. . .
From this point forward, spend your days in the hospital room, for this is where he is meant to spend the rest of his life. Learn to tell when he wants to talk about this and when he doesn’t, regardless of the words that come out of his mouth.
Buy a potted plant, something beautiful but easy to care for. Place the plant on a table by the window, where it will get plenty of light. Water it every day. Tell yourself that as long as the plant lives, he will live. On his worst days, imagine the plant as his lifeline. The plant is alive. He cannot die.
Get used to seeing blood drawn from his body. Eventually, he won’t notice the needles. At night, trace the veins of his arms. Rub the purple circles left by needles jabbed too hard. Hold your breath and kiss each bruise.
Give him cigarettes. The first time he asks, spend a day rationalizing doctors’ orders. Once you accept the pointlessness of this, once you see that cigarettes are just another kind of morphine, that the end is here, that the only thing left to sacrifice is suffering, you’ll give him whatever he wants.
Be brave. Outside the hospital, on the sidewalk, hold him up while he smokes. When he says something like There go seven more minutes, try to laugh. Walk him back to bed, wheeling the IV stand the whole way.
On an evening when he is awake and alert, in a good mood, when the doctors have gone for the night and the visitors, like so many spectators, have filed out of the room, pull back the covers and touch him. Caress him. Take him into your mouth. Don’t stop when he cries out. Don’t finish him off, the way you always have, with your hands. Don’t stop until it’s over, until the warm rush fills your mouth and his feet rattle the rail at the end of the bed. Don’t make him have to say thank you.
. . .
While he’s still lucid, write the will. Forgive yourself for not doing this sooner. Write the will quickly, then put it away in the safety deposit box at the bank with the marriage license and birth certificates. Marvel at how these three—birth, death, and the union that came between—fit into an inch-deep metal drawer.
At the hospital, bring him books. Bring him every book he never finished, every book he always wanted to read. Read them to him, as many as you can. Don’t talk doctors or painkillers or funeral arrangements. Don’t make him leaf through brochures to pick out a casket, flowers, the perfect burial plot.
There is no last lesson, no big picture, no final words, so waste less time on what’s real. Read to him and let his mind wander. Let him fall in and out of sleep. Read even when you know he’s not listening.
. . .
When the very end is in sight, tell him you’re leaving. You’re leaving and you’re taking him with you. Clean him and dress him and pull out his IV. Let the fluid flow from the tube to the floor. Unplug the heart monitor, and pull the black pads from his chest, from the crop-circle whorls they’ve made in his chest hair.
When he protests, you must not give in. He will thank you later, no matter what he says now. He’ll worry about expenses, about insurance coverage. He’ll worry about being a burden. Tell him he’s too young for that. Tell him the word burden doesn’t mean what it did when your ailing mother said it because he means it, and because he never could be. When all else fails, tell him to shut up because you’re not spending another night in the hospital.
When you lift him, his lightness will make you dizzy. He will feel like a child in your arms. Help him into a wheelchair, then make a break for it. Wheel him out a side door, and, when you hear a woman’s voice, don’t look back. Drive home and pull all the phones off of their hooks.
. . .
Put him to bed in his real bed. Lie down beside him for the first time in months. Understand that things will move quickly now, without fluids and pills, monitors and morphine, electrodes and tubes. Wipe his forehead and neck as he sweats. Bring him more covers when he grows cold.
While he sleeps, listen to him breathe. Watch the covers rise and fall. Lie awake counting breaths, timing the space between, considering their distance. As the breaths grow farther apart, try to formulate an equation to see whether, at this rate, he’ll make it until morning. Wonder, in the silence of daybreak, whether each breath you just heard was the last. Do this, and you will know despair. You will know helplessness.
Fall asleep with the sunrise, weak, feeling alone.
. . .
Wake to his smile beside you, and see he’s been watching you sleep. He’ll be too tired to talk. Don’t try to fill up the silence with words.
Help him out of bed with quick, simple commands. Lift your head. Help me with your feet. Hold my shoulder. Otherwise, keep quiet. Nothing you say can make this sacred. Everything you want to tell him before he dies is only for you, so pray it to yourself tonight when he’s gone.
Take him to the beach. Take him because it is beautiful. Take him because you can. Take him midmorning, bundled in blankets, because it’s spring and still cool before noon. Sit on the shore and trace your initials together in the sand like high school lovers. Play tic-tac-toe and let him win. Hold him as he coughs and coughs and coughs. He will rattle like a skeleton in your arms. Dig a trough in the sand for him to spit into. Scatter sand over the yellow-brown bile when the hole is full.
Sit like tourists watching the water and you’ll wonder why you never did this. Fifteen miles from the ocean, and in ten years you never came here together, not once. Consider this, but don’t dwell on it.
When your husband turns, gives you his confession, when he tells you every terrible thing he’s done, every way he’s wronged you, no matter how it hurts, don’t make him beg your forgiveness. Tell him you love him, that nothing else matters. Do this because you’ve reached the end together, because why make it harder? Because maybe love is more than fidelity. Because maybe a broken promise can still be kept.
Love him, this man who now begs you to find someone else and soon, who wants nothing for you but happiness.
The whole round world will funnel into nothingness, and you will see the truth in his eyes: that life, that living, is more than what’s come before. That all you have is this moment, this sun and this sand, these seagulls overhead and white clouds and blue sky, and don’t look away or he’ll disappear. The world is here only as long as you look for it, only as long as you keep your eyes open. Keep your eyes on him and he’ll never leave you, will stay if you can just keep from blinking.
And your eyes will ache, they’ll burn from holding them open for so long, and when you blink, like that, he’ll be gone.
Me and James Dean
Jill’s had James Dean since college, a gift from her parents before they died—car crash—which makes him extra-special to her, a last link to her ancestry or something. For Jill’s sake, Dean and I maintain an amicable enough relationship, though there’s been tension from the start, each of us sure Jill belongs to him.
The courtship was rocky, Jill waiting for Dean to warm to me. Our lovemaking was interrupted more than once by barking and a paw on my pillow. Five years after our wedding, he still jumps in bed between us, growling if I turn in my sleep. More than once, I’ve had nightmares of waking unmanned.
. . .
Tonight, after Dean’s been let into the bedroom, he nuzzles Jill’s crotch and glares at me in a way that says: I smell where you’ve been, buddy.
Jill says, “Do you think we’re meant to be?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, thinking, Here we go again.
“I mean,” she says, “what if, in the end, your husband and your soul mate and the person you’re supposed to be with—what if they all turn out to be different people?”
“Are you seeing Roger again?” I ask.
“No, sweetie, I told you. That’s over.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” she says, rolling onto her side. She switches off her bedside lamp and pretends to fall asleep. I reach out, and Dean moves to shield her from my touch. He gives her elbow a lick, then looks me in the eye. He will not sleep until I do
.
“Jill,” I say. Jill offers only a quiet grunt. Dean moves to cushion the small of her back.
Clearly, she’s still seeing Roger.
. . .
This morning, I roll over Dean in the driveway. Just crush him. An honest mistake—not cold-blooded murder, just bad driving. Backing up without checking the mirrors, the kind of thing that lands a neighbor’s toddler in the ICU and you on the evening news.
A simple case of wrong place, wrong time. That, and we had a deal, and Dean broke the deal.
It’s my responsibility to walk Dean in the mornings. My only (Jill’s word) responsibility when it comes to her (my word) dog. Dean, an old beagle with a nose like a coke fiend’s, takes his time making his way around the block, stopping every few feet to sniff another dog’s piss, to piss on another dog’s piss, or to lick the place on his body where the piss comes out. Not a morning person, I never particularly wanted to get up early to walk Dean. The deal, then, was this: I get up and let Dean out. He has free rein in the neighborhood, leash laws be damned. In return, he comes home before I leave for work.
Both parties have found the arrangement appealing: I get to sleep in. Dean gets to take his time, pissing all over whatever he likes. For years we’ve operated like this, under the guise of what-Jill-doesn’t-know-won’t-hurt-her.
Usually, Dean scratches at the back door just as I’m buttering a bagel or pouring milk over a bowl of raisin bran. But, this morning, Dean doesn’t come back. Not after I’ve finished breakfast and washed my plate. Not once I’ve made a second pot of coffee for when Jill wakes up. Not even after I stand at the open door, briefcase in hand, and quietly call for him.
I go to the garage, get in my Jeep. I’ve never had to look for Dean before. I think of Mr. Lancaster, imagine the man chasing Dean out of his vegetable garden, pitchfork in hand. Or, perhaps Dean’s made it under Ms. Mead’s fence, at last having his way with the hot little Papillon who wags her ass at us whenever we walk by. I even envision Dean dead, the target of some gang initiation whereby one must off a dog in order to get his first bandanna and biker jacket.
What I don’t picture is Dean hit by a car, not until the moment I feel the thud, hear the crunch, the unmistakable sound of beagle bones snapping under fifty-thousand-mile Michelin tread.
. . .
I don’t have much experience with death. There were Jill’s parents. There was a great-aunt whose name escapes me. There was my middle school guinea pig. Something was wrong with him, and his ass exploded. Really, he started shitting his intestines. It wasn’t pretty. But that was a guinea pig, a rodent. People don’t cry over dead rodents.
This is nothing like that. Dean appears unhurt. Only a thin string of red runs from his open mouth. He pants. I place my hand on his side. He doesn’t yelp, just closes his eyes. His rib cage feels like a bag of potato chips.
This dog, I think, will never make it. This is a doomed dog.
At this moment, I can do many things. I can tell Jill, or not. I could say Dean ran away, got out the door while I fiddled with his leash and collar. But, then, what to do with the body? A neighbor’s trashcan seems risky. There are woods nearby, but boys play there. I could drive out to the country, dig a little hole.
Except there’s more to consider than just disposal. I can’t bury Dean while he’s still breathing. I mean, I could, but I can’t. I’m not that man.
How long does it take a dog to die?
I consider methods of expediting the process: A plastic Kroger bag from under the kitchen sink, a shoelace to hold it in place. Ajax mashed up in raw hamburger. Shovel to the head.
I do own an acetylene torch.
Scratch that. I can’t hide the truth of Dean’s death from Jill, but perhaps I can disguise it. Another car, I could say. This car came flying around the corner, ripped the leash right out of my hand. I never caught the license plate, too intent on tending to Dean. Used the fireman’s carry to bring the body home and everything.
In the end, Jill makes the decision for me. I look up, and she’s running down the driveway, her worn, red bathrobe held together by a manicured hand. Even without makeup, with sleep caught under one eye and dried drool flaking from the corner of her mouth, as Jill crouches beside me and takes Dean’s head into her hands, I think: You, my love, are beautiful.
. . .
Jill won’t talk to me. James Dean lies in her lap, legs at odd angles, head loose, jumping with every bump of the Jeep. At each jostle, Jill shoots a look my way that says, Be careful, and, as I slow down, bats eyes that plead, Hurry up.
It’s no short trip. This is rural Kentucky, an hour from anywhere you’ve heard of. The nearest animal hospital is twenty miles of old roads away.
I reach for the radio, decide it’s inappropriate, then change my mind and turn the dial. A fiery host argues back and forth with a listener. I was hoping for music. Before I can change it, Jill stretches over Dean, turns the radio off, and we’re back to the hum of the Jeep and Dean’s panting, the metronome of his quick, shallow breaths. It’s the moment where one of us is meant to speak, and I’m still wondering who goes first when Jill interrupts the silence.
“You didn’t have to do it,” she says. “I would’ve stopped seeing Roger.”
“But,” I say, and my tongue catches on my teeth. So it’s true. I knew this, sure, but it’s different now, the admission making it more real.
Outside, apples bob in the morning light. We thread the orchard, then up a hill, and suddenly we’re facing clear sky. From a field, a man on a stick waves a hand of hay, a crow for a hat, and I remember what it was like to be a boy, before life got so damned complicated.
Jill is crying. “How could you do this?” she says.
“Jill,” I say, “it was an accident. I would never—”
I look at her. She looks back, searching my face for clues.
“Come on,” I say. “Don’t you know me at all?”
It’s so much to explain, but I tell Jill about the deal and the walks. How, for years, this is how we did it. That I messed up. That I wasn’t leaving for work. That I went to find Dean and didn’t look both ways before I backed over him.
We continue down the road, the landscape mutating into a town. A drugstore here, post office there, and suddenly we’re in Rosemont and the small animal hospital comes into view. It’s an old house—green shutters, plank siding, and peeling white paint—that’s been converted into a business. Out front, a sign features a caricature of a cat with a thermometer in its mouth. I pull into the parking lot. I’m afraid of what comes next.
“I’m sorry,” Jill says.
“I’m sorry too,” I say.
“Do you think . . .” Jill begins to cry again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s take him inside and see.”
. . .
How I caught Jill and Roger last year: I came home from the firm early. Isn’t that the way it always happens? I’d had a bad lunch with a client, awful conversation over lukewarm tortellini, and I’d been throwing up about once every hour since. There was no car in the driveway, no trail of clothes down the hall, no noise, even, to give me pause before I pushed open my bedroom door.
What I found was not fucking, just two topless people sitting beside each other, reading from the same book. It was strangely intimate, maybe the most intimate moment I’ve ever seen. Nobody knew what to do. Then I threw up all over the floor. Times, I wish I had opened the door to mindless, unbridled fucking.
. . .
The vet’s office is beige walls and wax plants, track lighting and tinny music piped through cheap speakers concealed behind flowerpots.
I’m filling out forms when Jill returns from a back room. She sits beside me on the long, narrow bench that takes up one wall. She looks terrible, face red and blotchy, hair like Medusa’s.
“How is he?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “They won’t tell me anything. They’re doing X-rays. They asked me to leave.”
Jill raises a hand to her face and traces the outline of one eye with a single knuckle. She mumbles something I can’t make out.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I think I’m pregnant,” she says.
When you hear something shocking, I mean something that just lays you out, you have a choice. You can accept it immediately, react to it, or not. I tend to stall.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Pregnant,” she says.
“But, when? How long have you known?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a month?”
“But we’ve hardly . . .”
“I know.”
“Hold on. Do you mean—”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just not sure. I’ll have to go to the doctor, do the math.”
I stand. I sit. I stand, walk once around the room, sit again.
“Sweetie,” she says, and it’s her turn to be the levelheaded one. “Calm down.”
“Are you going to leave me?”
“What?”
“If it’s Roger’s, are you going to leave?”
“Of course not,” she says. She takes my hand and squeezes. “I mean it. It’s over now.”
“So, what would we do with it?”
“Things can be done,” she says.
I consider this, and a shiver runs down my spine. I try to picture it, try not to. And what would we call this, in our case? Extermination?
I won’t raise another man’s child, and yet, I don’t think I could kill it either.
“What if I told you it wasn’t an accident?” I say. “That I ran over James Dean on purpose?”
“What?”
“If I meant to hit the dog,” I say. “Would you still want me around?”
Jill watches me, openmouthed. She lets go of my hand.
“Did you?”
“No.”
I want a song to soar through the waiting room, suddenly meaningful and ironic. “Your Cheatin’ Heart” or something. Something to make Jill cry. Of course, this doesn’t happen. The same soft, classical music comes out of the speakers, some concerto or other. The thing swells, peaks, then falls away in a shimmy of violins.
The Heaven of Animals: Stories Page 16