by Joan Barfoot
He does as he’s told. Rolls leftward enough to lift his right arm, find the bar, wrap his fingers around it while Greta wriggles under his shoulder, burrowing farther until she has shunted his left shoulder upwards. He hears Sylvia yelp as she shoves at his legs with her twisted hands. There’s sacrifice going on, which is not cold. Greta rises beneath him as he pulls as much of his own weight as he can, raising him higher, breath by heavy breath. Not like the old sounds of Greta beneath him; not like the same flesh and bones, either. Hers or his. How horrified is she by his softness?
Finally, triumph! He is unsteadily up on his knees, gripping the walker, and Greta is sliding away, taking a moment to climb to her feet, also using the walker, and then she’s alongside Sylvia, pulling on his left side, helping him upright in a last exhausting burst of effort, and—he is trembling, but he is standing.
“When you’re ready, George,” Ruth commands from the coffee table, “move straight backwards. You’ll feel the chair at your legs, and then you can let yourself down. It’s not far. Just a few steps.”
Sylvia guides the walker, Greta guides him, only a couple of steps, as Ruth said. “Thanks,” he guesses he must say.
“You are welcome,” says Greta. She looks flushed and high-blood-pressured. Sylvia’s jaw is fixed, and she is stroking her arms with her wrecked hands. “Oh my, that was a job,” Greta says, then quickly, “I am sorry, George, I did not mean you were a job, only the struggle.” I am sorry, I didn’t mean this, I didn’t mean that—more familiar words. How many years did he spend, as often as he was able, with Greta? How long are years? How long since he crashed to the floor, and how long have they spent raising him up? He hears Colette saying something like “It’ll be your suppertime soon.”
From across the room, where she’s opening his door again, Sylvia says, “Yes, you’re entirely welcome, George. Actually, it’s rather useful to know we can look out for each other. I’m all in favour of not letting our guard down with authority. Staff.”
“That’s a good way to look at it,” Ruth says. “That we look after each other.”
“Oh, and listen, here’s the headline, don’t you think? Grannies save fallen senior.”
Again the women find this funnier than George does, and they’re still giggling when Diane bounds in, calling out gaily, “Supper, George, do you need to pee before we head to the dining room?” Then, “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. But aren’t you the lucky one, surrounded by so many ladies.”
Ruth could safely say something like that, but from any outsider, including Diane, the joke insults them all. The four of them, even George with his slow-moving eyes, glance at each other. Then:
“We shall get out of your way, George,” Greta says.
“See you in the dining room,” Sylvia says.
“Thank you for inviting us in,” Ruth says.
“Thank you,” George repeats, meaning it this time. Gratitude and belonging look different from a newly rescued, sitting-up point of view. It’s true there are days when a man could easily feel like picking up a couple of knives, but at the moment he is fervently touched, and warmly disposed. “Hungry,” he tells Diane, happy for another H word come in timely fashion to mind, and then “Hungry,” he repeats, and again “Hungry.” Just from the blah-blah joy and relief.
14
AT THREE IN THE MORNING…
THE SUSPENSE TONIGHT UNDER THE DIM LIGHTS of this Idyll Inn corridor, in a barely breathing silence of cautious, reluctant, step-by-step progress—oh, the suspense is a killer.
Which in happier circumstances might be a good joke, well worth a laugh.
As it is, it’s a wonder skin isn’t scorched by electricity arcing from one to another, then skipping its way down the hall before rolling back in an angry, dangerous ball—a wonder the whole place doesn’t burst into flames.
If it did, there’d be alarms and sprinklers, shouting and sirens, the whole saving apparatus of panic and, mainly, people. People would witness, and their witnessing would bring a halt to this right here and right now.
The three of them can’t count on any such luck. Disaster comes out of the blue, not when it’s needed.
If not smoke, something does hang in the air: an unpleasant scent embedded in hair, seeping from pores; the faint, acrid stink of human anxiety. That’s all right, though. It would be strange if they were bouncing along as if they hadn’t a care in the world, all sweet-smelling and full of zest for their task.
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best, that’s a good motto. Views vary on what will be worst and what might be best, but here they are, on their way and about to find out.
15
EXIT LINES…
THERE IS NO EASY, GOOD, NATURAL TIME for wrecking a perfectly glorious summer afternoon, and maybe much else, but: for any number of reasons, it’s time.
The setting is right. Ruth doesn’t want interruptions, or for anyone’s alarm to be noticeable to a passing aide or Annabel Walker, so where better than Sylvia’s deck, beneath Sylvia’s big yellow umbrella, with George in his wheelchair wedged into the opening between deck and living room so that even if they wanted to, nobody could make a speedy getaway?
Thanks to Diane’s errand-running they have wine and a big bowl of grapes. The end-of-July sun is shining, the air is neither too humid and hot nor too breezy, and Sylvia must be feeling benign or she wouldn’t have invited them to join her out here at all. And Sylvia’s mood counts. Everyone’s does, of course, but Sylvia has a way of setting reactions and tones, and her benevolence is by no means guaranteed every moment, much less every day.
And speaking of time: if need be, there’ll still be almost five months for cultivating other means; other people. To be precise, a hundred and thirty-four days.
And among these three, there is promise. Ruth’s best bet is probably Sylvia, rigorous in her regard for good argument, and readily detached from mere sentiment. There may also be hope for Greta, with her kindness, her meek willingness to bend; or alternatively, with a history that may have bequeathed her a yet-untapped talent for death.
George’s views don’t especially matter. He’d be little help to Ruth, willing or not. But here he is, a voice at least.
How gorgeous and grand the world can be. Out here, overlooking the glinting river, the tall, waving wetland grasses, the far trees under the bluest of pacific, uplifting skies, there’s no sign of life beyond themselves. Well, that’s not quite true. There’s always a hum of traffic, an occasional honked horn or siren. In aid, though, of presenting a bleaker, less serene view for their consideration, Ruth has done a good deal of careful spadework. It is not accidental that while Greta and Sylvia have bent over George’s limbs every morning, Ruth has taken charge of what she wants them to know: implanting, reinforcing, the easy-come, easy-go nature of life on the planet.
Two unhappy newspaper stories read aloud every weekday amount to ten tales a week of plunder, destruction, viciousness, greed, just plain carelessness. So that out of such clear blue balmy skies, as Ruth hopes she has inclined them to know, bombs are falling. In tall grasses elsewhere, mines will be waiting for unwary feet, while other feet will be kicking in doors to rooms where other old people and women and children will cower, waiting for slaughter.
Surely this knowledge adds up.
Fingers crossed. People may say they hold profoundly to certain beliefs, or disbeliefs, but they’re still apt to balk when the time comes to act. Ruth knows that herself. Also, sheer squeamishness is a hindrance. In the kind of news she chooses for reading aloud, the problem is that far too many people aren’t nearly squeamish enough. Hence wars and tortures, children blown to bits, polar bears drowning and barren deserts expanding while floods rain down massively elsewhere and whirlwinds storm through unlikely skies—all that, in one, two, three, a thousand ways, demonstrating mortal injury to the planet, the nature of its human portion eternally unimproved.
Just her luck that her friends aren’t, as far as she kno
ws, among the marauders and killers. This would be so much easier if they were. She takes a deep anxious breath. “I have a great favour to ask.”
“Of course,” Greta says. How hard can a favour be? Greta is working on another of her scarves, this one yellow and blue. Sylvia has been wondering if it would be rude to offer a little subtle colour advice, since Greta’s tastes run to the garish, as if she’s making school-colour scarves for a high school football team or cheerleading squad, nothing any normal person would reasonably wear out in public. Ruth’s addiction to loud sweatsuits could also bear guidance. Sylvia has been thinking a joint clothes-shopping venture might be in order.
Ruth holds up a hand. “Wait, don’t be too quick. I’m talking about a large favour. Enormous.”
Not, then, a time to discuss sweatsuits and scarves. “All right, you have our attention,” Sylvia says instead. “Don’t look so worried, you don’t need to be nervous with us.”
“I do, actually. You’ll see. Because what I want is—all right, here goes: I plan to end my life fairly soon. The favour I’m asking is for you to be with me come the time. And much more than that, even, I need you to help me.”
What? Ruth wants what?
“I’m intending to die, and I’d like your assistance.”
Greta’s scarf loses two stitches. Sylvia is gape-mouthed; blindsided, when she’d have sworn she was by and large beyond shock. While George remains unruffled, assuming he’s heard wrong, as sometimes he gathers he does.
Ruth cannot be serious. Except if she’s not serious, she’s making a far worse and more unlikely joke than anybody among them has yet managed to crack. “You’re kidding, right?” Sylvia asks, but Ruth shakes her head. Who would kid?
Then who does she think they are?
Perhaps she considers them cruel people, or arrogant, or compassionate or righteous or vulnerable or guilty.
Or she thinks they’re her friends. And so they are, in a haven’t-known-each-other-very-long way. Only, friendship is supposed to be companionability, compatibility, trust, empathy, challenge, warmth, goodwill, consolation and sustenance. Not this. What she’s asking has to be—or is not?—beyond all possible bounds.
And how she’s gone about it, sneaking up like a clever little snake in the grass, lulling them in the warmth, under the sunshine—what a slyboots, known to them till this moment as a fairly kind, smart enough woman of, okay, immoderate pessimism, but with a lifetime of good works behind her, and presumably goodness rampant throughout her soul.
“I realize this is a surprise.” This makes Sylvia’s eyebrows fly upwards. “But I can tell you that helping is not as grim as it sounds. And you know, we’ve already shown how we can look after each other.”
“Well, yes. But that was about getting George up, not putting you down.” Honestly, it must be some kind of reflex—bad, frivolous Sylvia. But really!
There’s no longer much chance they’ve misheard, so—how can this be? Isn’t living the only thing to be done about life, isn’t that why George demands some good news when Ruth’s going on and on with her doom and gloom? Hope, even if he can’t say exactly what for any more? “No,” he breathes, but there’s no sign Ruth hears.
Greta’s knitting has lapsed into her lap in a spill of bright yellow, bright blue. This is terrible. Poor Ruth, who must be so lonely with no one to love. If she had another person in the world to be responsible to, or to care for, this could not cross her mind. A hand reached out to Ruth’s will count for nothing, compared, but Greta reaches out anyway and touches Ruth’s hand. And withdraws. It is almost like touching someone already dead, so remote.
But poor Ruth.
Who says, “I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I guess I was bound to, but I needed you to know and start thinking about it. I expect just knowing is a burden, and I’m sorry for that but frankly, the time I have left, it’s moving along. There’s this, too: we know we can trust each other’s discretion”—a glance at Greta—“as well as help each other out when need be”—a glance at George. “So I’m trusting you all not to tell anyone.” As if discovery would be the larger catastrophe.
“Please understand, my mind is made up. It’s only my heart, for want of a better word, that I’m still working on. And now yours.”
There aren’t enough words in Ruth’s vocabulary, not enough eloquent, pleading exit lines in the lexicon, to make her intentions sound anything other than harsh. To be honest, once put right out into the sunlight, they sound even to her unnervingly—well, frighteningly—real.
And her approach may, after all, have been counterproductive, although she can’t think of one that wouldn’t have left each of them looking bushwhacked.
And if they had leapt to agree, and cheerfully buckled right down to the specifics, how insulting would that have been?
“I’m not saying it’s the right thing for anyone else,” although that isn’t quite true. “Not at all.”
“Oh, well, good.” Sylvia again. “That’s a relief. I believe I’m too old for death cults.” Not very funny, but the best she can do. “Sorry, Ruth. In theory, at least, I do believe people should be able to do any damn thing they want with themselves, but in practice…that’s rather difficult and different, you know.” Yes, Ruth knows that. Of course she does. “So you’ve taken us badly aback. And think of Greta’s heart.”
In Ruth’s experience, people do not have heart attacks on other people’s behalf. Greta looks as solid as ever, except she’s not knitting, and her mouth is open.
Then there’s George, whose expressions are often hard to decipher. Who knows if he’s even listening? But he seems to be. He’s frowning, his head making little negative shakes.
Ruth’s three Idyll Inn friends. “I know there has to be a lot to consider.”
Yes, there is. Monstrous questions unexpectedly and unpleasantly arise in the course of an innocent day, and suddenly they are having to begin urgently asking themselves some of the largest ones. Chief among them:
What do they believe? What are their values, and if any, their faiths? How do these apply to the small but real figure of Ruth sitting here?
What is compassion, how important is trust?
What, specifically as it relates to Ruth, and generally as it relates, well, generally, is the nature of goodness? Of badness?
What exactly is so exceptional about human beings? A single human being? Besides the fact that only human beings can even contemplate such a question.
Who gets to decide? Ruth says she does. How did she decide that?
Is she sure? Because everyone’s entitled to a few moods and diversions, and friends make allowances.
Friends don’t do this, though, they don’t take an ordinary afternoon get-together, and a deep breath, and suggest such a thing. Ruth must be mad, and terribly sad. Sadder than any of them could have dreamed. How could none of them have known that? Yet it’s not how she appears, mad or sad. Of course she’s looking at them intently, narrow-eyed, naturally she’d be keen to see their reactions. It’s her life, after all. Or it’s not.
Is it strange that the air among them now contains sizzles of anger?
“Just think about it, okay? It’s truly not so outrageous, believe me.”
Really? In what way is helping Ruth kill herself likely to become less outrageous, and how long does she think that will take? Who, honest to God, does she suppose them to be?
That’s not even to mention, what on earth are they going to talk about from now on? The weather, Greta’s knitting, their children, the latest flood, fire, war? Everything, everything lies in a distressing new light, and this is Ruth’s fault. There were the months before she said, more or less, “I’m planning to end my life fairly soon, and I’d like you all to be with me, and beyond that to help me,” and now there will be after.
All this in such a few moments; a sliver of time.
Not one of them has a single reliable word to add; until Sylvia says, in the chilly tone they’ve previously heard mainly when she was
talking to Annabel Walker, “You know, I think we need time to ourselves now.” Meaning she is pretty much kicking them all off her deck.
What a relief. Greta gathers up her knitting and turns to steer George from the doorway. No one meets eyes. No one is sure of meeting eyes ever again. Ruth nods and rises. Now there is not only lost time to count, an infant or three whose lives she has saved, these three companions, a single grave act, but another sort of arithmetic too: a possibility, a doom and a hope. Three more different things, adding up maybe, finally, to one grand subtraction.
16
GOOD AND BAD WITH LAWYERS…
One doesn’t like to believe that the older people get, the more grindingly slowly they think, but maybe it’s true; otherwise, how to explain none of them immediately inquiring into the basics? Ruth’s why and when, not to mention the how of the thing? Even taking severe startlement into account, that’s got to be embarrassingly slow-witted.
Oh, there are all sorts of reasons to be angry. Having kicked everyone off her deck, Sylvia’s now tormented by questions like itches. She’d like to stomp right down to Ruth’s room and demand a few answers. Get things straight. Set Ruth straight, as well. How dare she, and exactly what does she have in mind? Does she picture Sylvia, Greta and George feeding her pills one by one, hanging her from a doorway, slitting her narrow arthritic wrists? While Ruth, passive as a peach, gives instruction?
Still, she must have a reason, and it must be terrible. The obvious one is a desperate illness she hasn’t been able to put into words, the sort of eventuality anyone—almost anyone—is bound to consider. Even at that, unless Sylvia were too incapacitated to do otherwise, she wouldn’t think, herself, of asking for help. Wouldn’t, for that matter, know whom to ask. She has not had those sorts of friends.
Perhaps she has them now.
Whatever the reason, Ruth’s aim and request are extraordinary. If she weren’t utterly serious—but maybe she’s crazy as a bedbug; maybe they all are, it must be hard to know for sure when brain cells are slip-sliding away—but mad or not, she must be serious or she wouldn’t have raised such a subject. Which by extension would seem to imply that she chose her Idyll Inn companions right from the start with an eye to who might be amenable, useful. Which would mean that—perhaps barring George, who is mainly Greta’s project as well as more or less a group pet, veering between spaniel and unruly pit bull—barring him, Ruth must have sized up Sylvia and Greta as potential killer conspirators; at the very least as extremely, indeed almost uniquely, flexible in their ethics.