Motorcycles, mostly Harley-Davidsons, rumbled past for more than an hour. The number of bikes was barely believable. Old Dog said, "And you've got to remember that most of the riders are already gone. A lot can't hang around this long."
They rode slowly on nearly deserted roads back through Daytona and onto the beach for one last tour. Without the massed motorcycles and leathered riders the beach was subdued. In town leather shops were already closed. The stores would reopen on the morrow selling different wares.
Old Dog again rode the Harley onto the truck bed. This time the ramp was steep with no bank to start from. Timmy held his breath, but his uncle made it look easy.
Helpers hoisted the Yamaha alongside the Harley, and Dog tied it down.
Then they were off. Rain threatened but did not return. Old Dog nursed a raspy cough with Hall's Mentholated Drops and said he had best get down to see Doc Klein when they got home.
Timmy was as pooped as Old Dog was, and the boy slept through a lot of the first day's travel. Dog had time to think, and he felt a need to do a lot of it.
Daytona had been all that he had hoped. He had seen a lot of friends and heard some things about others. Timmy, he thought, had a memory to treasure.
A few riders had died since last year. They always had. Statistics said that seventy percent of motorcycle deaths were caused by automobiles at fault. Over the years, cars had taken more of his acquaintances than Old Dog cared to remember. Still, the brothers knew the risks. If you rode, you accepted them. Bikers like himself who rode long distances and year round automatically faced the greater odds. No one Dog knew of wished to be injured or dead, but they believed the freedom of easyriding, the adventure, perhaps the dangers themselves were worth the risks. Some paid heavy dues.
Yet, here he was with forty years of putting, and he was likely to die in bed—if he chose to. "No man knoweth the day or the hour" was usually true. In his thoughts, Old Dog emphasized usually, because in this age the when did not have to be a final mystery. Man had learned how to comfortably turn off life's spigot, if he chose to.
What about Bat Stailey and Hunch—whatever his real name was? That, to Old Dog, remained an important question.
But why should he care? Within a dozen weeks he would be gone.
What a foreign concept. Intellectually he knew it to be true, but his being, something way in deep, fought that certainty.
The world would grind relentlessly onward, unaffected by Adam Carlisle's demise or by anything he might attempt before then. Perhaps he simply wanted to get even. Vengeance was not often seen as a commendable goal. Because a thing felt good did not make it right. Everyone knew that.
Old Dog smirked at his own reasoning. As strong an argument could be made that inaction was only laziness, uncaring, or even cowardice. "A man did what a man had to do." Real John Wayne thinking there. Old Dog suffered through a coughing fit and sucked on another lozenger.
It pleased Old Dog that Timmy ran first to his mother. He did not want Arlis remembering him only as a wedge between her and her son. The two disappeared into their kitchen, Timmy's squeaky voice rattling away in excited and enthusiastic description. The timing of the Daytona trip had turned out about right.
Old Dog's belly hurt with a grim ache, as if a fist deliberately squeezed his guts. He had a little chest pain as well. It was a first and, he supposed, not a good sign. The Demerol would keep things smoothed for a few hours. Tomorrow he would drive down and see Doc Klein.
Larry came over and chose an alongside rocker. "Timmy really had a great time, Dog. I appreciate you taking him."
Old Dog rocked gently, feeling the first soothing of the Demerol. He coughed and cleared his throat before answering his brother.
"It was a great trip. Enjoyed seeing old friends, and Timmy was a pleasure. I think he had a good time."
"Timmy wore you out though, didn't he?"
Dog appeared a little surprised by the thought. "Not really, Larry. In fact, I probably took it easier because he was along. I slept while he went to the beach, and he sure didn't keep me up nights. We had a good time together."
"The leathers are something, too, Adam. Thank you for doing that for him."
"He's worth it, Larry. A good boy."
"What's the Jap bike for, Dog?"
"Just something to fool with. I won't have it long."
Larry could feel his brother fading, so he went home. Old Dog worked off his boots and stretched out on his sofa. His eyes were heavy. Great stuff, Demerol, although its effects were wearing off a lot sooner than they once had.
If he used the Yamaha at all, it would have to be soon, so he had told Larry more or less the truth.
Thebes Construction had a big hole dug up on Dynamite. They had taken out a thick blue-clay deposit and used it to seal a dam. The hole would be refilled with ungraded screenings from a Thebes topsoil operation. If he did use the rice burner in his half-formed scheme, that hole was where the Yamaha would go. Dog hoped the hole did not get filled before he was done with the motorcycle.
Chapter 15
"You leave a urine sample?" Kline asked.
"What choice did I have? That nurse of yours would have milked it out of me."
"Fine nurse. I'm going to take blood as well."
"Why don't you just send me over to a lab? That's what you do with everyone else."
"Because you'd just say, 'To hell with it,' and ride off. You've done that before, Dog."
"God, Doc, that was forty years ago, and there was a war on."
"They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, Old Dog." Klein was obviously pleased with his cleverness. "Quiet, while I listen to your chest."
"Breathe in, breathe out, in, and out." The stethoscope touched coldly here and there.
"Breathing painful or hard? You short of breath?"
"All of the above, some of the time, anyway."
"You ought to hurt! Sounds like rocks rattling in a can. We ought to take X-rays."
"What the hell for, Doc? You know what's happening."
"Yeah, but you'll be asking 'How long've I got?' and you will expect me to know."
"How long've I got, Doc?"
"You're on schedule, Old Dog. I can clear up your lungs a little—not much." Klein appeared thoughtful. "I'm surprised you haven't more pain, Dog. Pleased, but surprised. You're down another three pounds. Guess you can tell your strength is failing."
"Yep. I'm grounding my Harley. I won't be riding anymore."
"About time. Going to Daytona wasn't too wise and getting caught in the rain was really dumb. You could still come down with pneumonia. Hell, you probably will, if you don't stay home and keep rested.
"You mean it might cut down my life span?"
"Not might—getting too worn out could end it."
"I've been getting an on and off ache across my lower back, Doc."
"Your urine may show something."
"Who cares what it shows? What'll stop it is what's important."
Klein extracted a pint bottle from a glass cabinet. He held it to the light. "This is the stuff, Dog. It's my improvement on an old elixir called Prompton's Cocktail. Prompton's is a mixture of powerful drugs meant to stop pain dead. This stuff," Klein shook his bottle suggestively, "will make gonads in a machinist's vise feel good."
"What's in it?"
Klein tried to look mysterious, "You don't want to know. Only thing I'll say is that you should be near a bed when you take it because you're not going far afterwards."
He glared accusingly at Old Dog. "For God's sake, don't take it and try driving, Dog. That would be deadly."
Old Dog took the bottle. "Maybe this would be the stuff I'll want . . . later on."
Klein sobered, "It would do, Dog, but don't hoard it now. I'll have what you need. I've already told you that."
Old Dog said, "You're a hell of a good friend, Doc. I'm grateful for all of this. Guess you know that."
"I know, Dog." The doctor slapped his patient's naked shoul
der and glanced at the scar of the bullet's exit wound in Dog's back. "I did a damned good job on that, Dog. Almost unnoticeable."
"I've told you a dozen times, Doc, they cleaned it all up in Tokyo General. Hell, they thought our corpsman had sewed it together with commo wire."
Going home, on his way upriver, Old Dog drove out the Linglestown Road and turned left up the mountain. Another left took him back along the mountain toward the Susquehanna. Bat Stailey's house appeared on the right. He drove past, looking for life, but nothing stirred. He turned around and headed back; darned if a car wasn't pulling into the drive. It was not the limousine, but with the electric gate open, Old Dog could look in. The limo was parked within view. Bat was probably at home.
The last week of March was coming up, and Hunch would ride. What should he do about it? Old Dog rebalanced the question all the way to Duncannon.
Dog said, "I think I've got to tell Timmy straight out that I'm dying and won't be around much longer."
Old Dog's bluntness always jolted his brother. God, Dog spoke of dying as if it were taking a trip to Arizona or something. Still, Dog was right. It was time, and Larry was glad his brother would do the first explaining. It would not be easy, and Tim would suffer, but what better choice was there?
Larry said, "It is time, Adam. He knows you're bad sick and he wonders. When do you want to tell him?"
"Right now, I guess. Nothing like this gets easier to say."
"Want me to stay out here with you?"
"I don't think so, Larry. I don't want him having to keep up a front 'cause we're all looking at him."
Larry rose, wishing he had the will to say, "I'll tell him myself." Timmy was his son, but the reality was, Old Dog would do it better.
He said, "I'll send him out, Adam," and walked to the house a little less erect than usual.
Timmy barreled around the porch comer, obviously astride a 2000 or more cc Harley Davidson. "You wanted me, Uncle Dog?"
"Yep, come up here where we're eye-to-eye. I've got a job I need help on, but there's a thing or two you have to know first."
Tim leaped the steps and perched on a rocker half facing his uncle, his expression guilelessly hopeful. Old Dog hated wounding him.
"OK now, Tim, this is serious business, and the only way to tell it is to jump straight in and go for the far side, no easing up or veering off, and no later on stuff either. You agree?"
Of course he agreed.
Old Dog made his sigh deliberate and long. "You know I've been sick for a while now, right?"
He made a point of making his smile humorous. "If I lose any more weight I'll look like soda straw."
Dog did not linger. "The fact is, Tim, I've got cancer. I've got it bad, and I'm going to die from it." His nephew's face blanked, and Old Dog saw the boy's lip begin to quiver, so he pushed on.
"But, that isn't all bad, Tim. There is some good news. It looks as though I'm not going to have to do a lot of painful suffering, and I want you to know I feel real grateful for that."
Tim's eyes were awash, and he wrung his hands together.
"Now, this is a little hard for me to talk about, so what I would like you to do, Tim, is take a slow walk around behind the barn while I go inside, take a pill, and get my thoughts together, OK? Come on back when you think I'm ready."
Old Dog pretended the boy had answered. He went inside, and an instant later heard Tim dash down the steps and away. This was no motorcycle play; Timmy fled. Old Dog sighed in genuine regret. Dying wasn't hard, it was all the preliminaries that wore a man down.
Dog took his time, poking around inside, giving Tim room to gain control. Then he went onto the porch and eased back into his rocker. After a bit, Timmy reappeared, unsure of how to act, unaware of the dried tears on his cheeks.
Dog said, "Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was getting to the part where I need some help. I figure you and I can get this done together.
"What I'm going to do is put the old shovelhead into storage. The deal will be that it stays where we put it until you are eighteen—or older if your folks decide that is best. Then it will be yours.
"Storing is a problem. If we just lock the Harley up somewhere, as sure as I'm sitting here, it will have to be moved and probably it will get knocked around. So my plan is that we'll haul the bike up into the barn peak, right up to the ridge board. It'll be bone dry up there, the weight will be off the springs, and we will cover it up real well.
"I'll need you to do most of the heavy work, especially the up high part. Guess I could summon the strength, but I sure don't want to. You game for it?"
Tim nodded heavily, aware that Old Dog was trying to make things easier for him. Unable to hold it in, he burst out, "You can't just go and die, Uncle Dog—they must be able to do something." Tears flowed unrestrained.
Dog pursed his lips and pretended to consider.
"Well, Tim, I wish there were treatments that could do some good. Believe me, I've had the most famous doctors in the country working on it.
"The problem is the cancer is all through me. Cutting would just help spread the stuff. Using chemicals can't begin to get to the bad cells. The trouble there is that if you use chemicals strong enough to kill the cancer, the patient dies, too. Then there's radiation, but the same thing is true; they'd have to give me a week in a microwave oven to get 'em all.
"Nope, it's all been looked at, Tim. Only thing left to do is face up to it and enjoy whatever time is left."
Old Dog deliberately raised the time question because it too had to be dealt with.
"How long do you figure, Uncle Dog?" The jagged misery in the boy's voice cut deep.
"Oh, a few weeks yet. It'll be long enough, Tim. I've got a lot of odds and ends to clean up."
Old Dog got to the hardest part. "Now, there's one last thing about me dying that I want you to understand because it goes against what a lot of people think is right."
The Hemlock Society pointed out the importance of having the family know what was coming and to understand—whether they approved or not. Dog had the boy's attention so he went at it.
"If a man insists on suffering to the end, dying of cancer can be a horrible thing. The way I see it, modern medicine gets in the way of God's plan. The body keeps trying to die and doctoring keeps it alive. Even when it is so late the patient couldn't live a second without machines, we keep life signs blinking away. I've never thought that was sensible.
"Here's where the hard part comes in—not for me, you understand, but for some people.
"Right now, I'm alive and getting around because of powerful doctoring. Fair enough, and I'm grateful, but I'm stretching living out beyond what's natural.
"Let's just suppose that without pills and doctoring I would have died last month, which could have happened. If that's so, I've already lived longer than God had me figured for. A man can hang on too long, Tim. If I did that, toward the end I'd get disgusting to look at. I probably wouldn't know a hell of a lot, and just keeping my mostly dead old carcass breathing would take all kinds of time and money that could be used for better things.
"My plan is to stay on until it isn't fun anymore. When I get to hurting too much I'm going to use the same doctoring that kept me here to let myself go peacefully and with some dignity left."
Old Dog leaned a little forward, closer to his nephew, as if to confide secrets to him.
"I've been an independent and proud man most of my life, Timmy, riding free with the wind in my hair. Can you imagine how awful it would be for me to be laid out in a hospital with tubes and machines hooked into me, filled with pain or dope, wasted into a living skeleton, being treated like the tiniest baby in the world? And all the time I'd know I stunk of death and was pitied by everybody, without one single chance of getting an ounce better?
"If a guy could get well, all the ugly treatments might be worthwhile, but when you are already past your allotted time—if medicine had stayed out—and you can't ever recover anyway . . . it would be horrible for me
to go through and just as bad for you and your mother and father to see."
Old Dog tried to wax enthusiastic. "I've got a better way, Timmy. What I'll do is this: I'll keep on until the misery gets too hard. Then, while I'm still able, I'll go alone to a place that's special to me. It's a long way from here. I'll take some powerful medicine I've got, and while it's working and before I drop off to sleep, I'll remember all the good things I've seen and done, especially you and your family. Then I'll just never wake up. That way, I won't be fighting God's wishes to some selfish and expensive bitter end. It'll be peaceful and easy with good thoughts. I'll even leave a map in case anybody needs to find my worthless old bones. Fact is, though, I'd just as soon be left out there where I'll become part of nature, instead of getting preserved and packed in a fancy box."
Old Dog figured he had talked his nephew past hysterics or over-long weeping. The boy would not want to remember himself that way. Men, it seemed, were supposed to keep stiff upper lips and carry on no matter how their hearts wept. Psychiatrists, feminists, and softer males claimed that was all wrong, and that men should release their emotions for the world to see. Dog personally doubted the wisdom of most men flaunting deepest feelings. It might get by in structured and sheltered societies, but where his bike had roamed, emotional displays had better be on the hard side. A man could rage, rip, and tear and remain respected. Weep, and a hardier type was likely to stomp on the weeper's face.
Perhaps men were knotted and warped by stifling tears and failing to holler "I'm sorry" every few hours, but Old Dog did not feel it, and he had not seen it. Dog expected his nephew hoped to be what he saw as manly, and memories of sobbing around when the going seemed tough would not help. A man trying to stand tall had it rough enough without recalling previous collapses—at any age.
In the morning they took the pickup over the mountain to Howell's Harley shop on the Carlisle Pike. Old Dog said it was important to store the bike with fresh oil in its belly. They would also buy new spark plugs and leave them in a saddlebag for when Tim put the old shovel back on the road. Old Dog had already signed over the notarized title and a request for a new one in Timothy Carlisle's name would eventually labor its way through Harrisburg's ossified governmental systems. Dog wryly suggested that by the time Tim got his paperwork he'd be of age to take the bike down.
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