The Living End

by Lisa Samson

  Will I need to leave a note? The sad thing is, I realize I don’t. Oh, they’ll be sad at first, even frantic. But soon enough, life will return to the exact state it was in before I pushed my way into their lives through no fault of their own.

  In the moonlight I examine the second hand as it stutters along the watch’s face like an eighty-year-old’s caress upon the face of her husband. It’s time.

  The pun almost rips me in two with laughter. Three shots of J.D. help too.

  Do I leave my coat on? It is goose down and may cause me to float, which is fine because I’ll need it for the swim out, I’ll need to be able to keep going as long as possible. The flip side is that it could fill with water and drag me down, and I’d drown that way. That, actually, would be better, quicker and all. I like it.

  I make sure the coffee maker is unplugged and the refrigerator is still humming, and I decide to scribble a quick note to Peta so they don’t have to go looking all over kingdom come for me.

  Let’s just hope they never find my body. Or that they do before it becomes bloated and black and picked at by crabs and fish.

  Oh dear.

  I lock up the cabin and head down to the water. I’m ready. Ticking watch and unfinished list notwithstanding, I am unbelievably ready for this. Sorry, whales. Sorry, Haussner’s!

  I kick off my duck shoes, snap my coat up to my chin and step into the water.

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  I’ve never felt anything so cold.

  I hurl the watch as far as I can into the Bay. It flips and twists as gracefully as an Olympic diver. The moon catches its face, a tiny, single explosion of light suspended in space. Then it plummets.

  It is gone.

  Dear God! What did I do? It was my reason for going on, it was my hope beyond the list, my sure ticket out.

  I want to dive in after it. Wait, that was the plan anyway, wasn’t it? I cannot think straight. And I step forward, the water swallowing my shins. Another step and my knees disappear. Dear Lord, it’s so cold. I cannot go further. But I must. My feet will not move, and my eyes fixate on the watch’s point of entry into the black water. I can only stand here, my mind still, my body beginning to quake inside the cold.

  But I wait. I breathe. I expect a miracle maybe? Something supernatural? For a warm Joey-breeze to tell me I’m doing the wrong thing?

  Nothing happens.

  I breathe in. Yes, inhale the smells, the sights, the sounds.

  Wait.

  Nothing happens again.

  I am alone with only myself. “Oh, what a redundancy, Pearly,” I chide in a whisper. “You deserve to die for even thinking such a thing.”

  It’s up to me now, only me. No list. No watch. Just a few more steps forward, a few minutes of waiting, trying to do that whole mind-over-matter business they used to show on programs like That’s Incredible! where men would poke bicycle spokes through their skin. Go, go! Come on!

  But I can’t go forward. Strength would sure come in handy right now, some extra help, a leg up from an unseen hand. Yet too many faces come to mind. Not that Peta and Matthew and Yolanda would miss me all that much. I think I’m the one not ready to lose them.

  Coward, Pearly.

  But it’s too soon! I hadn’t planned on doing this so soon. Yes, that is it. It’s just too soon. I need to gear myself up more. Drowning in frigid waters is nothing I had considered anyway! Now slitting my wrists, that’s a more viable option.

  I’m so cold.

  I turn around. The cabin and the farmhouse stand like black hulks against the indigo sky, shadows that move forward somehow.

  I’m so cold.

  I step toward the shore. My knees reappear, then my shins, then my ankles. I am out. I lean down, pick up my shoes, and think about a cup of tea and a foot bath.

  How about sleeping pills?

  Yes, that suits me even better than opening veins.

  I am a coward.

  When did this happen? I used to be so brave.

  There’s a fine line in loving, I realize as I drive toward Salisbury. I didn’t bother to make a list since there’s only one item, and once I ingest those, I sure as sunshine won’t need anything else the grocery store has to offer.

  But back to love.

  There are people like me who don’t know the meaning of it. Then there are people that just luv everybody. Luv, luv, luv. Love can be squandered, and maybe that’s what I was afraid of doing in my life. Then one can be miserly, and I don’t know if I went to that extreme. But why is it that right now there’s no one in my life to really love? I mean, visit-every-day, woven-lives kind of love? I am all alone.

  Boo-hoo, Pearly. You big baby.

  But how do I regain this lifestyle of significance? How do I invest in just anybody at this point? Matthew already has parents. Yolanda considers me her project. Where do I go from here? Do I run down the streets of Salisbury and ask for someone to let me love them? Do I go to some halfway house and pick someone out like one does a sad looking puppy at the animal shelter? What in heaven’s name do I do?

  I park in front of the Rite Aid and hurry in, heading straight back to the pharmacy. “What’s the strongest nonprescription sleep aid you’ve got?” I ask the balding pharmacist.

  “SleepRightTight,” he says and points to an aisle to his left.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I find it with ease. In fact the box practically jumps into my hands when someone pushes an item too far in from the opposite side of the shelf. Surely a sign!

  Peta waits for me in the cabin. She looks so gray these days.

  “Pearly.”

  Oh dear.

  “I just got word from Hollowell.”

  Harry’s boarding house.

  I place my bag of pills on the counter. “What is it?”

  “Harry’s got pneumonia. They called in the doctor. It’s pretty bad.”

  “Why didn’t they call sooner?”

  She pours boiling water from my kettle into two mugs with tea bag tags hanging over their lips. “It all happened quickly. It seemed like a bad cold just yesterday morning.”

  “Most things do happen quickly.”

  “Yes. I’ll drive. I’ll go get ready. Drink your tea before we get going. I’ll be back over in half an hour.”

  I feel the need to call Yolanda.

  “Rib Room!”

  “Yo.”

  “Pearly!”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pour milk into my tea, watching as the brown liquid rejects it at first, then capitulates. “Have I ever told you about my brother, Harry?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Hang on. Ray!” she yells. “Tell Oleta to come man the front for a few! Okay, I’m heading back to my office.” She yells a few more orders. I hear her ancient wooden desk chair creak as she sits down. “Okay, so tell me about Harry.”

  I tell her about his blond hair and how soft it felt despite its coarseness, about how it seemed like the only normal part of his head. I tell her about the winter I suggested my mother buy him a ski mask and how she slapped me, then immediately grasped me against her breasts and cried a silent wail. I described his first school shoes, their rubber soles and black licorice laces. And when she says, “You must really love your brother, Pearly,” I tell her that I haven’t visited him since before Joey died, so is that love? Hardly.

  “Why do you want to tell me this?” she asks.

  “Harry’s got pneumonia. I’m on the way over to see him in a few minutes.”

  “Are you afraid he’s going to die?”

  “No. I’m afraid that he’s not.”

  And there’s the truth of it. Perhaps Harry’s why I can’t seem to grab a steak knife and butcher my wrists. And if Harry goes, I have one less reason to live.

  I hate myself.

  “Bye, Yo.”

  She says nothing as I slowly replace the receiver.

  Harry
looks so tiny lying in the bed. The air frays with each breath.

  Oxygen cools his nostrils. He sleeps.

  “Should we take him to the hospital, Peta?”

  “I don’t know. That has to be your call.”

  The doctor told me earlier that Harry may pull through, but things like this can turn in an instant. The hospital would be safer, and the staff here at the home isn’t equipped to handle medical problems. It’s not that kind of facility.

  “Peta, what do you think about death? Do you think you go when it’s your time?”

  She nods.

  “What about things like suicide or murder or something?”

  “That’s different. Especially suicide. That’s playing God.”

  “You’ve never seemed the type to give God a job.”

  She places her hand atop Harry’s blanket. He looks old now. It’s amazing he’s actually lived this long. “Let’s just say I’m getting a healthier respect for the Almighty the higher my creatinine numbers go. Dialysis is around the corner, you know. Fact is, Pearly, if you don’t give Harry a fighting chance, you’ll always wonder. And let’s face it, it’s his life anyway, not yours.”

  “Maybe he’d rather die.”

  “Nah. Last week he got employee of the month at the Food Lion. They’ve got his picture up in a frame and everything. Harry’s not like us, Pearly. He’s happy and not much else.”

  “Joey always said he thought Harry was closer to the pre-Fall Adam than the rest of us.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Does he still talk about Jesus?”

  Peta smiles. “More than ever. I think he’s got some kind of in, you know?”

  Exactly. “Joey was like that in some ways too.”

  “But Joey noticed everything, Pearly. Joey internalized too much, looked at everything through a microscope. That much info going into one person has to wear him down. And yet Joey’s faith made the unbearable bearable. Harry simply loves Jesus, and it makes him happy.”

  I squeeze Peta’s hand and go to find Flo, the lady who owns the home and runs it with her family. She isn’t in her office, but I know where to find her, out back on what she calls the smoking deck. It’s actually the pad where the trash cans sit when not curbside.

  I walk down the cement steps. “Hi, Flo.”

  She turns. Flo’s getting old too. We’re all getting old. “Pearly. Come on and have a smoke with me.”

  I reach into my bag and light one up. “I just saw Harry.”

  “Yeah. Poor Harry. I think he needs to be under more watchful care, Pearl. You know we can’t be with him every second, much as we wish we could.”

  “I know.” I inhale deeply.

  “I’ve always liked Harry. I’d hate for this to take him down. He’s a good resident here. Always has been.”

  Harry likes to help vacuum and do dishes. “I know. I’m going to call the doctor’s office and tell them to send an ambulance over.”

  “That’s a good idea. Make sure he comes back here to us. He’s family after all these years.”

  We finish our smokes in silence, occasionally mentioning folks we know, each name eventually resonating into the quiet.

  Harry doesn’t cry. He sits and smiles there on a sofa catty-corner to my father’s casket. Mom is pale, but her lipstick glows a deep garnet. She greets everyone as they enter to pay their respects. Lots of farmers and watermen hold their caps in their hands and nod gravely. The casket is closed. The accident tore Dad in half. Tractor trailer on Route 50 lost control. The medical examiner said he never knew what hit him.

  I think Harry knew Dad never could completely accept him. I think that’s why he clung to Mom and me so much.

  Peta and Cheeta are going to move into the farmhouse. Mom invited them because Dad always liked them and she needs the help with the farm and Harry. Somebody needs to drive him to the grocery store for work.

  The preacher doesn’t say much really. Dad never set foot in a church once he got married, and this minister isn’t the type to go on and on about God, but he does talk about Dad’s love for life, his great number of friends, and his involvement with the VFW.

  I’m not numb at all, but I don’t feel like crying either. I feel more sorrow for my mother now, who has not only lost her mate but her compadre. She’ll bear the loss at its most extreme. I’ll go back home with Joey and resume my life.

  March, 1997, Havre de Grace

  If Pearly realized I am discussing issues of faith with her mother she’d have a fit. But although I am trying to respect her wishes in regards to her own faith, I cannot turn away from this dying soul. Not much time remains between Valerie’s time here on earth and her time in eternity. She deserves to know that God loves her. She deserves to know that Christ sacrificed His life on her behalf. And she brought the topic up herself. I am surprised at how muck she knows. But then her mother loved the Lord. She sees her life as wasted, but I told her that everyone’s path to Chirst is different. And surely, taking care of Harry, raising her children, working her garden were all noble pursuits. Not wasted at all.

  She said more than ever she was ready to take the final step, and so we prayed together last night while Pearly slept after an exhausting day of running around to doctors and pharmacies and health-food stores.

  Valerie said she enjoys the peacefulness of our home. “This is a good place to die, Joe,” she told me. “Thank you.”

  I sat by her chair for a long time, then. We took in an old Jimmy Stewart movie called Harvey. When it ended and I helped her into the bed, she said, “I guess I always thought of Jesus as the Christian’s Harvey. Now I know He’s real. Maybe I always did but just didn’t want to be one of the crazies.”

  I laughed and kissed her cheek. She is still a beautiful woman.

  Harry pulled through. Thank God. I really mean that. He took a turn for the worse, and I called Yolanda and asked her to pray, then called Matthew and asked him to pray. Maida even volunteered to do that, even though I wasn’t about to ask her. So Harry’s staying with me at the cabin. Christmas is only a week away, and we’ve been making all sorts of crafts for the guests coming down for the holiday. Yo and her crew, Matthew and Maida and Shrubby.

  Get this. You can actually put potpourri and a string of lights in a big Mason jar. A little while after you plug it in, the gentle heat stirs the perfumes in the dried petals and sends it right up into the air. We’ve been smelling pine and bayberry and cinnamon all day, and I keep wondering if these things are fire hazards. Harry paints little Christmas trees on the glass.

  “I never knew you could paint like that, Harry. It’s beautiful.”

  He smiles. Well, actually, he’s never stopped. The grin just broadens, and I realize he needs to see a dentist. “I like to paint, Pearly.”

  I can’t say the trees are exactly childlike. They’re free-form, expressive and honest. An honest Christmas tree? Well, yes.

  “Can you do one for me with the Holy Family on it?” I ask him.

  “Yep.”

  I have a feeling I could ask him to paint a small replica of the Sistine Chapel on one of the jars, and he’d say, “Yep.” And he’d do it, in his own style and manner, but like it or not, it would be the Sistine Chapel. I yearn for that kind of bravado.

  I’ve been realizing my own cowardice even more of late, and I’m ashamed I was almost willing to let Harry die. Maybe Harry would be better off here with me. Maybe we could spend the rest of our lives making crafts together and selling them at the local fairs in elementary schools or at church ham ’n’ oyster suppers and bazaars.

  I feel so comfortable with my brother now. But it is more than that. I admire him and wish that somehow I could be the wonderful human being he is. And yet would I be satisfied wearing such blinders? Still, I’d sure like to give it a try.

  Would it be exchanging one set of blinders for another? Did you think of that, Pearly? Maybe you’ve been wearing blinders for years.

  Flo the Boarding House Lady

&
nbsp; Flo grew up at her grandmother’s house, left school in fifth grade to kelp run the boarding house. Flo got married to one of the boarders at the age of fifteen. She goes through life like a nail into a wall.

  But every once in a while Flo dreams about being an actress, a singer, an executive, or the First Lady. She told me this last night as Pearly visited Harry. She even shed a tear as she did so. Pearly probably wouldn’t believe it. She’d probably say something like, “Well, we all have our dreams, Joe.”

  Harry’s asleep up in the loft. He loves it up there. He has his little books and a nightlight and his favorite blanket, and with that, he’s content.

  I’m parked out on the deck, wrapped up in one of those snuggly things that remind me of a sleeping bag with feet and armholes. I walk all over the place in this thing. I’m sitting out here smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of hot chocolate. I’m thinking about bravery tonight. Coupled with faith. To be truthful, I’m tired of thinking about faith, tired that it has been taking up my thoughts since Joey died, sick of its unwanted presence in my mind. But I can’t seem to help it. With the watch gone, all I have is the list, and I can’t go on the Alaska cruise until spring, so I’m at a standstill. There’s no way I can eat all the entrées at Haussner’s, and I’m not going to try.

  Why is it that people of faith are popping up in my life like prairie dogs? It’s hard to believe, and I have to wonder if God really is sending me a message. Maybe I should go to church one of these days and see what all the fuss is about. But, then, maybe God is choosing to reveal Himself in alternative ways. I don’t know.

  What I do know is that the people He’s sent into my life are very courageous people. Yolanda and her Rib Room, her children, her church work, and the way she constantly seeks to drag people into a quiet redemption. Matthew, leaving home to better himself in an unknown place, mature enough to realize when a situation is finally beyond him. That counts as courage too. Peta, who’s been reading her Bible and is looking forward to Yolanda’s visit because she says she has a lot of questions she wished she’d had for the asking when Joey was alive. Even Harry, who is mentally handicapped but smiles all the time and sings “Jesus Loves Me” as he corrals the carts on the chilly parking lot of the Food Lion.