count for?

  “He is God and there is an Iron Curtain around Him. His saints are bodyguards, Secret Service.

  “Why then be good? Because He will smash us if we aren’t. Those are the rules.

  “Let us pray.

  “Our Father Who art in Heaven, we, your servants, humbly beseech Thee. Bless World Team Tennis in St. Paul.

  “Amen.”

  “Yeah yeah, sure sure, Amen,” said a voice in the ground near Ilie Nastase’s feet.

  “What’s World Team Tennis?” asked the Lord on High.

  �
��Boys? Boys? Where am I, boys?”

  Quiz smiled.

  “No need to whisper, Nurse. Mr. Ladlehaus is in coma. There’s reason to believe they coma dream, although I doubt they can actually hear us -particularly when they’re under as deep as this one is.”

  Ladlehaus wondered.

  “Is he any better today? Let me see the chart, please. Hmn. Wait a minute, did you see this? Never mind, it’s only a smudge. For a minute I thought- Hold it a moment. Look here. The way this line seems to go up. That’s the sort of thing we’re looking for.”

  Ladlehaus wondered.

  “No, it’s important, I’m glad you called. All right, let me see if that resident was right. By golly, I think he was. Those aren’t smudges. Did you change machines? Right. Excellent. Quite frankly I’m not prepared to say yet just what it means. It’s too early to tell, but this is evidence, this is definitely evidence.

  See this trough, this spike. Pass me one of your oatcakes. This is exciting. Extremely so. Now if he can only be made to produce more readings like these, establish a pattern rather than these virtuoso performances, I think we might have real hope of going to them and- See to the IV.” please, Nurse. A man on the mend needs nourishment!”

  Ladlehaus hoped.

  “I wanted you to see these, Doctor,” the woman said.

  I felt so silly,” she said.

  “You did just fine, Irene.”

  “It’s hopeless. They won’t accept my interpretation of the readings,” Quiz said in a voice as much like his own doctor’s as he could make it.

  “Not? Why?”

  “They say it’s only an aberration, that the electrical impulses could come from his body heat, that brain death has already taken place.”

  “But that’s so unfair, Doctor.”

  “She’s right,” Ladlehaus said.

  “It hasn’t taken place,” he said.

  “It hasn’t. Get me more IV. I hear perfectly. The nurse asked why they won’t accept the readings and you said they think it’s an aberration. It isn’t an aberration.”

  “They may be right of course,” Quiz said, though I hate to admit it. Damned vultures. Death with dignity indeed! Folderol. Fiddlededee. The only reason they want to pull the plugs is to get at his fortune and power. All those millions!”

  “Don’t let them,” Ladlehaus screamed.

  “Don’t let them get at my fortune and power. Oh I know you can’t hear me, but look, look at the machine.

  I’ll squeeze out my best brain waves for you. Don’t let them. Those millions are mine. I earned them.”

  “It’s a shame,” the nurse said, “after all the good he’s done.”

  “All the good, yes,” Ladlehaus said, “all the millions, all the good I’ve done.”

  “Look at these, Doctor, would you? They’re slightly different from the others. What do you make of them?”

  “Flyspecks, I should think, scratchings of coma dream. But let me have them. Perhaps the judge will grant a stay.”

  Ladlehaus hoped.

  “Uncle Jay, you high table, five star, Hall of Fame prickl You mashed potato! You spinach leaf! Do you recognize my voice, you bloodless fake? It’s your nephew Jack-Rita’s husband. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, you cabbage! I’m going to tamper your charts and splash in your brain waves. But I’ll give you a fighting chance. If you’re not dead scream ‘no,” or forever hold your peace.”

  “No! No!”

  “So. Silence. Ashes to ashes, you salad. just a slight adjustment of the tone arm on your electroencephalogram and- Why, Nurse, you startled me. I was just looking at my uncle’s charts here.”

  “Sir, no one is permitted in the Intensive Care Unit unless accompanied by the patient’s physician.”

  “I’m his nephew. I thought, seeing he’s dying and all, I’d look in on him and say goodbye in private.”

  “No one is permitted in the Intensive Care Unit, no one. If you were Mrs. Ladlehaus herself I’d have to tell you the same thing.”

  “Mrs. LaThe blonde bombshell? Me? That twat?”

  “You’ll have to leave.”

  “Just going, just going. So long, Unc, see you around the victory garden.”

  “That will be all, sir. Do I have to call an orderly?”

  “Call a garbage truck.”

  “Orderly!” “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “Thank you, Nurse.”

  Ladlehaus was hopeful.

  “Well?”

  “It’s bad. Here.”

  “This is a court order.”

  “It’s the court order.” I In sorry.

  “Step in, please, Deputy. This is Deputy Evers, Nurse.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “He’s here to see that we comply with the order.”

  “Wait!”

  “Wait a moment, Doctor.”

  “Nurse?”

  “It’s just that I know your convictions about such things. Deputy Evers, this man has taken the Hippocratic oath. Pulling the plug on Mr. Ladlehaus’s life support systems would be a violation of everything the doctor believes. It would go against nature and inclination, and do an injustice not only to his conscience but to his training. I can’t let him do that.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’ am but the court or-” “I read the court order, Deputy. I know what it says. What I say is that I can’t let him do it.”

  “Look, lady-‘ “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Nurse!”

  “Please, Doctor. I’m only grateful it was me on duty when the order came down. Deputy, you won’t say a word about this. Not if you’re a Christian.”

  “I don’t know. The order says- Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Do it now, Nurse. Pull them. The man’s all but dead anyway. He has only his coma dream. You pull that, too, the moment you remove those plugs.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s why I fought so hard to keep him on the L.S.S. But go ahead. The law’s the law.”

  “Someone better do it,” the deputy said.

  “I’ll do it now, said the goodhearted nurse.

  “When I’m geting better?” Ladlehaus cried.

  “When I can hear everything you say? When I can practically taste the iodoform in here? When I no longer dream I was ever in Hell? When I have my millions and my power? When I have my blonde bombshell?”

  “Pop,” the nurse said.

  And poor, dead, puzzled, grounded LadIehaus heard their mean duet laughter and died again, and once again, and kept on dying, in their presence dying, dying beneath them, with each spike and trough of their laughter.

  0 * 0 “His name is Quiz.”

  They were near him again, not all but some, and this time the man Quiz did not bother to shoo them off.

  Ladlehaus sensed arrangement, order. Not the wide barracks of death now-he knew where he was, the child had told him-but rows of folding chairs. He sensed they were chairs, had sensed it that afternoon when a disgruntled Quiz had snapped them into place in the grass, aligned them, something martial in their positioning, discrete as reviewing stand.

  Behind him he heard the gruff shuffle of men’s good shoes as they sidestepped along the cement ledges of the grandstand. (He couldn’t know this, couldn’t smell the lightly perfumed faces of the women or the crisp aftershaves and colognes of the men. For him the soft rustle of the women’s dresses might have been the languid swish of flags in a low wind, the brusque adjustments of the men’s trousers like in-gulps of hushed breath.) He listened carefully, but could not make out the words of the adults.

  “After the recital my daddy is taking us to Howard Johnson’s. I’m going to have a coffee ice cream soda.”

  “Coffee ice cream keeps me up.”

  They’re some more of his accomplices, Ladlehaus thought. They’re going to take me for another ride.

  Then a woman made an announcement. He listened for some quaver of theatricality in the voice that would give her away, reveal her as the 11 nurse” in a d
ifferent role. Talk always sounded like talk, never like a speech. Something read aloud or memorized or even willfully extemporaneous could never pass for the flat, halting, intimate flow of unmanaged monologue or conversation. Even a man on the radio, scriptless and talking apparently as he might talk among his friends in a lunchroom, sounded compromised by the weight of his thousand listeners. Even a child at prayer did. But the woman was marvelous. Ladlehaus had to admire the cast Quiz had assembled. She wanted to thank Miss Martin and Miss Boal for their generous and untiring assistance in putting together tonight’s program, extending right down to helping the students tune their instruments. She mustn’t forget to thank the principal, Dr.

  Mazlish, for opening up the facilities of the high school to the Community Association of Schools of Arts, or CASA, as it had come to be known. She particularly wanted to thank the parents for encouraging and, she supposed, at times insisting that the children practice their instruments. And, as coordinator for the program, now in its third year, she particularly wanted to thank the children themselves for the devotion they showed to their music and for their willingness to share their accomplishments with the good audience of parents, relatives, and friends who had come out to hear them tonight. Tonight’s recital was only the first. There would be three others with different young performers during the course of the summer. She regretted that the dates for these had not yet been settled or they would have been printed on the back of the program. Speaking of the program, she said, Angela Kinds and Mark Koehler, though listed, would be unable to perform this evening. They would be rescheduled for one of the recitals later in the summer. In the event of inclement weather, she added, arrangements would be made to hold those indoors.

  She was magnificent. It was perfectly obvious to Ladlehaus that she had done the whole thing working from small white note cards held discreetly in her right hand.